And so,” said Matthew, “before I left Jamestown, I wrote to Blithman, outlining a series of demands. If he would not allow me to enjoy my share of the chocolate house honestly, then I would come to it by other means. This time, I would deprive him of his share—I would have it all in my possession.” He swirled the ruby liquid in his glass, watching as it caught the light, making eddies of carmine and gold. He rested his head on the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling. “I’m not proud of what I did.” He lowered his chin and regarded Rosamund solemnly. “I hope you believe me when I say that. I had no other recourse.”
Rosamund did believe him in regard to Sir Everard. After all, was he not talking about the same man who would have happily seen his wife charged with murder? It was time she faced that truth as well. Dear God. By simply surviving the attempt to kill him, Matthew Lovelace acquitted her of any crime. In a peculiar sense, she owed him. Shocked and sickened by what he’d revealed, she also felt a profound sorrow. How people could behave in such a way confounded her; to practice treason, deceit, lies, as if they were some art form to be mastered. We are on earth by God’s good grace for such a brief time; surely it is better to work together than against one another? Help one another, rather than to seek to fool, bribe and blackmail?
Her eyes drifted to the portrait of her husband and the one of his daughter. Helene’s misery suddenly took on an altogether different and sinister meaning.
And what of Sir Everard? What he did in gulling Mr. Lovelace was wrong; the manner in which he ensured her complicity was wicked, but wasn’t he doing it because he loved his daughter? His son? Wasn’t he doing it to protect his family? Maybe there was no other choice for him either.
But there had been . . . He didn’t have to involve her. He could have encouraged Helene’s lover to marry her. He could have stopped his son.
And what of Matthew? Was he really as innocent as he claimed? By his own admission he had turned a blind eye to suspected treason for personal gain. Had he really felt such passion for Helene that he would first burn then rescue the missives she had kept? Or was that a fabrication designed to arouse sympathy? Her eyes went to Matthew’s gloved hands.
Without warning, he pulled off first one glove then the other. He held both hands up, turning them about.
Rosamund stared in horror. This was no fiction. The flesh was unnaturally pink, twisted, burned into knots and runnels, taut across his palms.
He flexed his fingers slowly. “It has taken me years to be able to do that. I thought my foolish impulse would mean I could never hold a sword again, much less a quill. Fortunately, I was wrong.”
Before she could pass comment, he replaced the gloves.
“I’m . . . I’m so sorry,” said Rosamund softly.
“So am I. I was a gudgeon to thrust my hands into flames and not expect consequences. Still, if I had not . . .”
Rosamund absorbed this. At least now she knew what the “other matters” were that distracted him from writing on the issues that meant so much to him.
“Why didn’t Sir Everard force the rogue at the center of all this to marry Helene?”
Matthew Lovelace stared at his gloved hands. “Because he could not. The church would not have permitted such a union.”
“He was a Papist?”
Matthew Lovelace took a moment to answer. “There was another impediment.”
“Oh . . .” She wondered quickly if the man was low-born but couldn’t imagine Helene mixing in such company in the first place. Then it dawned on her. “Was he already married?”
“Promised, aye,” said Matthew Lovelace.
Rosamund sat back and silently twirled the stem of her glass, thinking.
“Thank you, madam,” said Matthew Lovelace eventually. “The story is not easy to tell.”
“It’s not easy to hear, either.”
Matthew grimaced. “I feared it would not be, but in light of what I wish to ask you, I thought it important you know the truth. I remember you telling me how important it was to you. If you knew then how much that disturbed me . . .”
She almost burst out laughing. Truth? What was that? Did she even know anymore? Sir Everard had chosen to believe that Matthew Lovelace killed his daughter and grandchild and allowed others, like her, to believe the same. For a time, it had been her truth. While Matthew Lovelace had indeed placed his wife and child in the boat, if what he said was true, he wasn’t responsible for what happened afterward. The rope had been cut. Could Helene really have done that and consigned herself and her child to a watery doom? Or was she trying desperately to reach somewhere? Someone? The narrow-eyed visage that gazed from the frame suggested anything was possible.
As for Aubrey, well, Sir Everard had omitted any mention of his perfidy, preferring to maintain a fabrication. Perhaps that was the only way he could deal with the truth.
But wasn’t it also true that Matthew Lovelace had resorted to blackmail to get his own way? What sort of man did that?
“What do you intend to do with the letters now?” she asked.
Matthew sat on the edge of his seat. “I have thought long and hard about this. You see, while I wanted nothing more than revenge on Sir Everard for what he did, I understand he too sought vengeance for what he perceived as hurts I inflicted. What both of us failed to understand was that first Aubrey, then Helene, duped us both. They kept secrets from me and their father, used us both to pursue their own ends. If only we’d all been more honest with one another . . .”
“Would you have married her knowing she carried another man’s child?”
Matthew Lovelace gave a huff of air. “I’ve asked myself the same question. Truth is, most likely. There was a time I would have done anything for that woman.”
A peculiar ache throbbed beneath Rosamund’s breasts; the air grew thick.
“I thought I wanted vengeance,” said Matthew quietly. “I thought the chocolate house would serve as compensation for what he”—he jerked his chin toward the painting of Everard—“and his daughter had put me through. If he would just cede his half to me, all would be right. It was never my intention that Sir Everard would die—yet his death has made me see how empty my goal has been. How futile. All I wanted, or thought I wanted, was for him to pay for what he did to me. Literally. I wanted something in return for what I had lost—not Helene or the babe so much”—he gave a sour laugh—“they were never mine. But the trust I held them in, the faith I had in others. My reputation. That has all but gone. The Blithmans have ruined it. Had ruined it,” he added softly.
Rosamund was about to protest that reputations were not for others to make or break, but oneself, but stopped herself. Now was not the time.
“I wanted to make the chocolate house a viable concern on my own. He would have hated that; being forced to surrender his portion, being outwitted in business. It would have hurt his pride. Only, he never intended to surrender it, did he? He sought to have me killed.”
Rosamund couldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea—”
“Oh, you owe me no apologies, Lady Rosamund. I know you were ignorant of the role he intended you to play.” His eyes narrowed as he considered the portrait. “I never realized the extent to which he’d go to silence me and ensure his name was protected. I’m not referring to trying to dispatch me. On that count, he tried and failed a few times.” He chuckled. “I’m not easy to be rid of—am I, old man?”
That he could say such things without so much as blinking astonished Rosamund, especially when her innards turned to ice at the very notion.
“My greatest regret is that he embroiled you in his schemes, my lady. Schemes that, had they borne fruit, would have seen you irreparably damaged.” He leaned forward. “I knew him to be capable of much that was treacherous, but to find and marry you, to allow you to learn to make chocolate, to frequent the chocolate house, to dress you in his former wife’s clothes and then Helene’s wedding gown—”
“Not just the wedding gown,” interrupted Rosamund. “There were other dresses he had made for me that were the same as Helene’s. I asked Bianca, and Mrs. Wells confirmed it.” She hesitated. Sickened by the knowledge her husband had planned to dress her like his dead daughter, she’d also tried to make sense of it. With Matthew’s revelations, she felt she finally could. “I think his intention was to relive his victory over you every time he set eyes on me.”
It was a moment before Matthew spoke, and then it was a whisper. “Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.” In response to Rosamund’s quizzical look, he shrugged. “A saying I once heard.” He studied his hands briefly. “You know,” he continued, “it wasn’t until I saw you in Helene’s wedding dress that I understood just how far he was prepared to go to take revenge. When young Robin died, drinking what was evidently meant for me and which you were to serve, well, Sir Everard exceeded even my low opinion.”
And mine, thought Rosamund bitterly. “I don’t know how to express . . .” she began.
“My dear lady, I cannot repeat it enough. None of this is your fault. Blame lies firmly at Sir Everard’s feet and, I’m ashamed to say, mine.” He bowed his head. “I drove him to such measures.”
“Maybe. But it was his choice to enact them.”
They sat quietly. The fire glowed; the candles sputtered. Jacopo stood unmoving in the corner, his eyes drifting from her to Matthew Lovelace. She was beginning to understand why Jacopo and Bianca had kept his identity a secret from her. It wasn’t only that Sir Everard had ordered them to, they did it to protect Matthew Lovelace; the man inspired devotion.
“And now that you have the chocolate house?” asked Rosamund finally.
He began to laugh. It was not a pretty sound. “It too is an empty victory—not because I don’t want it anymore. On the contrary, I feel I owe it to myself to make it work. If I don’t, all has been for nothing.” He sighed. “I really believe it could be a fine business. Currently, because of what happened and the rumors attending it, it’s been emptied of custom.” He waved a hand. “’Tis but a temporary thing.”
It pained her to hear that. She imagined Filip, Solomon, Thomas, Widow Ashe and the others sitting in the steamy kitchen, inhaling the rich aromas and having no one to serve. The anticipation which drove their early endeavors buried with Robin and Sir Everard.
“Aye,” she agreed. “I think it would not take much to have the men return. For the few short hours I was there after it opened, the chocolate was much esteemed, the building, the entire enterprise. All it needs is a tweak here and there.”
There was a long roll of thunder followed by a flash of lightning. The threatened rain began to fall, lazily at first, then loudly drumming against the window. Matthew Lovelace tilted the decanter over his glass. A mere few drops remained. Jacopo excused himself and left to get more wine. Rosamund sent a silent thanks after him.
“The other reason I desired to see you, my lady,” said Matthew Lovelace, leaning forward over the desk lest the open door allow his voice to carry, “is because of the chocolate house.”
Rosamund’s chest contracted. “Oh?”
“I want to beg a boon of you.”
“Of me?”
“Yes.”
“A Blithman?”
“Like me, you’re only part of that family through marriage.” For some reason, Rosamund felt relief.
“True.”
“But what you also became through marriage, and how Sir Everard chose to identify you, was not just as his wife, but as the chocolate maker’s wife.”
Rosamund’s burgeoning smile faded. Her attachment to that title was unnatural for such a short acquaintance, yet she’d cherished it. She hadn’t known how much until she heard it again.
“Alas,” she said, “that role was as false as the stories Sir Everard fed me. It was never mine to fulfill. It was the part Helene should have played—as your wife in the New World.”
Matthew Lovelace shook his head. “Helene would never have been a chocolate maker’s wife. Something I discovered too late. Anyway, she was too proud to ever don an apron.”
Heat flew to Rosamund’s cheeks. Matthew shook himself. “Oh, my lady, I speak recklessly. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to imply that you lack pride or shouldn’t feel it in such an establishment.”
Unable to allow him to continue, Rosamund began to laugh. The sound was as cheerful as it was unexpected. “Cease, sir, cease. I do indeed have pride, but, unlike your former lady wife, it’s provoked by being at the chocolate house.”
“Ah, that is what I hoped you would say,” he said, and relaxed once more. “You see, as I mentioned earlier, I have a proposal to put to you.” His eyes sparkled with hidden depths and the beginning of a smile tugged his lips as he rested his hands on the edge of the desk. “How would you feel about becoming the chocolate maker’s wife once again?”
For the second time that evening, Rosamund wondered if the man was going to offer marriage. “You jest, sir.”
“No. I do not. I am quite serious. You see, while I was furious at you for what you said to me the last time we met in the bookshop—I understood I was only roused to anger because what you said was accurate.”
Rosamund’s cheeks began to suffuse with color. “I was most presumptuous . . .”
“No, madam, you were not—well, perhaps a little.” He flashed a smile. “In fact, you have given me good cause to reconsider my work—indeed, my life. I’m pleased to say that I’ve made the decision to write about exactly the kinds of things I should have been writing about all along, but lacked . . . not courage, but the motivation to do so.”
“You don’t any longer?”
Matthew’s eyes crinkled. “Being reminded by a beautiful woman that one’s work should be honorable and not the work of a poltroon is marvelous motivation.”
Rosamund lowered her eyes.
“In order to do this, to spend time seeking out injustice and writing under my own name in a manner that pleases the authorities and anonymously in a manner that does not, I need time and space. I cannot run the chocolate house and devote the attention required to my other employers at the same time—both suffer. The chocolate house needs someone who can dedicate themselves to the business in order to make it work. Furthermore, having spent some time in it these last weeks, I understand how ignorant I am. According to Filip and Thomas, I lack your zeal.” He smiled. “I believe in the chocolate. I believe in Filip de la Faya and, Lady Rosamund, he believes in you.”
“Filip?”
Jacopo chose that moment to return with a brimming decanter. On his heels was Bianca, carrying a tray with soft cheeses, some fruit, cold pigeon and a manchet, which she set down on the desk, casting an expectant look in Rosamund’s direction.
“Mr. Lovelace, I believe you know Bianca.”
Rising to his feet, Matthew Lovelace bowed. Rosamund could not help but be impressed, not merely by his manners but that he offered such courtesy to a servant.
“I have had the pleasure. Signorina Bianca,” he said, “it is good to see you again. Properly.”
Curtseying, Bianca bestowed one of her rare smiles. “Signor Lovelace. It is good to see you too. It has been a while.”
“Too long, Bianca. Too long.” Releasing her hand, Matthew sat back down.
“Sit, Bianca, Jacopo,” said Rosamund. “But not before you’ve refreshed all our glasses.” She found another for Bianca. “Whatever you have to say to me, Mr. Lovelace, can be said before these two.”
Once Jacopo and Bianca were seated and had drinks, Matthew continued. “Filip tells me you are extraordinarily gifted when it comes to the chocolate. That somehow you infuse it with a quality that makes it taste like no one else’s. Having had the privilege of drinking what you made while I was Nobody, I can only agree.”
“He is too kind.” Rosamund felt warm. “As are you.”
“He speaks the truth,” said Jacopo. “If I may, sir?”
Matthew waved a hand in permission.
“The signora is what they call in Spain an aficionado—she is someone with both passion and ability. Rare in a person, let alone a woman, but Filip, who has worked with chocolata his entire life, says he has never seen the like.”
“Filip is the expert, not me,” said Rosamund, shaking her head.
“Ah, he didn’t say you were an expert, signora, but an aficionado—they are different. An aficionado is a devotee, someone with a natural gift for understanding and sharing the essence of something. Through the eyes of the aficionado, others come to appreciate and experience the joys and divine mysteries of a thing. An expert is someone with great knowledge, but who is not always able to persuade others to share it. Where one includes all who come in their compass, the other excludes. You, Lady Rosamund, are the former.”
Rosamund didn’t know what to say. Acutely embarrassed but also proud (she immediately asked her grandmother for forgiveness; Lady Ellinor could not tolerate pride), she gave what she hoped was a modest smile.
“It’s true I do love the chocolate. And not the way one does a favorite dress or ribbon. But as a friend, a grandmother or, perhaps, a lover.” She stared at Matthew in dismay—what had made her say that?
Matthew held up a hand, a grin transforming his face. “I understand. It is a true love, a love that acknowledges blemishes and foibles and seeks to make them part of the whole, not excise them as flaws.”
“That is exactly what I meant.”
They shared a slow smile.
Bianca and Jacopo tried hard not to look at each other.
“The signora has also dedicated weeks to experiments—with flavors and additives,” said Bianca quickly, earning a wide-eyed look from Rosamund. Was this a conspiracy?
Matthew offered Bianca an encouraging smile. “Appreciating your unusual relationship with the chocolate and knowing how much the rooms benefited from your presence, as did the workers, I would ask, my lady, if you’d be prepared to manage the chocolate house. No.” He held up his hand. “‘Manage’ is the wrong word.”
“Excuse me?” asked Rosamund, not daring to believe she’d heard him aright.
“I propose, my lady, that you take out a lease on the chocolate house from me. We can work out the period between ourselves.”
“You would lease the business to a woman?”
Matthew Lovelace bit back a laugh. “Not any woman. I would lease to you. As I said, Filip tells me your understanding of chocolate and the English palate is unsurpassed. Jacopo tells me your business instincts are like a man’s—”
“You would discuss me with my . . .” She was about to say “servants,” but stopped. Filip was no servant . . . He was her mentor, her master. She looked at Jacopo. For all his failings as a teacher, she had learned from Jacopo too—things a slave had no business teaching their so-called betters. Likewise, Bianca. Things about resilience, loyalty, courage. Yet they’d kept secrets from her, albeit with good reason. “My friends,” she finished.
“Friends?” He glanced over his shoulder at Jacopo then back at her.
Both Bianca and Jacopo offered her shy smiles, Bianca going so far as to give a slight nod, as if in response to the question she’d not yet asked: You may believe his word.
“Yes, madam, I would—with Jacopo at least, I did. Forgive me, forgive him. He tells me I’d be an idiota not to let you continue to operate the chocolate house. Only if I do, it must be on your terms.”
“My terms? I see. With you as my landlord.”
“Yes.” He flashed his teeth at her. Confound the man, but he had an infectious smile. “But I promise not to interfere . . . too much. I will continue to write—as I said—I will have to travel sometimes. In all but name, the chocolate house would be yours.”
Men were such strange creatures. Did he make her such an offer out of pity for her widowhood or sentimentality that she reminded him of his late wife? Or was it guilt at his role in what had happened to Sir Everard and how narrowly she’d avoided being accused of a terrible crime? Surely now he’d explained everything to her, he owed the Blithmans nothing . . . on the contrary. Oh, perhaps that was it. He felt she owed him.
“But, sir, you know nothing of me or my capabilities . . .”
“Do I not? I know you do not take kindly to roaring boys and thugs. I know you to be brave, kind and curious, that you delight an old bookseller with your intelligence, that you give even street urchins and ragamuffins a chance. I know you to see good in those others refuse to, and to be accomplished with the chocolate. Why, even your late husband said an establishment like the chocolate house would do wonders with someone like you at the helm . . . remember?”
She did.
“You’re also liked very well by those who would work with you—above all, you believe in the truth. And, my lady, you believe in me. At least, you did.”
They stared at each other. Rosamund was the first to look away.
“Also,” he added, “I like your laugh. Anyway”—he eased back into his chair—“it’s my building, my decision.”
“And if I say no?”
Matthew shrugged. “Then I will send Filip and Solomon back to Spain and lease the building to someone else.”
“Send them back?”
“They’ve no desire to work with anyone else but you . . . and me.”
Rosamund glanced toward Bianca and Jacopo—both were watching Matthew Lovelace closely. “But . . . but . . . this is tantamount to blackmail.”
“In an excellent cause,” he said. His eyes glinted, his mouth a work of mischief. “My Lady Harridan, I once told you I was a friend. For a while I feared you were the enemy—”
“I was,” said Rosamund. “Or, at least, I believed I should be. I also believed you were mine. I was persuaded you were the devil made flesh.”
Matthew nodded. “I would be your friend again, Lady Rosamund. I would, if it’s at all possible, you be mine—without blackmail.”
What an upset this was—a Blithman and Lovelace friends. Could she trust him? Filip seemed to, Jacopo and Bianca as well—and she trusted them. He clearly did as well, and that was important to her. Her eyes drifted toward Sir Everard’s portrait. Rage emanated from the painting like an aura. She could imagine his reaction to the request, how he would use his stick, shout, level accusations and insults, demand justice. Only, his idea of justice was to beat people, to use poison—and have her unwittingly administer it. Perhaps this was justice? A unity of purpose in two people hurt by those closest to them.
For that was her truth, painful as it was to own: Sir Everard might have been her husband, but he was no friend.
Responding to Matthew Lovelace’s tentative smile, she returned a warm one. “I am sorely in need of a friend, so thank you.”
She’d believed that Sir Everard’s death meant she’d have to forget about the chocolate house, become the grieving widow locked in this dark, drab house waiting until her husband’s will was sorted out and she knew her real financial status. Sam had already made it clear that her best option was to wait until the mourning period was over and then search for another husband. Another? Why, she’d barely had her first. Then there were those who propositioned her repeatedly—for her hand, for sex. She had even wondered if she should go back to Gravesend. She’d written and told her mother and Frances what had happened. Frances had replied immediately. From her mother, she’d heard nothing. Returning didn’t bear thinking about. But here was this man, this mysterious man who inspired such enmity and such devotion, who’d endured incredible heartache and narrowly avoided death, throwing her a lifeline. Offering her what Sir Everard had promised but never delivered—an opportunity. A real one. A proposition that involved neither marriage nor genteel whoredom.
Did she dare seize it? What would people say?
Sam would rail at her and tell her how much her reputation would suffer, how she would be viewed if she ran such an establishment without Sir Everard to protect her. Why, she’d be a pariah, constantly ogled and ill used in ways women of her station should never be.
What if she, already seen by some as a Jezebel of the highest order, accepted Matthew Lovelace’s offer? An offer from the man once accused of murdering her husband’s daughter and grandson?
“Can you imagine what people would say?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, my Lady Harridan, I can,” said Matthew, his eyes gleaming diabolically. “Can you?”
“It can be no worse than what they already claim for me,” said Rosamund with a shrug. Could she really dismiss those harsh words so readily? Aye, she must.
“And no worse than what they say of me.”
She couldn’t help it, she laughed. After a beat, he joined in. So did Jacopo, then Bianca.
As the laughter died and fresh drinks were poured, coal settled in the hearth, sending golden motes up the chimney and a large puff of smoke into the room, wreathing Matthew Lovelace in an opaque curtain. Aye, that was him in a nutshell, veiled in secrets and stories, dark smuts that would either stick or be cleaned away. In the semidarkness, he was more shadow than person, more darkness than light. The devil was incarnate, sitting opposite, making secret pacts with her, asking her to sign over her soul. Even so, he wasn’t nearly as frightening as she’d believed. Truth be told, she trusted him just enough to perhaps say yes . . .
The rain beat a steady tattoo on the glass; the thunder now a distant purr, a large contented cat prowling over the land.
Before she could change her mind, allow the tiny warning voice tolling in her head to govern, Rosamund pushed back her chair and came around the desk. Matthew put down his glass and scrambled to his feet. Craning her neck to look up at him, she bobbed a curtsey. “I accept your proposition, Mr. Lovelace.”
Bowing low, Matthew Lovelace took her hand in his gloved one. She remembered the first time he had held it, preventing her from beating Jed—or was it Ben?
“Thank you, Lady Rosamund.” He squeezed her hand then reluctantly let it go. “I’ll have Mr. Roberts draw up an agreement and send it over for you and Mr. Bender to consider tomorrow.” He swept off his hat again, taking in the surrounds. The clang of church bells could just be heard above the rain, long, sonorous peals that marked the midnight hour. “Is that the time? Forgive me for keeping you from your rest, my lady. My business here is concluded.” He returned his hat to his head. The feather made him appear quite rakish. “I’ll bid you good evening, my lady, Jacopo, Bianca. And thank you—from the bottom of my black, cold heart. Thank you.”
Despite all he’d suffered, Rosamund could not conceive of his heart being either black or cold. “Good evening, Mr. Ness— Lovelace,” she swiftly corrected. “And, I never thought I’d be saying this, but thank you.” A thrill like mercury sped through her veins. As he reached the door, she added, “You won’t be sorry.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “My only hope is that you are not.” With a brief nod and smile, he left.
Aye, well. That was her hope too.
Jacopo gave her the broadest of grins and, closing the door, followed him. Their voices were low and deep in the corridor.
Rosamund sank into the seat Matthew Lovelace had just vacated. The chair was still warm. Sliding her hands over the armrests, she stared at the fire, ignoring the accusing eyes in the portrait above it.
“What have I done?” she whispered.
“What you must do,” said Bianca, placing a hand over hers. “Put the past behind you—yours and the master’s—and go on as the chocolate maker’s wife. Though, truly, you will be the chocolate maker’s widow.”
Capturing Bianca’s fingers, Rosamund raised their intertwined hands, bronze and cream. She glanced up at Sir Everard’s portrait. “His widow . . . That must be why a small part of me feels as if I’ve just made a deal with the devil . . .”