The Earl's London Bride

by Lauren Royal

  Kendra smiled. “And our town house?” She spooned up a bite of cake; Kendra always ate dessert first, in case she might not have room for it later.

  “The town house is safe—Lincoln’s Inn Fields was never in danger. The fire stopped short of Chancery Lane and Essex House. But the burned parts smolder so hotly, no man would venture in. The first rain started this afternoon, though—I reckon that will help.”

  “It rained but a few minutes.” Kendra glanced out the diamond-paned windows. “I shouldn’t think it would help much.”

  “Perchance it rained more in London.” Colin shrugged. “Though with all the homeless, I suppose we should hope not…”

  He was having trouble concentrating with Amy seated beside him. A rose scent drifted over from her direction. Having left her weak and stricken and sleep-shrouded, he’d been astonished when the old Amy entered the dining room.

  Well, not quite the old Amy. Not precisely. This Amy was more subdued and sort of Kendra-ized, wearing a dress he recognized as Kendra’s, with her hair coaxed into long, Kendra-like ringlets.

  And she wore not a speck of jewelry. That separated her most from the old Amy. That, and her reserve. She seemed to be eating in a trance-like state.

  But he felt the same something between them nonetheless.

  “And Charles?” asked Ford.

  If Colin could inch his chair to the right…

  No, too obvious.

  If he moved his knee beneath the table…

  Ford banged down his goblet impatiently. “Colin? How is the king holding up?”

  Jason kicked Colin again.

  “Ouch!” Colin blinked. What had Ford been asking about? “Oh, Charles. Heavens, he’s in his glory. He hadn’t much time to chat, though.”

  He rubbed his ankle, thinking he’d deserved the kick. What was it about this girl that made him forget anyone else existed? Why could he think of nothing but touching her?

  He was worse than flustered. He was…sappy!

  Thank heavens he was leaving for Greystone in the morning.

  Before he turned into a complete dolt.

  NINETEEN

  AMY SPOONED soup, letting the conversation swirl around her. The buzz was calming, soothing. Like layers of flannel protected jewelry, the family’s chatter protected her from her own thoughts.

  “Did you pay Charles a visit at Whitehall?” Kendra asked Colin.

  The question startled Amy from her trance.

  At Whitehall? she mouthed silently. Was this family on intimate terms with the king? She sneaked Colin an incredulous sidelong glance, then chided herself.

  Why should she be surprised? The Chases lived in a castle, after all. Jason was a marquess, Colin an earl, Ford a something-or-other…a viscount, that was it. Titles all granted by Charles, Kendra had told her, explaining the unusual situation.

  Colin shifted beside her. “No, Charles rode out to Moorfields. The stories of his heroism during the fire spread quickly, and those who didn’t witness it are as loyal as those who did. He sat on his horse in the midst of the crowd, the ruins of St. Paul’s in the background, smoke hanging over the rubble of the City, and he vowed, by the grace of God, to take particular care of all Londoners, by means of grand plans for rebuilding. Cheers went up…” Colin grinned. “Old Charles is a popular man these days.”

  Painted by Colin’s vivid words, Amy could picture the scene in her head: King Charles, seated tall atop his horse, addressing his adoring subjects. It was history in the making, and she loved history.

  She sighed in satisfaction.

  “What are these plans?” Jason asked. “Did he elaborate?”

  “He issued a proclamation that all new construction should be done according to a proscribed plan, so that London would—let me see if I can remember his words—‘rather appear to the world as purged with fire to a wonderful beauty and comeliness, than consumed by it’ and ‘no man whatsoever shall presume to erect any house or building, great or small, but of brick or stone.’ I think I got the words right, but that was the gist of it, regardless.”

  Amy smiled to herself at Colin’s precise descriptions; it had been the same when he showed her the castle. Dates, words…he paid attention to detail.

  But one detail she was certain of was that he didn’t want her here. He’d as much as said he couldn’t wait to get rid of her. Still, she could swear she felt a warmth emanating from him, an inviting warmth that seemed to reach out and draw her in.

  It was the very oddest feeling. And confusing.

  “It sounds like a good plan,” said Ford.

  Colin nodded. “Charles also decreed wider streets so buildings on one side cannot catch fire from the other. He’s appointing Christopher Wren as…let’s see…’Deputy Surveyor and Principal Architect for Rebuilding the Whole City.’” He smiled at the grandiose title. “Wren is charged with drawing up a plan of boulevards and plazas and straight streets.”

  “Charles announced all of this?”

  “He told me of Wren privately. It’s not official yet. Wren was supposed to have the plans ready to submit today, and then an announcement will be made.”

  “A new London, rising from the ashes,” Amy murmured, staring at one of the chamber’s enormous tapestries, but imagining instead what this bright new city might look like.

  Colin turned to her. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing,” she mumbled.

  He looked at her with that soul-piercing gaze of his, then cleared his throat and turned back to the others. “Did you know that Wren’s plan for restoring St. Paul’s was accepted by the Commission just two weeks ago?”

  “And now St. Paul’s is burned to the ground,” Jason said with a mournful shake of his head. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed this much destruction possible.”

  “Two-thirds of London is gone,” Colin lamented, “and more than half the people are homeless. But, miraculously, it seems that only eight lives were lost.” He put a hand on Amy’s arm. “I’m sorry your father had to be one of them.”

  Colin’s touch startled Amy out of her vision, dragged her back into the real world. She nodded, but couldn’t meet his eyes. It wasn’t fair. Only eight dead, and her own father one of them…

  Her spoon halfway to her mouth, she paused, swallowed a swiftly rising lump in her throat, and fought back the tears. It was a losing battle. Suddenly, she rose. Her spoon clattered in the bowl where she dropped it.

  “Excuse me,” she apologized huskily, hastening from the room.

  “YOU LOUT!” Kendra threw down her spoon. “This was her first supper in company.”

  “What did I say?”

  “’I’m sorry your father had to be one of them,’” Ford mimicked in a mincing voice. “Egad, Colin, I’m the one who’s supposed to be tactless.”

  “I said I was sorry,” Colin protested feebly. He twisted his ring, listening to Amy’s footsteps fade as she reached the top of the stairs and turned down the corridor.

  “Leave Colin alone,” Jason said. “He’s confused enough as it is.”

  “What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Colin demanded.

  “Just that you have feelings for Mrs. Goldsmith, and you haven’t decided what to do about them.”

  “What?” Ford burst out in surprise.

  Kendra snorted, rolled her eyes toward the arched stone ceiling, then focused on her twin. “You are so oblivious. If something cannot be weighed or measured, it fails to command your attention.”

  Colin’s hands clenched. “I don’t have feelings for Amy—”

  “Are you lying only to us, or to yourself as well?” Kendra fixed him with a pointed stare.

  He glared right back. “She’s an emotional wreck!”

  “So what?” Kendra asked.

  “So I’m leaving in the morning, most likely before she rises, and Jason will see that she gets to France, where she will recover in peace and never see any of us again. That’s what.”

&nb
sp; “Now, Colin—” Kendra began.

  “Leave it be, Kendra.” Jason looked at each of his siblings in turn, signaling that the conversation was at an end. Then, food being the typical Chase cure-all for most unpleasant situations, he rang for the servants. “I’m ready for that roast venison. How about the rest of you?”

  TWENTY

  AMY BIT her lip and added another crumpled ball to the small mountain of paper that was growing on the gilt dressing table in her bedchamber.

  Why couldn’t she get this right?

  She flexed her hand. Though the blisters had healed, sometimes it still hurt if she overused it. One more try. She dipped her quill in the ink.

  26 September 1666

  Dear Robert,

  Perhaps you already know that I lost Papa and the shop in the fire. I am devastated. I’ve lost everything. My entire life has changed, and I’m afraid yours as well. Please forgive me, but I cannot marry you—

  “May I come in, Lady Amy?” Small fingers tapped on Amy’s shoulder.

  She looked up to see big blue eyes in an angelic face framed by golden curls. “I think you already have come in, Mary.” Smiling, she set down her quill and let the child climb into her lap. “But I’m not a lady. Plain Amy will do.”

  “You look like a lady.”

  “But that’s only because I’m wearing Lady Kendra’s dress.”

  Mary squirmed out of Amy’s lap almost immediately and flounced away to the bed.

  Growing up, Amy had never spent much time with small children—at least not since she was one herself. She watched as the little girl mounted the bed steps, stretched out her arms and, with a whoop of delight, flung herself facedown on the costly brocade counterpane.

  Mary was a peculiar little thing.

  “I’m wearing Lady Kendra’s dress, too,” Mary declared, the words muffled against the golden fabric.

  “And so you are!” The dress hung loose on her small frame and was hopelessly out of style. But she was thrilled with her new wardrobe. Kendra had found an old trunk filled with her childhood gowns, and Mary had worn a different one every day since her arrival. “And a lovely dress it is. Are you a lady then, Mary?”

  “Nay.” Mary giggled and sat up. “Are you sure you’re not a lady? You live in this fancy place.”

  “Not really.” Amy’s gaze swept the gorgeous gilt chamber. “Before the fire, I lived all my life in London.”

  “Like me?” Mary pointed her thumb—a thumb that looked recently sucked—at her own chest.

  “Just like you. In Cheapside.”

  “My house was in…” Her little face scrunched up as she thought. “Ludgate.”

  “Ludgate Hill? Then see, we were almost neighbors.”

  Mary’s feet swung back and forth off the end of the bed. “And your mama and papa are dead like mine.”

  Suppressing a familiar twinge of sorrow, Amy nodded patiently. An eavesdropper would never guess they’d had this conversation at least a dozen times already. “Yes, my mama and papa are gone as well.”

  “And they’re never coming back.”

  “No.” She bit her lip. “They’re never coming back. But I think about them all the time, so their memory lives on.”

  Mary jumped off the bed. “How many days has it been?” One little hand reached up to the marble-topped dressing table and snagged a silver comb. “How many days since the fire?”

  “How many days was it yesterday, Mary?”

  “Um…” Her tiny fingers traced the fine-etched roses on the comb’s grip. “Twenty-something?”

  “Twenty-one.” Amy took the comb from her and faced Mary away so she could untangle her golden ringlets. “So today, how many days has it been since the fire?”

  The girl raised one short finger, then popped up another. “Two. Twenty-two.” Her voice was full of pride.

  “Very good, twenty-two days.” The comb made a pleasant swishing sound as Amy drew it through Mary’s hair again and again.

  “My mama died of the plague. How many days since that?”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I couldn’t tell you.” Amy sighed. “A lot.”

  “More than a hundred?”

  “More than three hundred.”

  Mary’s eyes widened in the mirror. “That is a lot.”

  “Surely it is.” Finished, Amy turned her back around. “And inside, it hurts a little bit less every day, does it not?”

  “Maybe. A little bit.” Mary’s chin trembled for a second, then she picked up Amy’s letter and stared at it uncomprehendingly. “Who’re you writin’ to?”

  “Someone I knew in London.” Amy set the comb back in place. “In fact, I think I’m finished.”

  She took the letter from Mary. It would have to do. It was blunt, but she couldn’t seem to get the words right no matter how hard she tried.

  Perhaps Robert would be relieved. He might think that her promised value as a bride had been reduced by the loss of the shop. He’d be free to wed elsewhere, free to find someone who could be the sort of wife he wanted.

  That is, if he could find another eligible heiress in the jewelry trade…which might prove difficult. But Amy had enough difficulties of her own to be getting on with.

  She lifted her quill, dipped it in the ink, and put a period after the last word she’d written. Please forgive me, but I cannot marry you. Mary’s thumb went into her mouth as she watched Amy sign her name: Amethyst Goldsmith, very neat and formal.

  After blotting the ink with sand, Amy folded the letter. She wrote Robert’s name and his father’s address on the back, then set it aside, adding no return address.

  There, it was done.

  And Robert wouldn’t be able to find her.

  “How about this one?” The thumb popped out and jabbed at another letter. “Who is this one to?”

  “My aunt in Paris. I’m going to move there and live with her soon. But not too very soon, I’m hoping.” Amy smiled at Mary’s wet thumbprint on her letter. “I like it here with you.”

  “I like it here, too.” Mary’s rosy lips pouted. “But I wish I had a mama.”

  “Lord Cainewood is going to find you a new mama very soon. He promised, remember?”

  The girl nodded.

  “A Chase promise is not given lightly.”

  “What?” Her small brow creased.

  “He always keeps his promises.”

  Apparently that was good enough for Mary. She jabbed the letter again. “What did you say to your aunt?”

  “I told her how sad I am about my father.” Amy rose from the dressing table and wandered to the diamond-paned window. Below, a servant hurried across the quadrangle, carrying a basket of laundry, leaving footprints in the damp grass. “Sometimes it helps you feel better to write a letter about your sadness.”

  “Like if I wrote a letter to Mama?”

  Beside the window hung a gilt-framed painting of a woman. Colin’s grandmother, perhaps. Or great-grandmother. Her clothes looked to Amy like they belonged in the previous century. “You surely could write a letter to your mama. It might make you feel better.” Neither she nor Mary had paintings to remember their ancestors by.

  “I cannot write.”

  Amy turned to the girl. “Would you like me to write your letter for you?”

  She nodded, her eyes shining.

  They seated themselves together at the dressing table and Amy set a sheet of foolscap on the marble surface. “What would you like to say?”

  Mary stared at the blank sheet. “Dear Mama, I love you, Mama. I miss you, Mama.”

  Amy dipped her quill and wrote, her throat closing painfully as the words scrolled onto the page. She swallowed hard. “Anything else?”

  “That’s all I can think of,” the little girl said gravely.

  “It’s a perfect letter. Would you like to sign your name?” She handed Mary the quill. With a look of utter disbelief on her face, Mary thrust it joyfully into the ink, splattering the page, then scribbled something that Amy took for a signat
ure. For good measure, she added a very crooked heart and a pair of stick-people that might have been Mary and her mother, holding hands. Amy was afraid to ask.

  In fact, she was afraid to speak at all. When she did, her voice came out raspy. “Here, sweetheart, you can fold it.”

  Mary folded, and if the edges didn’t line up, well, it certainly didn’t matter. “Will Mama get it in heaven?” she asked.

  “If you give it a kiss, she’ll get it right away.”

  Her rosy little lips puckered and kissed the letter gently, leaving a tiny wet mark. Amy imagined it was exactly the way Mary used to kiss her mother. Tears pricked her eyes. She found her arms wrapping themselves around the girl and squeezing tight.

  “Did Mama get my letter?”

  “Surely she did.”

  “Even though it’s still here?”

  “Even though. There is special mail delivery to heaven.”

  Mary nodded. Children were so trusting. “Will Mama write me back?”

  “In your dreams, sweetheart,” Amy promised, needing to believe it. “When you go to sleep tonight, your mama will visit your dreams and remind you how much she loves you.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  “I’VE NEVER been in a fancy carriage.” Mary bounced on the leather seat. “It goes slow. Why didn’t we ride a horse?”

  “Your friend Amy doesn’t like horses,” Jason said. “We would have had to leave her at home.”

  “No, I want Amy.” Mary jumped up and onto Amy’s lap, then turned to peer across at Jason. “Did you really find me a mama?”

  He angled sideways to stretch his legs in the cabin. “I surely did, Miss Mary.”

  “When will I meet her?”

  “In a few minutes, as soon as we get to the village.”

  Mary’s thumb went into her mouth, then slid back out. “Why does she want a little girl?”

  “She lost her husband last year, and she needs someone to love.”

  Amy knew Clarice also needed the money Jason would provide for Mary’s care. It was the perfect solution all around.