Nice room, Aubrey,” said Matthew, barging past Wat and sauntering over to the window as if he were a welcome visitor, not an intruder.
When Aubrey didn’t reply, Matthew tore himself away from the vista to regard him. Aubrey sat, a glass of claret in one hand, a pipe in the other, his mouth still open at the sight of Matthew. The color had fled his usually ruddy cheeks, and his eyes were bloodshot. The smell of stale wine rose from him like heat off cobbles at high summer.
Unperturbed, Matthew dragged over a stool, removed the satchel from across his shoulders and, placing it by his feet, picked up the brimming jug and poured himself some wine.
“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked as it splashed into the glass. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” He gave a laugh and then drank.
Aubrey put down his pipe and took a hefty swallow of his wine without speaking. His eyes were wary and he kept shooting glances at Wat, who remained at the ready by the door.
Ignoring the exchanges between Aubrey and his steward, Matthew continued as if they were old friends. “Which is ironic, considering you’re the one back from the dead. Speaking of which, that’s what I’m here to discuss. The dead . . . and the living.”
Aubrey indicated Wat should retire to the other room.
“I will remain in here should you have need of me, sir,” said Wat, casting a cautious glance in Matthew’s direction as he shut the door.
Knowing Wat’s ear would be pressed to the wood, Matthew nudged his seat closer. “It’s been a while, Aubrey. I have to say, I could scarce believe my ears when I heard you were not only alive but here in London.”
The red stains that marked a heavy drinker slowly returned to Aubrey’s cheeks. Putting down his glass, he sat back in his chair, resting his elbows on the arms and locking his fingers together over his lap. The appearance of nonchalance might have worked had his hands not been shaking. A tic pulsed in his jaw.
“Wh . . . what do you want?” he asked, his voice low.
“What do you think?”
“Truth be told, I do not know.” His eyes met Matthew’s before sliding away again. “I do not think we’ve anything to say to each other.”
Matthew chortled. “You might not, but I’ve plenty to say to you.”
Aubrey gripped the arms of his chair and pulled himself straighter, as if trying to gain higher ground. “If that is so, I do not want to hear it.”
“Maybe not, but you will all the same.” Matthew paused and took his time studying Aubrey. “But first, indulge me. I need to know. How did you do it?”
“What?”
“Avoid detection.”
A sly look crossed Aubrey’s face. “Why should I tell you?”
Matthew sighed. “I searched, you know—Africa, the New World—but everyone told me you were dead. I began to persuade myself that perhaps you were, after all. Yet here you are, larger than life.”
A slow, smug smile transformed Aubrey’s face. He waggled a finger at Matthew. “If Father and I learned anything from you, Lovelace, it was how to dissemble. The moment I left these shores, Aubrey Blithman disappeared to be replaced by none other than Everard Blithman, nephew to his namesake, tasked with managing the business interests of his uncle.” He laughed. “Preposterous, isn’t it? So simple and yet so perfect. Making my new self younger by some years, all I had to do was steer close to the truth while at the same time never quite revealing it. Were you not a master of that? A lovelorn writer who was really a spy? Or was it the role of husband you never quite mastered?”
Matthew didn’t bite.
“No one questioned who I was, my relationship; after all, poor Sir Everard had lost both his sons, hadn’t he? It made sense that his closest living relative would look to his business interests.” He cackled. “Whenever I was asked about the Aubrey Blithman business—and I oft was in the beginning—I was overcome with shame and grief. Once I established my reputation, and it didn’t take long, people ceased to question me and prevented others from mentioning the name Aubrey in my presence. Before long, they were asking what they could do for me.” He stared into his glass, a twisted smile upon his lips. “All I had to do was avoid those who had known me in London. It wasn’t as difficult as you’d expect. I managed to avoid you, after all. When I couldn’t? Well, wasn’t hard to put about that the resemblance between cousins was striking.” He smirked. “You’d be astonished what people will believe. All it took was a different name, a believable story and, of course, the occasional bribe.”
It required all Matthew’s willpower not to show his surprise at Aubrey’s admission. He’d underestimated him. Oh, he’d heard of this nephew and even made efforts to contact him, to no avail. Now he knew why. That stung.
“There’s no doubt, it was an adroit ruse,” Matthew began. “But before you bask in any more complacency, may I remind you what works in the colonies will not work here. London has a long memory.”
Aubrey reached over and brought his drink to his mouth. “Not so long it cannot forgive a man who contributes generously to the privy purse. Suddenly, my . . . how do I put it . . . colorful past has been painted in more attractive hues; my reputation is rakish rather than ruined.”
“Maybe so, but never again will those in the colonies trust you, not now the vizard has been cast aside.”
Aubrey inhaled, then flapped a hand in irritation. “Enough of this nonsense. Say what you’ve come to say, then leave. I’ve no desire to spend a moment more in your company than I have to.”
“On that at least, we’re agreed,” said Matthew. It was hard not to grab Aubrey by the shirt and shake him. No, forget shake, he wanted to punch that arrogant face, wipe the smirk off that supercilious mouth, even if it was worn to disguise fear. How he could ever have thought this man a friend, been persuaded by his lies, his insistence he would be a great match for his sister, a marvelous brother-in-law . . . Truth was, he didn’t want to be in the same room. The man repulsed him.
“I am here to tell you to leave Rosamund alone.” Matthew’s voice was firm.
“Beg your pardon?” said Aubrey incredulously.
“You heard me. I want you to stay away from Rosamund. I don’t care what excuses you come up with, what reasons you give her, but you are to maintain a distance. A long one.”
Aubrey’s eyes started and then he sat back heavily and forced a laugh. “You’ve no right to tell me who I can and cannot see, no right to tell me to stay away from anyone, let alone Rosamund. Particularly when she’s living in my house.”
“Oh, I think I do—”
“Well,” said Aubrey, heaving himself out of the chair in one motion. “You think wrong. I’ve great plans for Rosamund. For me, us. Plans that do not concern you, Lovelace.” He looked down at Matthew.
“You can forget your plans, Aubrey. Just as you can forget Rosamund.”
Aubrey burst into shrill laughter. “Forget her? What? So you can swoop in and claim her? Ah, you think I don’t know what you’re about? Obviously, you’re besotted with her. Think you can replace Helene with her likeness?”
“She is nothing like Helene—” began Matthew.
“Isn’t she?” Aubrey began to pace. “You took my sister and now you seek to take Rosamund. I know what you’re about, Lovelace, and you can bluster and threaten all you like, but I’ll not listen, just as I won’t be held to account for your misfortunes.”
“My misfortunes? That’s an odd way of describing the loss of your sister, your—”
Aubrey spun to face Matthew. “Don’t you dare talk about their deaths. Don’t you dare. You may not have dealt the killing blow, but I hold you responsible all the same, you cur. You still haven’t answered for what you did—”
“What I did? Oh, that’s rich coming from you, Aubrey. The man who was supposed to be my friend. I compromised my integrity for you. I risked a great deal to warn you that the authorities were casting an eye over your business—and only because I believed they were mistaken.” He gave a bark of bitter laughter. “And how do you reward me?”
“I was your friend, damn it. But how can I be friends with the man who allowed Helene and the babe to die? Who was responsible for the death of my father? I cannot.”
Matthew stared at him in disbelief. “You know I neither ‘allowed’ their deaths, nor was I responsible for Sir Everard’s. You know that. Though I’m sorry, more than I can say, for all of them. Regardless of what happened, their deaths weigh heavily upon me.”
Their eyes met. Aubrey’s were watery, his cheeks blotched. Matthew’s eyes were calm, his face cool.
“Get out,” said Aubrey quietly. “And don’t ever come back.”
“Not before you give me your word you will stay away from Rosamund.”
Aubrey threw back his head and laughed hard. “Are you mad? As if I am going to agree to something like that. Do you not understand? That woman is everything I ever wanted. She is my future. I have asked her to marry me.”
“Marry you?” Matthew shook his head in bewilderment. “Good God. You really don’t have a conscience, do you? No sense of remorse or guilt. No, Aubrey. She’s not your future. She certainly isn’t your past. I tell you now, you will cease your suit, swear to stay away from her, or else—”
“Or else what?” Aubrey downed his drink swiftly.
Reaching into his satchel, Matthew drew out a pile of bound letters. About to lay them on the table, he changed his mind and kept hold of them.
“Do you know what these are?” He held them up.
Aubrey squinted then blanched, staggering and clutching the back of his chair. “I thought . . . I was led to believe Father had taken care of those.”
“Then you believed wrongly. I was going to give them to your father, but circumstances changed—and for that, as I said, I’m deeply sorry.” He paused. “I thought of handing them to you, but now I see that would have been most foolish. God was on my side when I failed to locate your whereabouts. Now, having endured your bombast, heard your preposterous desires, know this: I intend to keep these letters and thus ensure you do exactly as I say. For, Aubrey, let me make this clear: if you do not find a reason to stay away from Rosamund and withdraw your proposal immediately, I will see to it that all of London learns the contents of these.” He flourished the bundle.
Aubrey began to shake as rage swamped his frame. “You wouldn’t dare.”
It was Matthew’s turn to laugh. “Wouldn’t I? I think you know me better than that.” Tucking the letters back into his satchel, he stood, draping the strap over his shoulder. “Imagine if these were published? Doors now open would slam in your face. The Blithman name would become a byword, whether you pose as Aubrey or a nephew, whether you prance about London or the New World. Your new friend Rochester would scorn you; the King and court repel you. The fine people of Virginia, New York and North Carolina would close their doors to you.” Matthew lowered his voice. “Your man in there”—he jerked his chin in the direction of the room where Wat lurked—“do you think he’d be so loyal if the truth was out? Ha. People would spit in your face sooner than look at it. That is what your father feared, and that is what will happen should these letters fall into the wrong hands.”
“Please,” said Aubrey, putting down his glass, reaching, imploring. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I thought that once too. Rosamund changes everything. For her sake, I do, Aubrey. I have to protect her and I will. I believed myself done with blackmail, but it seems to be the only language you Blithmans understand.” Finishing what remained in his glass, he returned it to the table. “So, do we have an agreement? You will stay away from Rosamund.”
Aubrey fell into his chair and folded his arms. “As if I have a choice.”
“Exactly. You do not.” Glancing around the room, his eyes lingered upon the door to the adjoining room. “I include him in this, Aubrey. Do you hear me, Wat?” There was a dull scrambling. “You stay away from her too—no notes, no attempts to suborn her.”
Matthew stood, brushing his breeches. “You will write to her this very morning and not only withdraw your suit but tell her she may remain in the manor for as long as she requires.”
“What reason do I give? She’ll hardly credit it when I have been so . . . ardent.”
Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “Ardent? Is that what you call unwelcome persistence?” He snorted. “I care not, Aubrey. I simply insist you take care of this immediately. Or else . . .” He patted the satchel.
Aubrey’s shoulders slumped. “I understand.” His hand cut the air. “It shall be as you say. Just promise me one thing.”
“You have no right to extract a promise from me.”
“Maybe not,” said Aubrey reluctantly. “But I would beg it all the same.”
“What?”
“I want your solemn oath that if I agree to your conditions, you will never tell Rosamund what’s in those letters. Nor anyone else, for that matter.”
Matthew locked eyes with him. Aubrey was the first to look away. “You have my solemn oath,” said Matthew. “But I give it not to protect you, but to protect Rosamund and the innocent souls caught up in this sordid mess.”
Aubrey nodded then sighed, his earlier bullishness gone. “Good. Good. Then you have no further reason to be here. Go. Take your threats and those damn letters and get out.”
Taking a step toward him, Matthew pointed toward where Wat waited behind the door. “And don’t even think to set your man upon me or attempt to steal the letters. If I but catch a glimpse of him lurking, or anyone suspicious for that matter, I will make the letters public.”
The crooked leer on Aubrey’s lips vanished. Matthew knew then he had guessed aright.
Releasing a long sigh, Matthew shook his head in disappointment. “Ask yourself this, Aubrey: Is it really worth the risk? Lest you’ve forgotten, I have a printing press at my disposal.”
Aubrey didn’t respond.
Adjusting his sword, Matthew tilted his hat. “If I have my way, and I think I will, we won’t meet again, Aubrey.”
“I pray we do not.” Aubrey strode to the window, refusing to face him.
“My sentiments exactly.” With one last look at the man he was once foolish enough to deem a friend, Matthew went to the door.
Aubrey’s voice stopped him. “You’ll never have her either, you know.”
His hand on the latch, Matthew froze.
“I may no longer be able to see her even though she dwells under my roof, or have her for wife, but she’s still a Blithman, Lovelace. A Blithman. Just like Helene . . . and she didn’t want you either. Whether you like it or not, whether I never see her again, she’s still mine. Always will be.”
Anger boiled in Matthew’s veins. His vision was shot with scarlet and black. It took all his willpower to open the door and not look back; he knew if he did, he would draw his sword and run the prigging bastard through.
Back in Thames Street, the smell of the river caught him—brine, old fish and leather mixed with human feculence. Nonetheless, he had to stop, take a few deep breaths and clear his head. Dockers on the wharf before him were unloading cargo from a ship, their sea shanty giving a rhythm to their actions as they tossed bales and wound winches.
It was more difficult seeing Aubrey again than he had thought. Older, more lined than he remembered, the man he once called friend retained some aspects he remembered—the charming smile, the peculiar eyes, the way he carried himself. But all that was overshadowed by the truth, the truth he now realized he must carry for the rest of his life.
Whereas once he believed the burden too great, in the end it had served him well. Thank God Aubrey had evaded his hunt. If he had found him and relinquished the letters, where would they be now? Where would Rosamund be? In an ironic twist of fate, they allowed him to safeguard the woman he had come to care for in a manner he’d never thought possible, the woman he prayed with all his mighty heart might harbor feelings for him.
As he moved down the street, he found his chest freed of the steel that had girded it for years. Even his satchel was no longer a weight, but a guarantee. It allowed him to cast a protective net over the future.
Picking up the dockers’ song, with a merry whistle he set off up the hill, back toward the chocolate house.