It was hard to believe it was almost three months since Sir Everard died. He had been like a comet flashing through Rosamund’s life and wreaking great change—though not in the way he intended. So much had happened, there were still moments when she had to reassure herself it wasn’t all a dream.
There had been so much to do in the immediate aftermath of Sir Everard’s and Robin’s terrible deaths. The coroner’s report had found Robin’s to be the consequence of poison, administered via chocolate by perpetrators unknown, and Sir Everard’s from apoplexy—though rumors of poison attended his demise as well. One question she had been determined to resolve, even while in mourning, was why Jacopo and Bianca had withheld Matthew Lovelace’s identity from her. What had motivated them to keep silent?
Once they confessed that Sir Everard had sworn them to secrecy on pain of punishment, Rosamund couldn’t remain angry or blame them for obeying their master. Wasn’t obedience what Sir Everard required from all who served him? Including his wife. And having seen his attack on Jacopo, the reality of what they would have faced had either of them broken their word did not need to be spelled out. Rosamund forgave them as soon as they asked it of her—after all, if anyone understood how coercion and fear forced even good people into behaviors they wouldn’t otherwise countenance, it was her. Equanimity in the household was swiftly restored.
One consequence of Sir Everard’s death was that she was no longer bound by the promises she’d made to him. Nor were Jacopo and Bianca. Rather than being pleased at this sudden liberty, they had all gone about their tasks as if little had changed.
But it had: Rosamund no longer had a chocolate house to visit each day. Was she so very wicked that she grieved more for that than the loss of her husband? Aye, she was wickedness personified.
After the initial outpouring of sympathy from Mr. Bender, Mr. Henderson, Mr. Remney and even a few of the patrons who ignored the salacious rumors, Rosamund was, with the exception of Sam, Bianca and Jacopo, left to herself. She might be a titled widow, but it was a dubious status—and everyone knew it. And she was a Blithman, a name that, wealth aside, still carried a taint. All of this might have been tolerated had she not sullied herself by embracing work. There was not a lady in town who would offer friendship to such a one.
Bianca tried to engage Rosamund by continuing their reading lessons and even introducing her to the practicalities of running a household. While Rosamund cooperated, her heart wasn’t in it—it had been lost to the chocolate.
She kept thinking of what happened that day, of Matthew Lovelace, wondering how he was faring now the chocolate house was his—the cheating, lying blackmailer. Yet even those words took on a softer, less potent meaning, unlike the names gossips attributed to her in the wake of such scurrilous and tragic events.
She drifted about the manor in her widow’s garb, unwilling yet to venture beyond its four walls, though no one prevented her, not anymore. Church was an exception, and there was a great fuss when she arrived the first Sunday following Sir Everard’s death. There, the reverend, a portly man of middling years with a strapping Dutch wife (a cheese muncher, someone said unkindly and loudly enough for the poor woman to hear), offered his sincere condolences and to attend Blithe Manor so they might pray together for Sir Everard’s soul. While she graciously accepted the first suggestion, Rosamund was appalled at the idea he might actually follow through upon the second. She’d no inclination to entertain anyone and no idea what was expected of her. Furthermore, she wasn’t convinced Sir Everard’s soul could be saved—after all, he’d not only plotted to kill but was responsible for Robin’s death. Something she also blamed herself for . . . If only she hadn’t switched the pots. But then Matthew Lovelace would be the one interred in the ground. Why did the notion seize her heart and make her vision blurry? Thoughts whirled in her head like autumn leaves along the riverbanks.
Sam, who’d abandoned his regular parish service so he might escort her to this one, saved her from having to respond to the reverend and whisked her home before the man of God could secure arrangements.
Most afternoons Sam made a point of calling. Appreciative of his concern, she nevertheless came to view his visits, accompanied as they were with his endless prating about naval matters, his house renovations and even the various ships he oversaw, with despair. Greatly excited about a play he’d seen on Michaelmas at the King’s Theater, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, he once spent an entire afternoon describing it in detail, oblivious to her mood. It didn’t matter that she pleaded with him to allow her time to grow accustomed to her new status and what that entailed, Sam insisted on entertaining her—and lecturing her on the unhealthy state of widowhood.
Rosamund barely listened as he prattled, stroking her hand or arm as he did so. Once he even rested his fingers above her knee, his large eyes gazing at her, puppy-like, until she pried his fingers off none too gently. Unabashed, he saw the liberties he took about her person—including a lingering kiss on her lips whenever he entered or left the manor—as his right as her cousin. Indeed, as his right with any eligible woman, regardless of his marital state. The very thought of his wandering hands and where they might go, or his wet mouth, were enough to turn her not-so-delicate stomach.
After persevering for a few weeks, Rosamund told Bianca to inform Mr. Pepys when he next came to call that she was indisposed, and she was thus for three days in a row. Showing uncharacteristic insight, he ceased to call so frequently.
Every day she sent Jacopo to the chocolate house to inquire after Filip and to see how Widow Ashe, Cara, Solomon, Thomas and the others were faring, sending her best wishes and hoping that Robin’s death had not affected them too badly. She prayed they thought kindly of her, despite her husband being responsible for so much heartache.
Jacopo would return with news they missed her presence greatly, they were all well, though having been closed for a month out of respect for Sir Everard and Robin, and only recently reopened, custom at the chocolate house (it was no longer called Helene’s and was yet to be christened) had suffered.
She never asked openly about Matthew Lovelace, though no small part of her longed to. Jacopo occasionally mentioned him, and Rosamund would find her heart leaping and questions forming on her lips. Questions she swiftly swallowed.
As expected, news of the deaths spread—by word of mouth then in the news sheets. At first, they were attributed to the chocolate, but as the weeks went by after the place reopened and no more brave folk succumbed, and Rosamund remained out of the public eye, other rumors spread. Everything from a Papist conspiracy to plague to a rival business in St. Michael’s Alley were held accountable for poisoning Sir Everard (Robin was mostly forgotten). Rosamund was mentioned in most of the reports—some described her as the injured party and a winsome widow who had a genuine flair for chocolate and whose talents would be sorely missed. The word “talents” was underlined, which Rosamund knew indicated less flattering connotations. Others brazenly attributed the deaths to her—the boy having died from want of the lady, the husband from a surfeit.
“Oh, to die that way,” muttered the men who’d spied her.
Few of the reports mentioned that Lovelace had taken over the business. No one made a fuss. After all, wasn’t he related to the Blithmans by marriage? Anyway, no one in their right mind would give it to a woman to run, not when there was a perfectly healthy male member of the family to do so. Any history between Sir Everard and Matthew Lovelace was quickly rewritten to suit the outcome. Just as well Sir Everard had signed the deeds over before expiring . . . Clearly, the new wife and business had been far too much for the old man.
Rosamund was pleased to note that none of the scuttlebutt was written by Mr. Nessuno.
Nevertheless, many who had been present at the infamous opening returned to the chocolate house in the hope of seeing Ravishing Rosamund, the Winsome Widow. Learning she was no longer on the premises, despite being family, many took their custom elsewhere. In doing so, they could not help but note that no other place served chocolate quite like that prepared by the Spaniard or Lady Blithman—dangerous, delicious slut that she was.
Not even Sam relayed this information to his cousin. Some news was too sordid, even for a delicious slut to hear.
* * *
Rosamund was uncertain what she hoped to achieve by going to Sir Everard’s study one evening weeks after his death. The only time she’d been there before was to view his body. As when she had gone to see Robin’s corpse in the crypt at St. Helen’s, she’d barely paid attention to her surroundings, drawn by the pale, bloodless form on display. Whereas Robin’s slight frame lay on the stone floor, and she’d kneeled and stroked his thick, spiky hair, as soft in death as in life, and spilled tears over his skinny little limbs, twisted mouth and half-open cloudy eyes, bemoaning the waste of a precious life, she’d felt no emotion when she saw Sir Everard. Accompanied by Bianca and Jacopo, she’d stared at the large, blue-lipped man with the silver hair, his cane and sword laid diagonally across his broad chest, and spied a stranger. Touching his cold hand, she said a quick prayer and left the room.
Did she hope to understand why her husband had handed over the chocolate house? Why he’d succumbed to blackmail? The nature of it? To discover the contents of those letters that he’d been prepared to sacrifice the chocolate house to possess? Gah! She had to stop thinking about it. The chocolate house was no longer her concern. Only she couldn’t stop caring.
Chocolate had seeped into her blood.
First she lit some candles and a small fire to keep winter’s creeping chill at bay. Outside, thunder growled and lightning split the sky. Rosamund lowered herself into the chair behind the desk, her hands splayed across the surface, and, like a king atop a castle, surveyed the room. Twin turrets of correspondence sat either side of her. Since Sir Everard died, Jacopo had been dealing with all matters pertaining to his business. Mr. Bender had said that until the executor of her husband’s will was located or proved dead, there could be no formal reading of the will or disposal of property. Who this was he did not reveal, and Rosamund did not have the energy to ask. Reassured it was business as usual (whatever that was), until such time as the will could be executed, she was to continue as she had—which meant, with Wat suddenly gone, Jacopo took on his responsibilities as well.
Wat. Wat Smithyman. Sir Everard’s loyal steward, who disappeared two days after his master died (along with some household silver). There’d been no word from him since. Rosamund could only be glad. It made living at Blithe Manor far more bearable. Certainly, the servants seemed brighter for his absence. Jacopo said Wat had rifled through the study drawers, but if he had taken anything, they were none the wiser.
Dark wainscoting lined the walls, glowing gold and amber in the light cast by the flames. Altogether, the room was quite comfortable if somewhat smelly. Though it was weeks since Sir Everard had last used it, the odor of stale pipe tobacco, the acrid smell of coal burned over many winters, moldy paper, sweat and neglected food and wine perfumed the room as it had her mother’s bedroom at the inn. A sword hung on one wall, a coat of arms beside it. Rosamund recognized the Blithman sigil—a large badger upright in a boat, adrift upon rough seas. Sir Everard had explained what it meant months ago. The badger signified independence and tenacity, focus and strategy; the seas were the forces of nature and God that, together, might rock the boat, but the badger would survive no matter what. The coat of arms appeared throughout the house.
And then there were the paintings. She had barely registered them when Sir Everard lay dead before them, and she was not yet ready to face them. Instead, she perused the desk further. There were two inkwells, quills, a knife for sharpening them, a handful of spare candles and some tapers, as well as a decanter of wine. Bless Jacopo. Pouring herself a glass, she shuffled through the papers. There were what appeared to be letters from Sir Everard’s secretaries in Holland, Venice and the New World. The words “tobacco” and “cacao” were oft repeated. There were what she guessed must be the names of ships as well: Helene (of course), Lady Margery, Blithman’s Badger and Gregory. She wondered briefly what cargo they carried and was reminded of the well-stocked warehouses on the river. Beneath the pile of documents on her right was a fat ledger. Wat had not seen fit to take that. It was filled with neat entries and figures. She would have to become familiar with the contents, or at least have Jacopo explain them to her if she was to manage the Blithman estate.
Estate. Never in her wildest dreams would she have connected such a grand word and all it portended in terms of material possessions with her name. But here she was, the widow of Sir Everard Blithman and, according to what Widow Ashe whispered to her at the graveside, and Mr. Bender intimated, since her husband had no surviving progeny, she was entitled to a portion of her husband’s wealth, or would be once the damn executor was found. Not that she felt either entitled or wealthy. Instead, she felt an acute sense of loss.
She wiped a hand across her brow and slowly drank her wine. It wasn’t Sir Everard she missed, unnatural churl that she was, but someone with whom she could share her turn of fortune. She didn’t want to think of it as “good”; how could it be “good” when it arose from such misery? Helene and her brothers’ deaths, the loss of the little grandson, sweet Robin and Sir Everard himself. The latter embroiled in secrets, plots, blackmail and murder. It hardly bore consideration, yet wouldn’t leave her mind.
The one thing that really mattered to her was the chocolate house. Her secret hope, which she’d foolishly revealed to Sam in a moment of weakness, was that one day, when the will was settled and the mourning period was over, she would be able to purchase it back from Matthew Lovelace. Sam scoffed and told her she’d best forget the place altogether. Her duty was to shop. When she regarded him askance, he explained that was what widows did: they shopped—for a husband. Mayhap that was why she felt empty. The thought of losing the chocolate house, of never again being able to work beside Filip, Thomas, Solomon, the drawers and the girls, to fulfill her aspirations for what she knew the place could be, filled her with despair. Now that Lovelace had it, what was she to do? She’d no desire to be an idle woman on the prowl for a man. She didn’t want to be a merchant in the sense Sir Everard had been. Perhaps she could sell the ships? Or lease them?
That was something she had to ask Mr. Bender, discuss with Jacopo and Bianca. A little seed of determination took root; a sense of purpose unfurled.
Her hand brushed against a pile of notes, almost scattering them. Glancing at the topmost one, she frowned. She’d almost forgotten the lubricious invitations from gentlemen, noblemen, businessmen—even the King’s procurer, William Chiffinch—all hastily scrawled and delivered to the house. They were very much the same. The men sought to either bed or wed her—though mostly, she thought wryly, the former. The notes had arrived daily since Sir Everard died, and she’d ignored each and every one. Rosamund had no regrets on that score, though she was puzzled that the higher the rank of the suitor, the more lascivious his suggestions. One even went so far as to describe Sir Everard’s death as a “delightful convenience.” At first she laughed them off, but they soon aroused nothing but sadness that men could be so lacking in respect for the deceased, for her mourning, that they saw her widowhood as an opportunity and sought to take advantage of it.
Maybe Sam was right. If nothing else, a man, a husband, would protect her from such unwelcome advances.
Pushing the notes aside, she scoffed at herself. She didn’t need protection, not when, as a widow, she had autonomy for the first time in her life. As a widow, she had freedoms, limited as they were, that a single woman—a feme sole—or a married one could only dream about, including refusing unsubtle requests to “play at heave-and-shove.” How often had her grandmother, for all the love she bore her husband, thanked God for her widowed state and the power it bestowed? No, Rosamund would not be in a hurry to seek out someone to wed, however much Sam and these so-called gentlemen might pressure her to do so. Still, it would be nice to share all this with someone.
Now that she didn’t have a husband to dictate what she could and couldn’t do, she could go to the theater, attend a lecture at Gresham College, go to St. James’s Park, travel by river . . . All the things Sam had invited her to do and which Sir Everard had postponed. He’d wanted to keep her strong resemblance to his daughter as secret as possible until he was ready to reveal it.
But did she really bear such a likeness to Helene? Her gaze drifted toward the series of portraits on the wall to her left.
She rose and went to examine the faces of those whose estate, through sheer tragedy, had come to her. The thought made her stumble. She’d never asked or expected it, please God.
She gazed up at a much younger Sir Everard, who stood in front of a mighty oak dressed as a cavalier with a feathered bonnet tipped at a jaunty angle, a frilled collar framing his face and a sword with a shining quillon upon his hip. He stared out boldly, almost arrogantly. There was a time when arrogant was never a word she’d have used to describe her husband—not at first—yet here he appeared to personify it. How had she not seen it? Discomfited, she moved away. The next painting was of a woman—Lady Margery; Rosamund recognized the dress.
Rather buxom, with dark hair, thick brows and deeply hooded eyes that suggested secrets, she looked down a rather large nose. The artist had tried to soften her face by putting roses in her cheeks, but the high color succeeded in making her look angry. Rosamund wondered what had provoked it. Emboldened now, she moved to the next picture. It depicted a rather dashing young man dressed in the colors of his regiment. His eyes twinkled and seemed to follow her. He had his mother’s dark hair and brows and his father’s sky-blue eyes, but without the boldness. Gregory? Or Aubrey?
It was the final painting she was most curious about. As she stood before it, Rosamund’s breath caught in her throat. Fair curls cascaded over one shoulder. Dark brows and lashes framed eyes the same color as her father’s and brother’s, only closer together. Her nose was long and narrow. Not as well endowed as her mother, but possessed of a fine figure nonetheless, the young woman chose not to smile, but instead to gaze earnestly upon the world with deep, deep sadness. Her mouth was downturned, her chin too, and one hand yearned for something beyond the frame, forever out of reach. What was it? Rosamund thought of the woman’s dead brothers, her mother, her grieving father . . . and the poor baby forever lost. A lump filled her throat, her chest grew tight as she willed herself not to shed tears.
So this was Helene. The unfortunate, lovely Helene whose husband was Sir Everard’s mortal enemy. Rosamund could see a likeness, of sorts. They were both fair and dark, neither tall nor short, skinny nor fat. Their hair was long, palest gold and unruly. But there, surely, the resemblance ended. Why, this woman was so miserable, Rosamund was surprised the picture hadn’t fallen from the wall with the weight of her sorrow. It flowed out from the painting, swamping Rosamund. She reached out and gently touched the picture.
“I’m so sorry for what you suffered, for your terrible losses. I’m sorry you were wed to one such as he. I too know the levels to which men can stoop. What they can do to us. I pray that you are with God now, you and your little boy.” She shook herself at her flight of fancy (her grandmother would not have approved) and, composing herself with no small difficulty, continued to examine the room. The only other portrait was a small one featuring King Charles and his Queen Catherine. The other paintings were pastorals or battle scenes. There was no sign of the other son. She glanced at the pictures again. The young man must be Gregory. There was something about the way Sir Everard had spoken of Aubrey which suggested he’d not found favor with his father. It would explain why his portrait wasn’t hung with the rest of the family.
Aubrey . . . Had Sir Everard been calling for him in his last moments? Aubrey, Helene and Margery. She gave a shudder as she recalled his face, his lips twisting as he tried to speak, crying out to the dead.
Before returning to the desk, she paused before Sir Everard’s portrait. “Did you see them beckoning in your last moments? I pray you are all together, united in death as you were not in life,” she whispered, thinking how tragic it was that all three children had lost their lives so far from home, and before their father. “May you all find peace with God, milord.”
She waited. Sir Everard ignored her, much as he had in life. Either that, or heaven wasn’t where he was resting. Chastising herself for the uncharitable thought, she went back to the desk, this time approaching from the other side. As she did, she noticed a large object shoved between the cabinet and the wall. Putting down her glass, she slid it out with some difficulty and drew away the fabric covering it. The material caught briefly on a gilt frame before revealing another portrait of the same dimensions as the others. She propped it against the desk, stood back and gave a small cry. The canvas was slashed in three places, violent rents through the middle. Above the first of these was a young man’s face. A very handsome one at that.
Laughing, he stood with one foot in front of the other, his arms folded across a broad chest. His hair was fair, thick and long and sat in waves beneath a fine feathered cap. His jacket was pinked and made of blue velvet, which served to enhance the light, periwinkle eyes. His brows were arched, his chin tilted upward. It would have been a joyous painting except for his mouth. The lips were thin, cruel almost, and the way they curled slightly to the right made his grin a sneer. Shivering, she wondered why the portrait had not only been savagely cut, but hidden away. This must be Aubrey: the family resemblance was obvious. Clearly, his misdeeds had been so very great he was shunned even unto death.
Instead of covering it again, she hefted it to a spot near the cabinet and leaned it against the wall. She owed her new comforts to all the family—including Aubrey. The slashes in the canvas were unnerving—a draft lifted them, giving the painting the illusion of being animated, as if Aubrey were about to step toward her and speak. Unable to tolerate it any longer, she rose and rearranged the fabric and stored the painting away again. Satisfied he was hidden, she was about to sit back down when there was a knock at the door.
It took her a moment to understand that whoever was on the other side was waiting for permission to enter. Her position was remarkably altered.
“Come in,” she said loudly and strove to appear businesslike behind the desk.
The door opened a crack and Jacopo poked his head in.
“Jacopo,” said Rosamund, placated. “I thought you were still at the chocolate house—come in. I need your hel—”
“You have a visitor, signora.” He opened the door wider.
Before Rosamund could ask who would be calling at such a time on such a wretched day, in strode none other than Matthew Lovelace.