There was not one part of Sir Everard’s body that wasn’t aching or beset by confounded shaking. His fingers quivered before his eyes as if possessed and his legs weren’t cooperating either. With a click of annoyance, he forced his hands back under the coverlets. Sinking into the pillows, he tried to breathe deeply and allow the mulled wine he’d drunk as quickly as he was able to take effect. Jacopo fussed in the background, brushing his jacket, folding his clothes, his head turned aside discreetly so as not to see his master ailing. Sir Everard stared at the curtains as they billowed about the bed in the evening breeze. He detested being at the whim of others, blown in directions he’d no control over. Damned if he wasn’t again now Lovelace had reentered the picture.
Quashing the anger that thoughts of the murderous turncoat and his written demands engendered, he reflected upon the day and decided that, altogether, it had been most successful. Not only had the chit looked lovely clean, with her hair styled and a decent dress (even if it was out of fashion and swam on her), but she entranced everyone they encountered. Rosamund had not only played her part to perfection but she’d been seduced by the delicious temptation of chocolate. Chuckling inwardly, he recalled her face as she drank—her first predictable reaction and her second taste. How those long dark lashes swept her creamy cheeks, her full lips thinning in appreciation of what she held in her mouth; those sweet dimples forming. She put him in mind not only of his beloved daughter, but the King’s sister Henriette-Anne, whose complexion had been likened to roses and jasmine. Had he been younger, more capable, he would have hardened at the sight. As it was, he knew Filip and Jacopo had visceral reactions, the young lads too. Widow Ashe had stared like a moonstruck loon.
News of her presence would be irresistible, even to one who thought himself beyond such temptations. Once he was enticed by the idea of her, there’d be no turning back.
His jaded heart quickened with excitement. That young woman was a prize; she would give him the advantage. With every breath he took, he knew she would be the instrument of his revenge.
A quiet drumming at the door ended his self-congratulation. Jacopo paused in combing Sir Everard’s periwig.
As if conjured by his thoughts, the door slowly cracked open to reveal Rosamund.
“Milord,” she said quietly. Gowned in the apricot gauze, with her long, shining curls tumbling down her shoulders to brush the tops of her thighs, she was like an angel fallen to earth. “I apologize for disturbing you, but I was wondering if I might have a word?”
Trying not to show his astonishment, or how his heart ached at the sight of her and the memories she conjured, Sir Everard sat up, once more cursing his frailty. “Of course, my dear, of course.” He waved her toward the bed, touching his head to ensure his nightcap covered his barren scalp.
Jacopo closed the door behind Rosamund, found a stool upon which she could perch and tied back the filmy bed-curtains, raising his brows in an unspoken question.
Rosamund dragged the stool closer at her husband’s urging, giving Sir Everard time to compose himself and cover his legs so his affliction would not be apparent.
“What brings you here at this time of night, my dear?”
Rosamund, who’d barely looked at him since she entered, raised her chin. Her face was pale, and she wore a deep frown that somehow managed to lend her sweetness an air of surprising gravity. Sir Everard found he wanted to wipe that frown away. Good God. He was getting sentimental in his dotage. It would simply not do.
“Good milord, I fear you might not like what I have to say.”
“Then perhaps you might do best to hold your tongue.”
Rosamund searched his face and Sir Everard thought how the likes of Charles Sedley or Alexander Brome would compose poems for her eyes alone. He marveled at their color. Helene’s had been a pallid blue. While Rosamund’s were the same almond shape, her eyes were unfathomable inky stains; at other times, when the light struck them, they were swirling pools of chestnut and amber, capable of twinkling with delight or darkening in fear and sadness. They were the latter tonight, and Sir Everard felt as if he’d been told to whip an already broken creature. He was unaccustomed to such a feeling and uncertain how to deal with it.
Taking a deep breath, Rosamund sat up straight. “My lord, I cannot—not any longer. It’s my duty to inform you that you’ve plighted your troth under false pretenses with a miscreant of the worst kind.”
Whatever Sir Everard had anticipated hearing, it wasn’t this.
“My mother told you I am learned; that I can read and write. While I did indeed begin to acquire both these skills, I’m no more proficient than a babe, my education being . . . interrupted. I can scarce make out words on a document let alone craft them for myself.”
“I see.”
“Do you? In omitting to tell you the truth, milord, I fear I’ve already failed in both the obedience and loyalty you require.” She stared at her interlocked fingers a moment, her mouth moving, but no sounds issuing. When she started speaking again, her voice was so quiet, Sir Everard was forced to lean forward to hear. “At first, I didn’t think my ignorant state would matter. I know many wives of gentlemen who can scarce make their mark—which at least I can do—or read, but now I’ve seen the chocolate house, now you’ve given me those papers and tasked me with learning what’s contained within them, I can hide the truth no longer. Sir Everard, I am not the boon my mother promised; I am nothing but an ignorant burden.”
Sir Everard glanced at Jacopo, who had ceased to tidy and was listening to the conversation with great interest, his face betraying nothing.
“I see,” Sir Everard said again.
“You do?”
“You’re telling me you’ve been party to a falsehood that you believe renders our marriage null and void.”
Rosamund let out a shuddering sigh. “Aye, that’s exactly what I’m saying. You deserve better and I’m so sorry I was complicit in this deception. Having spent a mere day and night in your company, having met Señor Filip and his son and learned of your generosity to Widow Ashe, having seen for myself your intentions, I understand you have need of someone who grasps the complexities of your enterprises, someone who can offer you much more than I ever can. You require a helpmeet in both words and deed. So, sir, if you decide to . . . break our bond, I will quit your sight immediately and our vows will be as if they were never spoken. You will not hear from me again.”
Sir Everard indicated that Jacopo was to pour some wine. Two goblets were brought over while Sir Everard pretended to consider her words.
Taking a long draft, he watched Rosamund over the rim of his vessel as she sipped her wine. “Yet you signed the papers I had Jacopo deliver this morning.”
Rosamund shifted on the stool, the glass clasped firmly in her hands. “I did, sir. I was loath to reveal my ignorance.” She lifted her chin slightly. “I’ve not done the wrong thing by signing, have I?” Her eyes were huge.
There was a crash as Jacopo knocked a candlestick over. The flame was snuffed out against the table and wax flowed over the wood. “My apologies, signore,” he said, reaching for a rag to wipe up the mess.
Sir Everard smiled. “No, my dear. You’ve not done anything wrong.” His mind worked as he finished his drink. How could he reassure this young woman, this precious resource, that the last thing he required of her was the ability to read and write in the manner her mother boasted of—and which he had known immediately was at best exaggerated if not an outright falsehood? In fact, he’d banked on it. He could not, not without revealing his hand. This was not the time.
“Rosamund,” he said, his voice heavy.
“Sir?”
“While I’m deeply disappointed you didn’t reveal this to me sooner, it doesn’t change the nature of our marriage or my desire for it to remain intact. There’s still much you can do for me without being literate.”
Rosamund softly exhaled. “I would I could, though . . . considering my normal wifely . . . ah . . . duties are”—she glanced toward Jacopo then dropped her voice—“not required, I feel I could offer you so much more than being a mere ornament; an ornament that does nothing but take. I would that I could give back to you, repay your generosity somehow.”
A shaft of excitement lanced Sir Everard’s side. “You will have ample opportunity to do exactly that.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“I would it were sooner.” Rosamund’s disappointment descended like a soft winter mist. “In fact, if I may be so bold, sir, I have already been putting my mind to ways in which the chocolate house might be . . .” She hesitated.
“What?” encouraged Sir Everard.
“Improved.”
“Oh?” said Sir Everard. Jacopo raised his head. It was all Sir Everard could do to maintain control. He could feel his heart beating rapidly; the tremor in his hands came back with renewed force. Who on earth did this chit think she was? Your wife, dolt. It’s you who raised her, you who have promised her entry into a new world of which she knows nothing. All she is doing is trying to please you. Remember what her mother said: she is built for pleasing; it’s in her nature.
Swallowing, he forced what he hoped was a smile to his mouth. It felt like it was cooperating. “And in what ways do you think the chocolate house might be improved?”
Unaware of the turmoil she’d created, Rosamund smiled. This time, he was pleased to discover, it had no effect upon him.
“Well, milord, while I think chocolate would have to be one of the most wonderful drinks I’ve ever had God’s grace to try, I couldn’t help but be concerned it might not be to everyone’s taste. Take Mr. Henderson, for example. I found that even the finest wines, the most expertly prepared coffee—even a dish of coddled eggs—do not please everyone. We are all so different, and for that we should thank the good Lord.”
Sir Everard’s eyes narrowed. A tic in his cheek started and he could feel his left eye begin to twitch. “And why should these differences be a cause for concern?”
Proud of his restraint, as what he really wanted to say was “your concern.”
Unaware of any tension, Rosamund’s smile widened. “Many people simply expect you to meet their needs, regardless of how outrageous or even seasonal they might be. At the Maiden Voyage Inn, we tried to accommodate all our clients’ beverage demands. It saves a great many complaints and, milord, it makes for tidy profits.” She paused. Sir Everard stared at her. Jacopo moved to the other side of the room. “As your wife, I would help you profit in all ways possible—to run the best of chocolate houses and therefore dispatch any . . . er . . . competition.”
Sir Everard nearly choked.
Waiting until he recovered, Rosamund continued. “I noticed there’s a great deal of unused space in the kitchen. It’s like a great storeroom and I thought that maybe, because you import so many other wonderful drinks—or at least that’s what Jacopo and Filip told me”—she flashed Jacopo a smile—“we might consider also serving beer, different wines and even coffee. I know that’s very popular. At the Maiden Voyage Inn, everyone asked for it, even if they didn’t like it . . .”
When Sir Everard didn’t respond, she sighed. “Please, sir, do not think I’m complaining. I know how fortunate I am, but I feel at a loss. I want very much to help in any way I can. I’m accustomed to being busy, to being . . . useful. My mother was persuaded I had a good head for business and I just thought—”
Sir Everard raised his hand. It took all his willpower not to order her from his sight. How dare she. How dare this . . . this grubby little doxy (albeit clean and sweet-smelling now) even think to lecture him on ways to improve business—especially the chocolate house. One person ordering him about was more than enough. For the time being the place existed to serve one purpose alone. How it functioned as a business he cared not—not until after. The girl had been in London, in the chocolate house, less time than a ripple on the Thames and she was seeing fit to advise him. Him. Where was the young woman built for pleasing? He did not like this assertive creature one little bit. Still, she had confessed her lack of literacy. She was honest. This too, this desire to advise, he supposed, was a product of her honesty. He must focus on that, accept her suggestions graciously, lest his temper reveal too much. After all, she knew naught of the letters, of Lovelace’s outrageous demands regarding the chocolate house, his insistence he employ a crazed widow and an inexperienced apprentice. The terrible threats Lovelace made that forced his compliance.
Rosamund ceased talking. Jacopo no longer moved. Even the breeze had stilled; the only sounds were some distant revelers and the unholy screech of an owl.
“Child,” said Sir Everard finally. “Listen to me.”
Those eyes of hers were so damn trusting. God . . . was he wrong to marry her and make her an integral part of his plans? He must not think that. She was not Helene, for all she looked like her. She was a bastard; a used and abused slattern accustomed to far worse who had crossed his path for a reason. He was doing this for his daughter, his family; for the Blithman name. Lovelace could not win. He would not, not now he had Rosamund.
“What do you think it is I do?”
“I . . . I . . . You are a merchant and a chocolate maker, sir.”
“Among other things, yes, I am. This is very important, Rosamund. I want you to consider this carefully. At any time, have I told you I am opening a tavern?”
“N . . . no, sir.”
“An alehouse?”
She gave a delightful giggle; she didn’t understand how close she was sailing to the wind. Jacopo did, standing like a statue in the corner, watching, waiting.
“Have I told you I am opening a coffee house?”
“No, sir.” Finally, realization dawned and her face began to color. The smile faded.
“Exactly. I am opening a chocolate house. I will serve chocolate and, for the time being”—he bowed his head as if acknowledging her suggestion—“that is all I will serve.”
“But, sir—”
Jacopo drew his breath in sharply.
Sir Everard cast her a disbelieving look. “But?” He sat up straighter. “But?” Rosamund leaned away from the force of the word. “My dear”—the endearment was sour—“I don’t care what my patrons’ ‘beverage demands’ are.”
Rosamund began to bite her lip and her eyes to fill.
“Or what you might have done at that . . . that inn. We will not consider serving anything. That is what I decide. Not Jacopo over there, not Filip, certainly not you, but me.” He settled back into his pillows. “And I say we serve chocolate. Am I clear?” He awaited an answer.
“Very, sir. I’m sorry if I have overstepped my . . . my role. But—”
He studied her a moment. Sarcasm wasn’t within her ken and yet, from the play of emotions across her face, the way she willed those tears back as if she were a conduit, she wasn’t pleased. So, when she managed a small smile, he was the one to look astonished.
“I would read those papers and learn all I can about chocolate and its making, to obey your command in that.”
Sir Everard stared at her in disbelief and, if he was honest, some wonder. Already he regretted his outburst and what it might reveal. Time to make amends.
“You would?”
She nodded eagerly.
“In that case, how would you like to pick up your childhood lessons from where you left off?”
“Sir?” This time the shine returned to her eyes. “I would like that very much. My mother couldn’t afford to continue my education. My stepfather didn’t think it necessary.”
Well, God bless them, thought Sir Everard, who found clever women both abhorrent and redundant. Women need only do three things: listen, obey their menfolk and breed fine sons. Rosamund would at least fulfill two of those requirements. Pity Margery had failed on that score. He clamped the thought down.
“I can see it’s important to you, and there’s no doubt, if you can master that translation I gave you, it will help you understand the chocolate.”
“And would that be of use to you?” asked Rosamund eagerly.
“Of course,” said Sir Everard, avoiding her eyes.
“You’re not too cross at me for my falsehood?” Rosamund was on the edge of her seat.
He noted she made no mention of her suggestions to improve trade. Sir Everard dared to pull his hands from beneath the coverlets and lift Rosamund’s from her lap. “I’m not . . . angry about that, child. In fact, I’m relieved you came of your own volition to confess your deceit to me.”
“Can you forgive me, sir?”
“I can. And,” he added, a notion forming, “I hope you can forgive me my . . . assertion regarding the chocolate house. I can be very . . . proprietorial.” If only she knew.
“Oh, I do, milord. You’re right. I forget my place. I will try not to do so again.” Her dimples were positively impish in the candlelight. Was she flirting with him?
Casting aside his doubts as to her sincerity—the chit didn’t have a deceitful bone in her body—or so her mother said—he firmed his intentions. He didn’t want her about the house, under his feet or sulking and wishing to be entertained. And what if she stumbled upon one of Margery’s blasted notebooks? Or worse, came upon one of Lovelace’s damn missives and uncovered the truth? Learned that all the wonderful ideas for the chocolate house, its interior, the design of the booths and bar, the changes he insisted on and which made him appear unable to make up his mind, were not his, but Lovelace’s. Worse, that the generosity he showed to Ashe, his beneficence in employing Thomas Tosier, were forced by the same man and his bloody threats. He had to ensure she never did. One way of doing that was by meeting her desires. She wanted to be kept busy, well, he could assure she was.
“Tomorrow, your reading lessons will begin.”
“Tomorrow?” Rosamund clapped her hands together in delight. “And who will be my teacher, my lord? You?”
Sir Everard quickly schooled his face, appalled at what being with her for hours on end would do to his business, his plans, his sanity. “No, not me. Jacopo will be your teacher.”
Jacopo almost stumbled as he carried an armload of clean drying sheets to a chest.
By the time Rosamund swung around to regard him, he’d recovered.
Sir Everard tried hard not to laugh as his factotum struggled to maintain his composure and appear as if the notion of teaching Rosamund filled him with delight.
“Signore,” he said, his voice strained, his bow hiding his dismay.
“Yes,” said Sir Everard, warming to the idea. “Jacopo will teach you the rudiments of reading. In no time at all, you’ll be able to grasp the contents of Colmenero’s translation and discuss them with Filip, who is already conversant, and share the essence of it with me.”
Rosamund giggled. The sound was so sweet and pure, it quite took Sir Everard’s breath away. It also gave him another idea.
“However, I don’t want the household to see their lady being instructed by a . . . servant. Therefore, the lessons will take place at the chocolate house. That way, my dear, you can not only gain literacy but also learn how to prepare the chocolate the way Filip does. You will devote each morning to reading, while the afternoons can be spent putting into practice the knowledge you glean. How does that sound?”
Rosamund rose and dropped into a low curtsey. “It’s so much more than I expected, than I deserve. Why, I’d already packed my burlap in the full expectation you would send me away. I’m beyond grateful to you, and Jacopo as well.” She gestured to him as he closed the lid of the chest soundlessly.
“It will be my pleasure, signora,” said Jacopo.
He was rewarded with one of Rosamund’s dazzling smiles.
“I’ve no intention of sending you away, Rosamund,” said Sir Everard. “At least not before the chocolate house opens, before I’ve introduced you to my . . . acquaintances.” Seeing her crestfallen face, he reached for her and drew her closer. “I jest. I’ve no intention of letting you go. Not when there’s so much for us to accomplish together.”
Rosamund flashed another smile. “And when will I meet your acquaintances, milord?”
“Ah, I have been giving that some thought. While I’ll have to make a formal announcement regarding our marriage, I’m not yet ready to launch you upon the world; nor are you ready to enter it as Lady Blithman. I’ll introduce you in my own time and when we’re ready. Till then, only the household, Filip, and possibly a few others I can trust will know our little secret.” He lifted his chin, his brows raised, waiting for her to agree.
“Until the chocolate house opens.”
“Indeed. It won’t be long now. I’m certain. Not now you’re here.”
Her equanimity restored, Rosamund stood and, hesitating for a moment, dropped a kiss upon Sir Everard’s hand. “I thank you, my lord, from the bottom of my heart. You are my benefactor and friend. I do not know what I’ve done to deserve you, but God has seen fit to bless me and I thank Him for it.”
Embarrassed, Sir Everard waved her words away.
“I promise to be the best of pupils,” she added.
“I know you will be. I’m counting on it,” said Sir Everard kindly. “Now, it’s time for you to return to your room and sleep. You’ve a big day ahead tomorrow. You need to be sharp for your first lesson.”
Curtseying again, Rosamund bestowed a final grin upon both men and left.
As the door closed, Jacopo spun toward his master. “How will you prevent her from learning the truth about the chocolate house if she can read, milord? By teaching her to read and write, are you not arming the enemy?”
Sir Everard shook his head so vigorously his nightcap almost slipped from his scalp. “Jacopo, Jacopo. She’s not the enemy. Don’t you forget that. She is the weapon we’ll use to bring him down. When the time is right, I will use Lovelace’s words, his unruly commands against him and, in doing so, recruit another ally to my cause.”
“I understand, my lord. But if she can read, we will not always be able to censor the material and if she should intercept a letter . . .”
Sir Everard pointed at him. The trembling in his hands had all but ceased. “You are her teacher. It’s up to you how much she learns and at what pace. Capisci?”
Jacopo lowered his gaze. “Capisco,” he said and collected up the goblets, then paused beside Sir Everard a moment.
“What? Out with it and be damned, boy,” growled Sir Everard.
“If she was possessed of Catholic tendencies, she’d bless you as a saint and burn candles for you daily.”
Sir Everard laughed. “She would. We did well finding her, didn’t we, lad? We did well . . . What was that?” asked Sir Everard sharply.
“Nothing, signore. Merely agreeing.” Jacopo returned the stool to where it belonged.
Grunting, Sir Everard glared at him a moment before rolling over. The boy was forgetting his place. Him and his damn sister. They were getting airs above their station, ideas that had no place in a tawneymoor’s head, regardless of what their lineage might be.
“Draw the curtains before you leave. Oh, and Jacopo?”
“Sì, signore?”
Settling into his pillow, Sir Everard could see Jacopo’s outline beyond the curtain. He was lean, with strong shoulders. “If she ever finds out the truth . . . If she should thwart my purpose in any way, I’ll hold you responsible. You and your sister. Remember that.”
“She will never learn it from me,” said Jacopo, rubbing the back of his neck reflexively as he left his master alone.