by Karen Brooks
Rosamund nodded. ‘I would let them go so they might leave this place and never return, for if ever I see them again I will make certain justice is served.’
Lowering his sword, the man stared at her as if, like a mythic maiden, she’d been transformed from alabaster into flesh. He gave a half-bow.
‘And I, madam, will serve it.’ Facing the two men, he flicked his weapon. ‘On your feet, rogues, the lady has spoken.’
The two men struggled to stand, tucking in their shirts, searching for their caps.
‘Be gone from here and don’t ever set foot on this property, street or ward again. If I hear but a whisper of Jed or Ben, then you shall feel the weight of my anger and the wrath of my blade.’
Ben glanced towards the first floor of the chocolate house and looked as if he might argue. Rosamund guessed he’d left tools as well as his reputation upstairs. She quickly damped a flare of sympathy for him. They no more deserved her compassion than they did her clemency, but they had both.
Without another word, the two workers were escorted to the gate by her unexpected ally. As they left, she fixed her dress, retied her apron and tried to tame her hair, her hands clumsy as shaking threatened to overtake her entire body. She was thirsty, tired and close to tears.
This wasn’t meant to happen any more, not here, not now. Not in London. She was married and respectable. Had not Sir Everard told her he wished her to be safe? Had he not sent her here today in the belief she would be so? Aye, and promised reading lessons, yet neither of his wishes had been met.
Holding open the gate, the man spoke harshly to the two boys. Their faces transformed from surly and regretful to terrorised. Casting looks of horror in Rosamund’s direction, they pulled off their caps, bowed and stumbled over each other in their haste to escape.
The man waited, his back to Rosamund. He was broad-shouldered and his hair was long and very dark beneath his fine feathered hat. He’d no need of a periwig. His breeches and shoes were not those of a worker and his gloves were finely made. The shirt that rose high on his neck was made of quality material, as was his jacquard coat. Who was he and what had prompted him to enter the yard? Was he a parishioner? Had Widow Ashe summoned him?
Before she could assemble her thoughts, the man returned.
Maybe it was the dreadful kindness which set his eyes ablaze, or the smile he tried and failed to kindle and which was for her alone. Whatever it was, it was more than Rosamund could bear. She opened her mouth to thank him for his intervention, once, twice and then, much to her chagrin, began to cry.
THIRTEEN
In which Lady Harridan is introduced to Mr Nessuno
Unlike most women of his acquaintance, who would have fallen into hysterics at such an assault, this woman had not only defended herself with a strength and will he’d not seen before, but now sought to hide her quiet tears.
Approaching her cautiously (after all, he’d seen how she wielded her fists and feet), before he could offer words of comfort, she held up a palm, shook her head and backed away.
Discommoded, the man stopped. ‘My lady, please, tell me what I can do to ease your evident distress.’
‘Madam?’ The call from inside the building was faint but clear.
The woman’s head jerked up as she surveyed the upper storey. It was the first time he had seen her clearly.
Good God. Hailstones pummelled his body from within. Forgotten scenes rose to taunt him. The rumours were true. She was Helene reborn.
Only…
He took in the dark, swimming eyes, the concern clouding them as she stared aloft; the little frown puckering her brow… remembered the way she granted forgiveness…
She was not.
‘Please,’ she sniffed in a most unladylike manner, swiping her sleeve across her nose. ‘They cannot find me — not like this.’ She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes then looked down at the wreckage of her dress in dismay. Much to his surprise, her lips began to twitch. ‘They’ll think I invited the attention.’ She gave a laugh. The bitterness forced him to take a step back.
His mind became as disordered as the leaves scattering in the rising wind.
‘I will assure them you did not.’
‘No, no.’ She shook her head, resigned. ‘They cannot find you here… they mustn’t.’
On that score, she was right.
She grabbed him by the hand and began to lead him towards the gate.
‘Madam?’
This time the voice was nearer; a head appeared at the window directly above. The woman flattened herself against the wall of the house, forcing him to do the same. To make matters worse, some coxcombs in the lane took up the cry, calling out ‘Madam! Madam!’ to raucous laughter.
The woman rested her head against the building and then whispered, ‘Is it always like this?’
‘What?’ The man was unable to tear his eyes from her face, her form — so familiar and yet so very different.
‘London.’
‘Like what?’
‘A hotchpotch of danger and drollery.’ She nodded in the direction of the cheeky cries. Dimples creased her cheeks and her eyes, shimmering with unshed tears, were large and molten, the lashes ridiculously long and wet.
Before he could find his voice, the one above called again. ‘Madam?’ It was closer this time.
‘Please,’ the woman beseeched. ‘I do not want them to know what happened.’ The man’s eyebrows rose. ‘I’m all right now and I do thank you. Please, just go.’ She gave him a push.
‘But I cannot leave you,’ he said, even though that was exactly what he must do. He could not risk being seen.
‘Why not?’ She was genuinely surprised.
Uncertain how to respond, he allowed himself to be encouraged towards the gate, torn between amusement and utter bemusement.
She paused as she opened it. ‘Forgive my rudeness, sir. I am ever so grateful. If you hadn’t come, well, I don’t know what would have happened…’
Something in her face told him she knew all too well. He would erase that expression from those features, return the spark that had fired her earlier. Such boldness; courage the like of which he’d rarely seen and never in a woman. A woman whose face brought back so many bitter memories, aroused feelings he thought forever banished.
Aware she was waiting for him to say something, he obliged. ‘Aye, if I hadn’t appeared when I did, I fear those ruffians would be in a far worse state.’
She blinked, taken aback.
‘The moment I heard their cries, I knew I had to rescue them.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘From a kitchen doxy. Nay.’ He paused. ‘A veritable harridan.’ He performed a flourish, removing his hat, one leg bent.
The woman met his eyes and then she did the most surprising thing of all, she burst out laughing. Astonished, the man straightened and replaced his hat. As she continued to laugh, his eyes grew wide, his lips twitched and, before he knew it, he was doubled over, laughing with her. She rested a hand on his back to prevent herself from falling.
The clouds chose that moment to release their burden.
‘Go, please, go,’ she said, removing her hand, composing herself swiftly. Though her eyes still twinkled. She fiddled with the latch, the rain making the metal slick.
He understood her haste, but he wouldn’t let her have it all her way.
Removing her hand, he wrenched the gate open and stepped through. About to have it shut upon him, he stopped it with his boot. Reaching through the gap, ignoring the rain, he cupped the woman’s face in his gloved palm. ‘I must have your name. A condition of my silence,’ he said.
‘First, what is yours?’ demanded the woman. Water trickled into her eyes.
‘Nessuno,’ said the man. ‘I am Nessuno. Now you.’
Pulling his hand away from her face, she dimpled. ‘Why, the Lady Harridan, of course.’
There was a beat in which his foot slipped. Before he could prevent it, she shut the
gate.
‘Wait,’ he cried, hoping she was still on the other side. The rain soaked his hat, his jacket. He pressed his face against the wood. ‘Farewell, my Lady Harridan, and may God keep you.’
He heard the latch fall into place followed by faint words as the rain grew harder and he too ran to seek shelter. He was certain he’d heard, ‘You too, Mr Nessuno. My friend.’
Upon discovering Rosamund idly leafing through the treatise on chocolate, absent-mindedly brushing the crumbs from her bodice, Jacopo and Filip’s breathless concern at her absence and her explanation she’d simply wandered out into the back lane to get some fresh air, but was forced to shelter until the rain eased, quickly turned to mystification.
‘But the gate was latched,’ said Jacopo, when Filip glared at him. ‘I went through the church to check it myself.’ The panting, red-faced boys behind him nodded.
Rosamund sent a swift prayer heavenward his search had not found her or Mr Nessuno.
‘It wasn’t latched when I first went down,’ she said truthfully. ‘It opened easily. Someone must have latched it later.’ This, of course, was also the truth. ‘Perhaps it was Mr Henderson?’ she said sweetly.
‘Perhaps…’ said Filip, scratching his head, looking about. ‘If he’s been in the stables using the press…’ Ashe discreetly disappeared behind the shelves. Rosamund prayed he wouldn’t ask Mr Henderson.
‘Sir Everard will not be happy,’ said Jacopo dolefully.
Rosamund paused in the act of turning a page. ‘I would not want to alarm him the way I inadvertently did you, Jacopo, Filip — and for that I’m so very sorry. You too, Solomon and Thomas. There’s no need to raise the matter with him, is there?’ She glanced up from the treatise and bestowed a wide smile. ‘After all, I’m here now, I’ve eaten — thank you for the pie, it was delicious — and no harm has befallen me —’ (That she kept a straight face when she said this owed much to her time at the Maiden Voyage Inn. Aye, thought Rosamund as she prattled away, she really should be on the stage.) ‘I think it’s time we returned to our lessons, don’t you, Jacopo?’
Referring to her lessons was exactly the diversion Rosamund hoped it would be.
Jacopo coughed into his fist. ‘As it happens, signora, while you were — in the lane —’ doubt inflected his words, ‘I received a message. The signore is en route and desires to take you to his tailors, the Wellses — the same couple who looked to his first wife and daughter’s needs in Foster Lane near St Paul’s.’
‘Sir Everard is coming here?’
‘Si. At any moment,’ said Jacopo. ‘He’s determined you’re to receive a new wardrobe.’ He reached into a pocket to produce said message, then recalled she couldn’t read and stopped.
Rosamund was filled first with consternation at her lack of reading skills, then joyous anticipation. If anything could have distracted her from thoughts of Mr Nessuno and what had just happened, it was the notion she was to be given her own clothes — not ones her mother had worn and thrown in her direction, not those discarded at the inn and patched, or those the former Lady Blithman had once dressed in and which no adjustment could quite make fit — but her very own. Clothing that no man, no matter how sodden with beer, or unaware of her status, would dare rip from her body.
Not since she lived at Bearwoode had someone made her clothes. What a magnificent indulgence. She sent thoughts of gratitude winging to her husband before they were replaced with memories of a pair of mischievous eyes that gleamed as their owner called her a harridan. With a secret smile, she banished Mr Nessuno from her mind.
‘Well, this is good news indeed.’ Rising, she straightened her skirts, rubbed at a spot of blood she’d missed, and found her gloves and hat.
‘We’ll await him downstairs,’ said Jacopo and stood aside so she might precede him.
She placed the treatise in the satchel Jacopo had given her so she could study it at leisure in her room later, though the futility of this didn’t escape her. Rosamund could barely contain her excitement. Not only was she being endowed with new clothes, but she was going to see more of London. St Paul’s Cathedral! Foster Lane… well, that didn’t sound quite so prepossessing, even if its inhabitants did (tailors!), but it was a novel destination.
With a warm goodbye to Filip and the boys and another apology for causing them anxiety, Rosamund rushed through the main part of the chocolate house. As she did so she heard Mr Remney remonstrating with his workers as to the whereabouts of his apprentices Jed Franklin and Ben Miller.
Needless to say, she didn’t enlighten him.
FOURTEEN
In which a wife befriends a correspondent
A few days later, as she exited the chocolate house, a figure detached itself from the shadows of Exchange Alley and dashed across the lane towards her. She barely managed to contain her astonishment as she recognised Mr Nessuno. Sensing he’d been waiting for her to emerge without Jacopo, she tried to appear as if she was accustomed to well-dressed gentlemen accosting her on the street as he joined her beneath the bookshop shingle.
‘What luck,’ he began, doffing his hat. ‘I was wondering how I might inquire after your health without arousing suspicion — and here you are. Are you well, my Lady Harridan?’
Rosamund nodded, flustered, simultaneously hoping that no-one heard how he addressed her and that she had wiped the last chocolate she’d tasted from her mouth. She stared up at this man whose presence was so unexpected yet so very welcome. He was just as noteworthy as she remembered.
He wore a dark blue jacket, a cream shirt with a flounced collar and a broad-brimmed hat sporting a splendid peacock feather. A satchel was slung across his shoulders and, as before, his hands were encased in fine gloves.
‘Are you sure, my lady?’ His deep voice purred as he regarded her. ‘Seems you’re sorely afflicted, as you appear to have lost your voice. Should I fetch a physician? Just nod if it be necessary and I will attend to it at once.’
Rosamund nodded, then quickly shook her head. ‘Aye. I mean, no.’ She began to chuckle and waved a hand to dismiss her words. ‘I can confirm I’ve no need of a doctor. I’m most well.’ She searched the street behind him for any sign of Jacopo, praying he wouldn’t appear just yet.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked again, turning first one way, then the other in an effort to see what was distracting her. ‘Though, I confess to feeling reassured now your voice has indeed returned. I thought for a minute those rogues had stolen it. However, it seems you’re unable to make up your mind; they didn’t carry that away while my back was turned, did they?’
Rosamund frowned, then began to laugh. She had his full attention now. ‘No, sir, they did not. Though I admit, I cannot decide if you’re phantom or real.’
‘Quite real,’ said Mr Nessuno. ‘As is that smudge of chocolate you have just there —’ He pointed to the corner of her mouth.
With a click of consternation, Rosamund dashed it away with her hand, annoyed to feel heat fly to her cheeks. ‘Is it still there?’ she asked.
Smiling down at her, Mr Nessuno shook his head. ‘You’ve vanquished the mark.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘I’m delighted those rascals have not erased your dimples or silenced your laughter. Such an act would be beyond redemption.’
‘Never fear,’ said Rosamund carelessly. ‘I’ve endured much worse than those villains and my dimples and humour have not yet deserted me.’
Mr Nessuno’s face darkened. ‘Worse?’
She could have kicked herself. Honestly, when this man was about, her body might be secure, but it seemed her tongue could not be trusted.
‘My lady,’ he said, after studying her a few moments. ‘Such news strikes me to the core. Name the blackguards at once so I might smite them.’
‘Is that not the Lord’s duty? To smite sinners?’
‘If that were the case, my lady, I would be smitten where I stand.’
Curious as to what sins he’d committed, Rosamund could not help but laugh again as he swept off his hat and bo
wed, but as she looked around to see if they were observed, she failed to see the expression that crossed his face.
‘And what do you do with yourself, Mr Nessuno, that you should be in these parts again?’
‘Fie upon you, madam, is the desire to know your wellbeing not cause enough?’
She arched a brow.
With a grin he continued. ‘I am what’s called a correspondent.’ He slapped the underside of the satchel. ‘I write for the news sheets. For a fellow named Henry Muddiman — have you heard of him?’
‘You’re a wordsmith.’ Her eyes widened. ‘What is it you write about?’ she asked, praying he didn’t suddenly produce a sample and ask for her opinion. ‘I think Mr Henderson has made mention of a Mr Muddiman.’
A gleam of amusement flashed across his face, followed by something a little sinister. ‘Henry Muddiman is a most important person — he’s a publisher. Even more importantly, he’s my publisher. At least, for now. He keeps me solvent. Mr Henderson, too.’ He cast his eyes towards the bookshop. ‘As for what I write, it’s a range of things. I find there are many stories to be found in these parts, what with merchants, lawyers and all other kinds of rogues gadding about —’ He nodded in the direction of the ordinary just down the road and the coffee shop further along before his eyes lifted to encompass the roof of the Royal Exchange with its gilded grasshopper weather vane. ‘That is, if one keeps eyes and ears open. Mind you, stories are everywhere if you know where to look.’
And how to read them…
‘No doubt your chocolate house will provide me a few more.’
They both gazed up at the building.
‘Ah, you know about the chocolate house?’ asked Rosamund.
‘I don’t believe there’s a soul in London who does not. But while I know about it, you remain a mystery. Pray, what is it you do here, apart from overcome rogues?’
‘What do I do?’ Rosamund hesitated. She couldn’t very well confess that she was shuffled out of the house so the servants didn’t see her learning to read. Not that she was doing much of that. She thought of what Filip was teaching her — about cacao and chocolate. It was almost better than learning to read. Almost.