Well before dawn, Rosamund rose and left the house, taking a young, sleepy-eyed maid with her (Ashe would not allow her to depart otherwise). She ordered the hackney carriage to take her straight to Mr. Bender’s at Gray’s Inn.
Lanthorns swung from the walls of houses, casting crazed light about the dark streets in the predawn gusts of wind. The horses’ hooves were a steady, empty crunch, interrupted only by the driver’s hacking cough. Snow had fallen again overnight, but not enough to coat the streets, which were crusted with black ice. The pervasive smell of damp and mold barely disguised the other odors of urine, shit, tallow and stale beer. A dead cat had been trampled beneath carriage wheels. Rosamund turned away in despair, but not before she’d seen some crows pecking at the flesh, and large rats scurrying along the walls of the buildings, slipping between holes in the plaster, straw and wood, their night foraging complete.
Further on, shopkeepers were opening for trade, pushing snow off their stoops, opening their creaking shutters, slapping their hands and stamping their feet to restore warmth to their limbs. The markets were assembling, carts and barrows pushed into position, weary vendors setting out their produce, some even beginning to call, their cries piercing the air. Servants leaned from windows as the city woke, emptying chamber pots and other vessels into the street, uncaring who might be trudging below. More servants scurried through the city gates, heads down, strides wide as they passed the carriage, determined to claim the freshest and finest produce.
The closer to Gray’s Inn they came, the more people they saw, and the roads started to become congested. At one junction there was even a great spit with pig on it, the fire and the smell attracting a small crowd.
Eventually, the carriage pulled up outside an expanse of frost-covered grass surrounded by hedges. Walkways led to a vast group of stone buildings four stories high. All but a few of the windows were dark. Rosamund asked the coachman to wait and, leaving the maid in the relative warmth of the carriage, begged the young doorman to wake Mr. Bender, slipping a few coins into his gloved hands. When it was clear who had come to visit, she was swiftly taken to the lawyer’s rooms. While his servant lit candles and poured coffee, Mr. Bender rubbed his eyes and tried to look official in his thick emerald house robe. Rosamund swiftly outlined the events of the previous evening: Aubrey’s return and his claim, not only on the house and the estate of Sir Everard, but upon Jacopo and Bianca.
“So,” said Mr. Bender, stifling a yawn and reclining into his seat, his hands wrapped around the bowl of coffee, “Aubrey lives. I always wondered if Sir Everard was merely indulging in a guilty fancy, wishing a lost child back from the dead when he made out the will and named Aubrey executor, let alone heir. I’d heard rumors of a nephew doing well in the colonies, thus I wrote to inform him of what had happened, but didn’t consider for a moment the living relative was, in fact, the dead son. You have to believe me, my lady.”
“I do, Mr. Bender. But Aubrey Blithman is very much alive and, from what I understand, his father knew this. Together, they conspired to hide his existence.” Rosamund tried not to think of those odd eyes, the moist fingers, the way Aubrey smelled. “He’s been living these last years in Virginia mainly, managing his father’s lands, making money by selling slaves to the plantation owners. I gather he’s done quite well . . .” Did she resent that he was able to take all that she’d come to think of as hers? Perhaps a little, may God forgive her. At least he couldn’t touch the chocolate house.
Unable to sleep the night before, she’d given much thought to what Aubrey had revealed, especially the way he behaved toward Jacopo and Bianca. He’d created a problem she must solve. During the early hours of the morning, she’d snuck into Sir Everard’s study in the hope of finding a document to provide guidance, if not answers. To no avail. Rosamund had sorted through Sir Everard’s papers long ago, and there’d been nothing of a personal nature. Aside from Matthew’s letters to him, everything related to the business. No letters to or from his wife when he traveled, or to or from his sons. Nothing. It was as if Sir Everard either had no sentimental attachments or kept such things elsewhere—though if he did, she’d never found them.
As she sat opposite Mr. Bender in his snug rooms, inhaling the mixture of beeswax, coal, brandy and burned chestnuts and watching the light creep up the stained walls as day broke, she outlined her plan for how she might alter the situation in which she found herself.
“As we know, Mr. Bender, my late husband left me a jointure.” She held her bowl of coffee tightly, but mostly to keep her hands warm.
“He did. Not a very generous one, but then I guess you hadn’t been married for very long. I believed it was temporary and that once Aubrey’s death was proven—by this false nephew no less—you would be entitled to at least a third of the estate; more if we appealed to the Chancery Court. I must say—” He put down his coffee and rose to prod the coals in the hearth. His man darted forward and refilled his bowl, offering more coffee to Rosamund, who politely declined. It was hard enough swallowing Aubrey’s presence; she didn’t need more bitterness. “I thought the point moot. I really believed the boy dead. I don’t understand why he didn’t write and inform me.”
“He’s no boy, sir,” said Rosamund, “but a grown man desiring to take up his rights and reestablish his name, as one would expect. As for not corresponding . . .” She shrugged. “I believe he came home as soon as he learned of his father’s death.”
Mr. Bender sat back down. “What would you have me do, my lady? With Aubrey alive, executor and in London, I doubt we can extract more from Sir Everard’s estate than has already been granted. You did sign those papers, after all. Not even the most understanding of judges or sympathetic of lawyers can undo that—not an agreement between husband and wife, especially not a literate one such as yourself. Ah, yes, madam, I am aware your literacy is relatively recent, but persuading a judge this is the case would be beyond even my powers.” He smiled sadly. “I wish I’d known better what Everard was about when he asked me to draw them up. At that stage, I hadn’t met you . . . I had no idea—”
Rosamund waved a hand. “Please, Mr. Bender. Do not chastise yourself. I do not want any more.”
“Then, my lady, what is it you do want?”
Rosamund took a deep breath. “What I want is to negotiate with Aubrey Blithman.”
“You do? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Rosamund put down her bowl carefully and leaned forward. “First, I need to know where the law stands with regard to the rights and liberties of Bianca and Jacopo Abbandonato. I want to negotiate for their freedom.”
If Rosamund had declared she wished to be treated as a horse from here on, Mr. Bender could not have been more surprised. “I see.” His hair, which was shaved close to his scalp, glinted silver in the candlelight. “The laws around slaves are murky, but what is clear is they have no rights and certainly no liberties except those granted by their masters. They’re regarded as goods when it comes to the distribution of an estate. They’re like horses or cattle—ownership is transferred. They belong to Aubrey Blithman for him to do with as he wishes.” The words were as distasteful for the man to say as they were for Rosamund to hear. She liked him better for it.
“Transferred.” Rosamund stared at the fire, thinking. For something crackling so fiercely, it provided little warmth, and she felt cold and uncertain. Finally, she said, “In that case, he has it within his power to transfer their ownership, does he not? To sell or exchange them?”
“Ah . . . I think I understand what you’re trying to accomplish, madam.”
Rosamund took a deep breath. “You do? Good. I have a proposition I want you to put to Aubrey Blithman. It’s my understanding that he’s coming to see you later today to discuss the terms of the will.”
“Is that right? Nice of him to inform me. Glad I’ll be prepared.” He tugged his robe over his legs. “What is it you wish me to put before him, my lady?”
As she outlined her plan, Mr. Bender began to shake his head but, as she continued, eloquently and sensibly, he stilled. He signaled to his servant for paper and quill and began to make a few notes.
“What you’re asking for,” he said when she had finished, “it’s not impossible, though it will depend very much on Aubrey—what he wishes to do with his inheritance, how inclined he is to be agreeable. The degree of attachment he feels to the Blithman estate here in London. His attachment to the Abbandonato siblings.”
“That’s the sticking point. Though, when he is set to gain so much, I hardly think he’ll object.”
Mr. Bender gave a slight shrug. “If he’s like his father, I fear he might consider this an imposition, a diminishing of his rights as property owner. Nor would he welcome what he would regard as interference in matters that are his to decide.”
Rosamund’s heart fell. “Well, then, Mr. Bender, it’s up to you to put my bargain in terms he will understand.”
“What might those be?”
She recalled Aubrey’s face as he boasted of his acquisitions, the lands and businesses he had accrued. Her proposal needed to be put in a language he’d comprehend. She searched her mind for the right words. A smile brightened her face.
“I know,” she said, and patted Mr. Bender on the knee. “Tell Aubrey he’s so inspired me with his business success that I too desire to become a woman of property.”
* * *
Swallows circled, greeting the gray morn as Rosamund arrived at the chocolate house. With a quick “God’s good day” to Mr. Henderson, she snuck up the back stairs. From the kitchen she could hear a great ruckus coming from the main room. The place was full. Men from all walks of life—earls with their stars and garters, fops in their pretentious wigs exuding cloying perfumes, clergymen in cassocks and bands—were crammed into benches and in booths. There were black-robed lawyers, merchants and tradespeople; the poet John Dryden held court in one corner; Sir Henry Bennet and the Duke of Buckingham talked animatedly at the bar—evidently they were yet to go to bed. Smoke swirled beneath the ceiling and the windows were frosted from the hot air inside and the freezing gusts outside. Something had caused the men to bury their heads in news sheets and argue vehemently.
Was it news of Aubrey Blithman’s return? Certainly, it had caused Rosamund’s world to erupt.
Filip was deep in conversation with the courtiers propped at the bar. Bianca took trays laden with empty bowls from Jacopo, who was, in turn, trying to send orders out with the drawers. Behind her, Thomas and Solomon worked quickly to ensure chocolate and coffee went to the floor.
She should help. And she would, once she discovered what had caused the place to fill so early and the men to be so agitated. As she tried to puzzle the reason, the Unwise Men tripped in, adding their arguments to those already circulating.
“Signora,” said Bianca with relief as she swept into the kitchen. “You’re here.”
“I am. What’s happened? I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a racket. But first, are you well? Is Jacopo?”
Bianca deposited the tray of empty dishes on a table so Cara might wash them. In her working dress and apron, she looked as pristine and well rested as she always did, despite fleeing the manor late last night.
“We are well, signora. Filip found us beds. It’s not uncomfortable upstairs.” She glanced at the ceiling. “The fires of the day keep the rooms warm throughout most of the night. But you? Were you disturbed?”
“Only by thoughts of Aubrey and what he revealed. The valerian did its work. I do thank you for that.”
A swell of voices caused them to turn toward the noise.
“What has the men so unsettled?” asked Rosamund. “Has the King made a proclamation? Have we won the war?”
“No. That continues. What has happened will affect it, though. According to reports, the mighty frigate London exploded while sailing along the Medway toward the Nore.”
Rosamund gasped. The London was meant to be the pride of the fleet, a great warship with which to defeat the enemy. “Was it the Dutch?”
Bianca shook her head. “They’re saying it was an accident. I overheard some men blaming the gunners who were packing the cartridges; others said it was the way the gunpowder was stored. Over three hundred men and some women and children have died.”
“Women and children? What were they doing aboard a ship bound for war?”
“Bidding their men farewell.”
“Oh dear God.” Rosamund fell back on a stool. “How terrible.”
“Your cousin Mr. Pepys arrived some time ago and shared the dreadful news. Since then, more have come, adding their tidings of woe to this sorry tale. There are those out there”—Bianca jerked her head toward the main room—“claiming this is yet another portent. First the comets, now this. They say some great disaster looms.”
“As if the London isn’t enough,” whispered Rosamund. Here she was worrying about Aubrey Blithman while hundreds of souls had suffered a horrible death. “There are those who would see doom in a drop of water.” She looked toward the main room. “Is he still here? Sam?”
“Sì. But he’s not well. He complains of a pain in his— What did he call them? Cullies?” Bianca shrugged.
“Ah, his testicles.”
“Why did he not say so?”
Why indeed. Rosamund’s mouth twitched. Sam had no decorum when it came to discussing his ailments. But, if he was in pain, she had just the thing. She rose, determined to speak with him—not only to learn more about this latest disaster, but, if the plan she had put to Mr. Bender was to work, she needed all the allies she could get. Also, as his cousin, Sam needed to know that Aubrey had returned and the Blithman estate had a new master.
“I’ll make him a special drink to help with the stones, for that’s what ails the poor man.”
A few minutes later, Thomas, who was growing into a strapping lad, led the way through the throng with her tray. Sam was delighted not only to have his cousin’s company, but to be seen to be chosen over men of greater rank and authority. Sam quickly made room in the booth for her and made a great show of leaning over and planting a kiss on her mouth, then looking around to ensure the gesture was seen. It was.
“How goes it, cuz?” he asked. “You heard about the London? Frightful. Simply frightful.” He shook his head in sorrow.
His face was pale, his mouth pulled and though the room was warm and the fire blazing, it wasn’t so hot as to warrant the beads of sweat upon his brow. The poor man suffered, but not enough to forgo sharing tragic tidings at the Phoenix.
“I have heard. May God bless their poor souls. If not for such news, I would be well. Better than you, I fear, dear Sam. Here, drink this.” She quickly added some herbs to a bowl, poured and pushed the cup toward him. “Bianca made mention”—she cleared her throat—“of your troubles.”
“Oh, excellent,” said Sam and took the drink gratefully. “Thank you.”
She waited until he’d enjoyed a few sips and the men around them had returned to their conversations, then asked him to tell her exactly what he knew about the London.
He told her how the ship had been completely destroyed, with only twenty-four souls saved. When he finished, they sat quietly for a moment, listening to the chatter around them. Bianca was right. There were those blaming the Dutch, others claiming it was a sign of worse to come.
Finally, she tapped Sam on the arm and leaned over. “I have some news to share as well. Do not look so concerned; it’s far better than that you carried here.” She quietly explained about Aubrey.
Sam’s eyes almost started from his head. “Aubrey? Alive?” He choked on the chocolate, and Rosamund was forced to slap his back a few times. Wiping away tears, he shook his head. “When I was told he’d died, I never doubted Everard for a moment; I was overcome with sympathy. I thought all his children lost to him. But . . . how? Why? Why would a father disown a son in such a manner?”
Rosamund shrugged. “I know not, Sam. I hoped you might.”
“Believe me, Rosamund, I would tell you if I knew.” He shifted slightly on his seat as pain pierced his body. He let out a deep breath and flashed her an apologetic look before continuing. “There were rumors around the time Aubrey left—was sent to the New World.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, that he’d conducted himself in a most unbecoming manner. There was mention of treachery, of deals being struck with Hollanders and such. But I always felt there was something else . . . I do know he and his father argued a great deal. There was not the accord between them that Everard had enjoyed with his eldest son.” He tipped his head in thought. “I don’t know. You’ve got to remember, it all happened when the King was set to be restored to the throne. Negotiations were under way. Preparations were being made. There was little else the city was talking about—”
Which meant there was nothing else Sam had been interested in discussing.
“All I recall is one minute Aubrey was here, next he was gone. Monies were paid to the privy purse, his name was cleared and then, a few weeks later, he was pronounced dead. Everard never spoke of him again.”
“Not so dead; he has come back.”
“Are you sure it’s him?”
“If his portrait is anything to judge by—” And his manner, thought Rosamund.
“I’ll know the moment I clap eyes on him. Where is he?” he asked and craned his neck as if expecting to see him among the patrons.
Rosamund had the grace to look guilty. “At Blithe Manor. He was . . . very tired.”
“He’s staying there? With you?”
“Where else would he stay?”
“But . . . but . . . it’s not proper.”
“But it is, Sam. We are family. I am his stepmother, remember.”
A reluctant smile tugged his mouth. “I suppose you are, the lucky cur. Fancy, a stepmother younger than him and by some years. Even younger than his sister. You might be related—by marriage—but all the same, I don’t like the idea of you alone there with him . . .”
“It doesn’t seem right, does it?” agreed Rosamund, thankful Sam had taken the conversation in the direction she hoped. “And with my reputation already so . . . precarious.”
“Only to those who don’t know you.”
She shot him a grateful smile. Really, he could be charming when he wished. And when he was suffering so. “You see, the potential impropriety of him and I sharing a roof is easily remedied. Well, maybe ‘easily’ is too strong a word. It can be fixed. I even spoke to my lawyer, Mr. Bender, about a related matter this morning.”
“You did? What matter?”
“Ah, that is what I wanted to share with you. I may need your help,” said Rosamund, and quietly outlined not only her reason for visiting Mr. Bender, but her solution to a very vexing problem.
Naturally, Sam protested—it was all quite unorthodox—but she managed to allay his fears and persuade him to support her. As she returned to the kitchen, her passage was slow, the men seeking her company, pouring out their views about the dreadful explosion, the loss of life, how they were inviting trouble allowing women on board in the first place, as well as suspicions a Dutch spy had blown the frigate up.
From Sir Henry, she learned of a British ship capturing French sailors and torturing them by burning their feet. “The foolish captain was determined to have them say their cargo was for the Hollanders,” said Sir Henry, rubbing the dark plaster on his nose for the umpteenth time. “But they were innocent. The King is furious and intends to flog the captain and crew as soon as they make land.”
Rosamund could not help but pity the misguided men. Feelings were running so high against the Dutch, inflamed by reports in the press and innate prejudices, it was no wonder men imposed their own justice on anyone suspected of aiding the enemy, hoping to insert themselves into His Majesty’s good graces. She’d heard of the members of the Dutch church being threatened, beaten and stoned wherever they walked about the city. Neighbors were turning on neighbors. The flimsiest excuse was regarded as justification for violence. Foreign folk were scared to leave their houses. Known Papists and Quakers too. Businesses had been boycotted and people were suffering as a consequence.
War didn’t just worsen prejudices, it legitimated them.
Those who didn’t want to talk about the London or the Dutch wanted to know about Aubrey. Nothing stayed a secret at the Phoenix. Some uttered his name with distaste, some with surprise, some with caution. Looks of pity and, occasionally, calculation were cast in Rosamund’s direction as the men weighed up what the consequences of his return might be. Some offered Rosamund a consoling pat on the arm, others even offered her a place to stay, the shrewd look in their eyes indicating the price of their generosity. Rosamund hoped she wouldn’t have to stoop to that, but thinking about alternative accommodation might not be such a bad idea.
Pretending an indifference she most certainly didn’t feel, and dismissing the less-than-honorable offers with a laugh, Rosamund kept her emotions close, even as her heart pounded. In the relative sanctuary of the kitchen, she collapsed onto a stool, her mind abuzz with what she’d heard. She smiled gratefully at Solomon when he brought over a steaming bowl of chocolate.
“Have you eaten, signora?” asked Bianca, sinking into the seat next to hers, wiping her hands and face upon the apron.
“This will do nicely. I’ve no appetite for food.”
They both gazed toward the main room, watching Filip’s and Thomas’s backs as they worked hard to agitate and pour pot after pot of chocolate and coffee, while the drawers ran to and fro fetching jugs of beer, bottles of wine, cups of China tea and whatever else the customers desired.
“You know we can’t stay here, don’t you?” said Bianca quietly. “We’ll have to return to Blithe Manor. If we don’t, he can have us arrested. He’s our master now.”
“I know you’ll have to return,” said Rosamund. “But when you do, it will be on my terms.”
“Your terms?” Bianca twisted in her seat. “Allora. I know that tone. What have you done?”
Before Rosamund could answer, who should step into the kitchen but Aubrey Blithman; Mr. Bender, Jacopo and Sam on his shiny heels.
Pouches cupped Aubrey’s deep-set eyes, and his face was gray. He needed a good shave and his periwig sat askew. His clothes had been nicely brushed and the scent in which he was liberally doused almost succeeded in covering the odor of unwashed flesh. Almost.
“My Lady Rosamund,” he said, opening his arms to appraise what stood between them. “You are full of surprises, are you not? Here you are, manager of this fine establishment”—he turned back to the main room—“filled to the brim with court and country, cowering in the kitchen with the menials.” He dropped into an exaggerated bow beside her stool and pulled off his hat. “Still, I understand someone wanting to keep an eye on their investments—of all kinds. Maybe I can make a businesswoman of you yet?”
At his entry, Bianca had leaped to her feet. Cara, the kitchen hand, ceased what she was doing and faced the intruders, her eyes sliding toward Rosamund, uncertain and a little frightened. It wasn’t every day the gentry tripped into this part of the chocolate house. Likewise, Thomas and Solomon regarded the newcomers curiously. Jacopo moved to stand with Bianca.
Rosamund rose slowly. She’d learned to respect the authority her title gave her, no more so than here, in her territory. She might be working in the kitchen with “the menials,” but it was her kitchen and these were her people. Strictly speaking, they were Matthew’s, and this was his business, but she wasn’t going to let those details destroy her little claim on power.
Aubrey’s last words caused a stir in her chest. What did he mean, keep an eye on investments? She glanced at Mr. Bender, who offered the slightest of nods. Sam made a positive sign with his fingers. She bit back a smile. Seemed her stepson had accepted her offer after all. She’d been right assuming money was more important to him than people.
“Ah, well,” she said with a deep curtsey, sweetening her tone. “I’d be foolish not to ensure I was striking a fair bargain, would I not?” Praying Bianca and Jacopo would forgive her next words, she continued. “You said yourself an owner must wrest every last ounce from their slaves. You were right. Hence, I thought to test their value by putting them to work here as well as at the manor.”
Beside her, Bianca grew very still. Jacopo made a noise that might have been a groan or a growl, she couldn’t tell. She wished she could reassure them. She prayed with all her soul they understood her purpose.
“Indeed, one must give them as much work as one can. An idle savage is a dangerous one. Work them until they can no longer stand, so their minds do not stray to matters that are not within their compass to understand.” Aubrey strode toward Jacopo and Bianca, stopping inches from them, examining them as if they were cattle about to be auctioned. Mayhap, thought Rosamund, to him they were. “Clearly, you aren’t working this pair hard enough. Father never did. He allowed them to develop airs and ideas that have no right in a tawneymoor’s head.” He tapped Jacopo hard upon the skull.
To his credit, the man didn’t flinch.
“That’s why I was hesitant to concede to your wishes, Lady Rosamund—or may I call you Rosamund? After all, we’re family, are we not?”
“Indeed, we are, Aubrey,” said Rosamund.
He gave her a smile, his eyes crinkling in the corners, though there was no joy behind them, just pure calculation. “Excellent. Well, Rosamund, if you will but take my guidance on how to deal with your slaves, I will be happy to provide it. With correct handling, you can gain much from this pair—they’re literate and, in the right conditions, they’ll work hard and may even be a boon to you. In fact, that’s how Mr. Bender persuaded me to agree to your terms. He reminded me that as an ignorant woman, you will look to a man for example. With Father being dead, I am now the example from which you will learn. The notion gives me great pleasure.” He smiled again and gave a half bow.
Rosamund dipped her head. “And me too, Aubrey. I thank you. So am I to understand you have signed the relevant papers transferring ownership of Bianca and Jacopo to me?”
Cara dropped a bowl. It clanged as it struck the tub before breaking into shards on the floor. Red-faced, she muttered apologies and, with Thomas’s help, quickly began to pick up the pieces.
“I have.” Aubrey gestured to Mr. Bender, who passed a roll of documents to Rosamund. “They are all yours. I just hope, Rosamund, that what I saw last night, the liberties being taken, will not happen again. Not under my roof.” He tugged at Bianca’s apron. “You have given them ideas beyond their station. A respect they don’t warrant. Time to end this. They are slaves. Your slaves. Your property.”
“To do with as I wish,” said Rosamund, an edge of sharpness creeping into her tone.
Mr. Bender gave the slightest shake of his head.
Sam cleared his throat as if about to speak.
Rosamund continued swiftly. “I assure you, sir, I will employ Jacopo and Bianca as you advise and in a manner suited to their birth.” She smiled graciously.
“Their birth?” said Aubrey, his face growing red. If Rosamund thought to appease him, to reinforce their low status, she was wrong. He glared. “Do not speak to me of their birth. They’re slaves. No more and no less on God’s good earth and in His eyes. Remember that.” He glowered. “You do but show your good Christian charity in thinking otherwise, madam.” His frown transformed into a wide smile, revealing all that remained of his teeth. He was as mercurial as a summer storm. “And now, my lady mother, they’re yours. Do not make me regret this.”
“Of that you can be certain, Aubrey.” Rosamund didn’t dare look at either Bianca or Jacopo. What must they be thinking?
Mr. Bender sought to clarify matters. “You understand, Lady Rosamund, that from this day forth, in exchange for the slaves, you’ll not receive another cent from the Blithman estate?”
“I do,” said Rosamund.
Sam gave her a look that might have been approval but also could have been disappointment. She’d been less than open about this part of the transaction.
“Of course, as my stepmother, you will continue to live beneath my roof,” said Aubrey suddenly. “In fact, I’m hoping we’ll get to know each other better and, in time, very well.” The way he regarded her with his asymmetrical eyes and thin, mobile mouth made Rosamund’s skin goose. She swallowed.
“I would like that.” She prayed she sounded sincere.
“Very well, then. I will retire to the main room and join the conversation. Appears the Dutch have been at it again. I look forward very much to trying more of your chocolate, Rosamund.”
Rosamund curtseyed, keeping her head bowed. “And I look forward to preparing more for you, Aubrey. I will send out a bowl shortly.”
Aubrey took her hand and helped her rise, then brought her fingers to his lips. At the last minute, he turned over her hand and impressed a kiss in the palm. His mouth was dry, hot. Unlike his tongue, which was slick and thick. A shudder passed through her, which Aubrey caught and read a particular way. His eyes gleamed.
“It’s not just me who’s been resurrected, Rosamund, but in your face, your presence, your status as a Blithman, my beloved sister too. Just as we looked to each other’s well-being, loved each other as family should while she was alive, I hope and pray we can do the same.”
With a final squeeze of her fingers, he released her. Before Sam could escape, Aubrey threw an arm around his shoulders and strode from the kitchen, laughing and nudging him when he didn’t share his humor.
Mr. Bender went to speak, then shut his mouth. With a bow and a lingering look at Rosamund, he too left. Rosamund would be sure to thank him later, when she knew Aubrey was out of earshot.
It was some time before Thomas and Solomon started working their molinillos again. Some burned cacao beans had to be tossed into the rubbish and new ones set to roast over the coals. Cara returned to the dishes, casting furtive glances over her shoulder to make sure that man didn’t enter again.
Aware something had happened, but unable to leave the bar, Filip sent querying looks toward Rosamund. She signaled she would explain everything later.
She sank onto her stool, the documents held fast in her fist. Aubrey had agreed to her bargain. She had the papers to prove it. In exchange for her jointure, calculated over a period of forty years (presuming she lived to such a ripe old age), he’d sold Jacopo and Bianca to her. They were hers. Could Jacopo and Bianca ever forgive her for dealing with them in such a manner? For not asking their approval? For owning them as one did a herd of sheep or a block of land?
Ready to face their accusations and their hurt, she rose as they approached, their faces unreadable. Before she could explain, Bianca kissed her soundly on the forehead and cheeks and pulled her into a strong embrace. Jacopo wrapped his arms about them both and held them tight.
“Grazie mille, signora bella,” murmured Bianca. Was that a quaver in her voice?
“Grazie mille, grazie mille,” repeated Jacopo over and over.
Closing her eyes, Rosamund lost herself in the wonder of two sets of arms enfolding her in gratitude and—dare she think it?—affection.
How strange that when she was certain she’d be showered with opprobrium, two of the people she cared for most felt nothing but gratitude. Yet, what she’d done was treat them like a commodity to be bought and sold. Aye, she’d bought them. Argued a price, bargained for their lives. The irony was not lost on her that this was exactly what Sir Everard had tried to do with her before Tilly had turned it into a transaction of a different kind.
The apologies she’d prepared weren’t needed. Just as she didn’t need a piece of paper to know Jacopo and Bianca were hers, they knew that she was theirs. The important thing was to ensure Aubrey never saw the depth of their feelings for one another.
Was it not a sin to covet possessions? Well, God forgive her, she cherished her two newest ones. With all her damned heart.