If anyone had ever dared to suggest to Rosamund that Matthew Lovelace and Aubrey Blithman had anything in common, she would have dismissed them with sharp words for having the temerity to compare chocolate to bilge water. But as the weeks rolled by, she was forced to admit that both men did indeed seem able to keep their word—albeit for very different reasons.
Surprised she’d not heard from Aubrey despite his claim he would no longer contact her, and the coincidence that his notes ceased the day after Matthew paid him a visit, she finally confronted Matthew, who admitted he had extracted an agreement from the man, but how he had accomplished this, he refused to reveal. Rosamund chose not to pry further lest she upset what was a very pleasing outcome. Rumor had it Aubrey had gone to Portsmouth to lick his wounds and employ a new agent to deal with shipping, the last one having defected to the Dutch. Contradicting this was gossip that he’d been sighted at court, spending time with Joseph Williamson. Williamson was renowned as a ruthless and efficient spy, uncovering plots both real and imagined in order to keep His Majesty safe and his own role at court secure.
While most men who’d had their marriage proposals spurned might have become bitter, bellicose or persistent, Matthew did none of those things. If anything, he was more respectful of her and was oft seen propped in the chocolate house writing, content to share her with the customers. Likewise, Rosamund felt no discomfort in taking him a drink in the bookshop and lingering to discuss something in a current news sheet or receiving copies of his latest anonymous tract for the drawers to covertly distribute.
One day upon returning from dropping pamphlets at Charing Cross and St. Paul’s, Adam, Kit and Hugh—all of them adept at disguising themselves and staying clear of anyone who looked like they might be from the government—asked to speak to Rosamund.
Leaving the bar in Filip’s capable hands, Rosamund found the boys changed back into their uniforms and waiting near the table at the rear of the kitchen. They looked worried, which immediately put Rosamund on alert.
“What is it?” she asked. “Were you seen?”
“No, my lady. Not delivering the pamphlets,” said Adam.
Hugh and Kit nodded, and Rosamund relaxed.
“But,” Adam began, “the last few times we’ve gone out, we noticed a man watching the chocolate house.”
“Either here or the bookshop . . .” corrected Hugh.
Pulling the boys further away from the kitchen, Rosamund lowered her voice. “Explain what you mean.”
“It might be nothing,” said Adam. “But there’s this fella been hovering around the lane the last few days. He thinks we don’t notice, but because you asked us to be extra vigilant, we seen him.”
“Never in ’ere, mind,” said Hugh. “Only out there.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the windows.
Rosamund was thoughtful. What if this man was watching the bookshop? The dissenting tracts being left about the city were causing a great deal of talk, especially the one about the behavior of the court while at Oxford, detailing how the courtiers drank themselves senseless, shat in fireplaces and corners, had their way with the ladies of the city—willing and unwilling—all while their fellow citizens suffered and died. It had done nothing to enhance the King’s already precarious reputation, nor those of his hangers-on who were named, including Aubrey. Members of the Nonsuch Club in particular, a group of well-known republicans who plotted to seize the gates of the city and restore the Commonwealth, had made much of Matthew’s words, using them to recruit people to their cause and attracting the authorities’ attention. While not a republican (he came from a family of loyal royalists), Matthew wasn’t alone in disapproving of what the court had become. The intention of the pamphlets was to rouse the conscience of courtiers, not rebellion; it was a call for sense and discretion. Not that L’Estrange or Joseph Williamson would see it that way with the Nonsuch Club using his words to inspire seditious action. Rosamund feared that government spies were after the author of the piece.
Or was it the Quakers they were seeking? For the past few weeks Bianca and the Friends had been meeting every Sunday evening in the bookshop, entering through the rear gate so it appeared as if they were going to church. They sat quietly around the counter, offering their mostly silent prayers and communion, leaving one at a time so as not to attract attention. Not even Filip and the boys knew of their presence. Could they have been seen?
“Can you show this gentleman to me?” she asked the boys.
They nodded eagerly.
“Not in an obvious way, mind. We must make it look casual. Return to your duties as I will mine. Shortly, I want you to come to the bar, Adam, and whisper something in my ear. We will both go to the table near the east window and from there you can show me this man you speak of.”
The boys nodded again.
Fifteen minutes later, having shared this news with Matthew, causing his brow to furrow, Adam approached her. Rising, both Rosamund and Matthew made their way to the table near the easternmost window, gently pushing past the patrons who were keen to engage them in conversation. While Matthew distracted the men, Rosamund sidled close to the window with Adam, a tray balanced against his hip, by her side.
It was a moment before he casually rubbed his nose, his finger pointing toward a man of medium height. Dressed in the ordinary clothes of a worker, he leaned against the old stationer’s store directly opposite. Now a lacemaker’s, it wasn’t a good spot for surveillance for a man; it was evident he had no interest in the goods in the shop.
Adam returned to service while Rosamund remained and watched for a few minutes. Matthew finally broke away from the men and joined her. She simply smiled, nodded down at the street and left him, her heart thumping, her former confidence flowing into her boots with every step. If that man was a spy, then they were in trouble.
She caught Filip’s concerned look and donned a smile. Working around her, the drawers attended to the patrons as if nothing was amiss.
Dear God, she thought, thinking of what she asked Adam, Kit and Hugh to do, the risks they took on her behalf.
They could all be in trouble.
* * *
The months flew past and as the premises continued to be watched they took extra precautions. Matthew ceased to print his anonymous pieces, sticking to authorized material only. The Quakers terminated their meetings. They were neither raided nor arrested.
Still the surveillance continued.
From Matthew, Rosamund learned there were two men watching them: Peter Crabb and Samuel Wilcox, who took it in turns to observe the building throughout the day. The two had done work for Sir Edward Nichols, King Charles’s Secretary of State, but had transferred their services to Sir Henry Bennet.
Sir Henry . . . His Majesty’s spymaster. And Matthew’s occasional employer. Suddenly, Sir Henry’s interest in Rosamund, his desire to engage her in conversation every time he entered the chocolate house, took on a sinister cast. Rosamund always ensured she had a ready smile and a store of safe conversations with which to regale him. She began to wonder if she’d ever inadvertently mentioned anything to him from Matthew’s illegal pamphlets. Praying she hadn’t been so foolish, she worked hard so as not to appear wary and made sure she expressed appreciation for his continued patronage.
Aware Matthew watched her interactions with Sir Henry, she also noted how the man followed Matthew down to the bookshop on a number of occasions. When she asked Matthew if Sir Henry questioned him about his writings, he reassured her their conversations were safe. She was safe. Sir Henry had their interests as well as those of the King at heart. Crabb and Wilcox, while Sir Henry’s men, oft acted of their own volition, but as far as Sir Henry knew, they were not investigating Matthew or the chocolate house.
Matthew admitted it was also possible someone else was paying the two watchers—they were hands for hire, after all. For the moment, whomever that might be, and for what purpose, remained a mystery. Matthew assured her he would get to the bottom of it. She wondered who had hired the men and what their motivation might be, tormenting herself with terrible possibilities.
* * *
Spring arrived, bringing with it another bout of hot, stormy weather. Hail as big as the tennis balls the King loved striking rained upon the capital, breaking windows, damaging barrows and carts and even killing a couple of unfortunate souls. Lightning split the sky in jagged spears and flashes at once haunting and ethereal. Reading them as portents of divine displeasure, prognosticators reveled in making dire predictions almost as much as preachers in the pulpit.
The London Gazette and the trade publications that contained information about shipping, horses and forthcoming auctions were also filled with news from foreign shores, much of it about the war preparations the Dutch and French were making.
Regardless of the never-ending war, disillusionment with the King was so rife, it was rumored even those closest to him were growing tired of his selfish ways. Matthew learned that John Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester, was working on a satire about him.
“This is what he’s penned thus far,” said Matthew one quiet evening after closing. “Make sure no one else reads this.”
Rosamund scanned the few lines, swallowing hard to still her laughter, more than a little shocked at the tone. “How did you manage to get this?” she asked.
Matthew’s eyes sparkled. “I have my ways.”
“If the King ever sees this—” She stopped.
“Aye, Wilmot will be for the Tower. It’s not intended for His Majesty’s eyes.” Matthew folded it carefully. “God knows what else he’ll compose.”
Rosamund nodded. “The King gives him so much material. To think, that’s how his own courtiers regard him.”
“Not all,” said Matthew. “Not those who find great advantage in encouraging His Majesty’s vices.” He sighed. “What’s of greatest concern is the common folk are far more likely to put angry words into foolish actions. When I first started writing about the court’s foibles, I didn’t understand the resentment bubbling below the surface. It’s just as well I’m forced to stop at present.” He gazed toward the windows. “We must keep our ears and eyes open, Rosamund—and not just for spies. The last thing we need with the Hollanders and French breathing down our necks is another civil war.”
Matthew was right. But if this was what a courtier was prepared to write—one of the King’s own, a noble—it was hardly surprising plots to overthrow the monarch abounded.
Nor was it surprising that one of the greatest of these was hatched at the Phoenix.