“What?” Charlotte was startled. “Surely you are not going to start out at night?” In her world travelers left at dawn. Or sometime during the day. Never by moonlight.
“The sooner gone, the sooner back,” he quipped. And almost with the words he was gone; she could hear his footsteps echoing down the hallway and disappearing down the stairs.
She stood at the window of the Iron Crest and watched him go out into the courtyard. A dim circle of light from the windows showed him climbing aboard a horse that seemed already to have been brought. As she watched, he started off down the street, and just before he disappeared from her vision another rider came out of the darker shadows and joined him.
Charlotte craned from the window, trying to see. The two horses, moving along briskly, passed a lamp shining before a tavern, and for a moment the riders came into view.
There was something familiar about that other figure. Charlotte caught her breath. Although the rider was dressed as a man, it was a woman. A lithe woman with an almost gamin quality in the way she rode her horse.
Annette.
Charlotte closed her eyes. Whatever was between Rowan and the Frenchwoman did indeed go back a long way— and reached into the present and perhaps the future. And had they—together, Annette and Rowan—killed a man last night?
When she opened her eyes again, the world seemed to have darkened.
19
In the days that followed Rowan s departure, Charlotte did much soul searching—and arrived at nothing. Rowan was a mysterious man—and perhaps a deadly one. But he had saved her life twice, he had for her an overpowering physical attraction, and in her heart she was sure he loved her. But if he had done the things she suspected him of, could she stay with him?
The Milroyds helped. They were always there urging her to go with them on some new sightseeing junket. Glad to get away from her own nagging thoughts, Charlotte accompanied them willingly. The Milroyds never tired. Through what seemed to Charlotte at least a hundred resplendent churches in the elegant Manueline architecture, their eager feet hurried.
Nor did weather deter them. Undaunted by mists, they set out on the moss-covered road to Sintra. Twice they lost their way in the deepening fog and once the ladies alighted from the large hired carriage which Preston Milroyd had masterfully insisted on driving without a guide, only to shriek as lizards darted suddenly beneath their feet. They found their bearings again at a favored royal residence along the way, seeing the rococo palace of Queluz loom suddenly out of the white silence. And at last, as they drank in the scent of magnolias—a scent somewhat overpowered by the dank smell of moss and wet bark—a sudden change in the winds tore the mists apart and showed them the sweating stone tiles and winding streets of Sintra, and rising on the heights above them the crumbling ruins of the seventh-century stone castle the Moors had thought impregnable—until it fell in 1147.
With the others, Charlotte had climbed the sentry path with its sweeping view all the way to the sea pounding the coast. At the top, out of breath, they had struggled through brambles and trailing vines and disturbed the birds nesting in its empty battlements. Even the exuberant Milroyds had been silenced by the vast loneliness of this high place and shivered at the sound of the wind moaning through its empty cisterns.
To Charlotte, looking down across the plain, her feet upon a stone where some long-ago Moorish girl might have stood on tiptoe to kiss her lover, this crumbling ruin was more than a mere reminder that conquerors came and went. It was a reminder that the past did not come again.
Her brooding gaze found the blue glitter of the sea, far away. Somewhere that sea lapped other shores, somewhere it lapped the English coast, where she had left a lover who would not come again.
Her eyes grew moist and her heart ached for Tom.
“Charlotte, you're wool-gathering!" cried Alice Milroyd nearby. “Preston says if we hurry we might have time to see that abandoned monastery they told us about—the one with cells lined with cork to keep the dampness out.
The Milroyds could always be counted on to bring one back to the mundane present—and at that moment Charlotte was very grateful. She spent too much time these days brooding about Tom, and she knew it. Perhaps it was her defense against her fears about Rowan, she told herself.
She was only half-listening when, on the way down from the Castelo dos Mouros, Alice Milroyd told her gaily that Sintra was where King João had been caught long ago kissing one of the queen s ladies-in-waiting and had airily sworn the kiss was por hem, which meant “without consequence"—and the words had crept into the language.
“I wish some of Preston s kisses would be ‘without consequence,' " she had leaned forward to whisper laughingly to Charlotte. “It seems to me that every time Preston deigns to join me in our big four-poster back home I have another child! Ah, but soon you will have children of your own and you will know what I am talking about,” she added conspiratorially.
Charlotte joined in her mirth, but her own laughter was halfhearted. She had of late been wondering about the “consequences” of her own late-night activity. She had been feeling queasy at breakfast these last few days, and she wondered if that meant something.
But the Milroyds were soon to leave, and they took Charlotte along with them on their “last journey,” as they called it, riding along the rocky coast west of the city, leaving the fairy-tale structure of the mighty Tower of Belem behind them, lapped by the waters of the Tagus, and striking out for Estoril and the Boca do Inferno, the Mouth of Hell, stopping overnight along the way.
Charlotte had not been feeling well the morning she waked in the little green-shuttered inn on the road to Estoril, and the jouncing ride in the carriage, rough except when they moved along the white beach sand, had made her feel no better. And when, amid the ohs and ahs of the impressionable Milroyds, she had looked dizzily down into that awesome chasm they called the Mouth of Hell, down into a churning whirlpool where the sea’s inrushing water turned into a whirling creamy torrent as it was sucked down, she felt a sudden blackness steal over her and crumpled to the ground.
The Milroyds gathered round her, instantly solicitous. They insisted that shade must be found, and smelling salts, and her hooks must be loosened and water found to dampen a kerchief to hold against her brow. And Alice Milroyd whispered roguishly as the world came back to her, even though she was still gripped by that black nausea, that, “Ah, this is your first one—you’ll get used to it as I have! Pray that it is not twins—my oldest sister had two sets, one after the other, and that on top of already having eleven! Her house is a constant din!”
Charlotte sat up, surprised that the nausea that had come upon her so suddenly was as quickly gone.
“Oh, I do not think it was that,” she said with a sigh. For in her heart she thought that it was the sight of those cascading waters far below down the rocks that had brought back memories of Kenlock Crag and the white cascade of death that had battered Tom’s body to pieces somewhere beyond her vision. She closed her eyes at the hurtful memory.
“That’s right,” said Alice Milroyd comfortingly. “Just sit back against those rocks and rest for a while. “You’ll feel better soon. ”
But summer was ending and the Milroyds must get themselves home to Lincolnshire, and, Alice Milroyd confided, she feared she was already pregnant again and she would not wish anything to happen so that she would be confined to her bed and end up having her latest in a foreign country. They bade Charlotte a warm good-bye at the ship and sailed out of her life forever.
And Charlotte, alone now, for she had met nobody through the Milroyds, took long walks and ate silent suppers at the inn and faced the truth:
She was pregnant. All the signs were there. And the burning question was: Was the child Rowan's? Or Tom’s? And if the child should look like Tom, would Rowan accept it?
The days sped by, and now there was more of a nip in the breezes that swept in olf the Atlantic. Autumn was coming to Lisbon, and Rowan was still not back.
She b
egan to wonder and worry that perhaps he was not coming. Or perhaps something had happened to him. And then what? She began to regret that she had not asked the Milroyds to let her accompany them back to England, perhaps as a governess—although she doubted they would have done it; surely they would have pooh-poohed the idea that Rowan might not return to her.
But it was not Rowan who came back to the Iron Crest—it was Annette.
Annette was waiting in Charlotte’s room one day when Charlotte returned from one of her solitary walks through the narrow twisting iron-balconied streets of the Alfama. Charlotte opened the door and stopped dead at the sight of Annette sitting upon the bed. Indeed, she must have been reclining there a moment before, because the pillow, which had been plumped up when Charlotte left, was now rumpled with the imprint of a head.
“What—?” began Charlotte, when Annette interrupted with an imperious gesture toward the door.
“First close the door, madame.”
Charlotte closed the door and advanced upon Annette. “Where is my husband?” she demanded in a tight voice.
“Unfortunately, he could not come for you, madame. He sent me instead.”
She had been right about them all along—they were in league together in some foul scheme. Charlotte felt dizzy. “Why? Tell me why?” she managed.
Annette sighed. “You have every right to ask why, madame. And I am sure you suspect me of terrible things— Rowan told me you did. ”
“I suspect you of having something to do with Eustace Talybont's murder!”
“Ah, there you have it. But that is why I fled—because of what happened before.”
Annette s tone was convincing. Charlotte sank into a chair. “Suppose you tell me about it.”
“After the Talybont woman left your room that night, she came back in a fury and stormed about—I could hear her through the wall. And then she came into my room and told me she knew I had once lived in the forest in France and she began to ask me about poison mushrooms—if I could tell the good from the bad. I think she intended to do away with you both.”
Charlotte s quick intake of breath sounded loud in the sudden silence. “But surely you are mistaken,” she cried. “Why would she go to such lengths?”
“She was not getting any younger. If Eustace Talybont fell out with her, abandoned her, she would be left without funds, for she had no money of her own and his parents had given him nothing. He was using up a small inheritance left him by an uncle. And she feared a duel that would leave him dead and her penniless.”
Yes, Katherine had mentioned that. Her fear of a duel had been very real.
“She went further, madame. After she left the next day, I found a note asking me if I could procure the items we had discussed last night—she meant could I procure poison mushrooms.” Annette had Charlotte s full attention now. “At that point I realized that she would stop at nothing and that she would manage to involve me somehow, perhaps as a scapegoat, and I knew that I must leave, go back to France. I found the note after I left Rowan, and I wanted to warn him—”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” interrupted Charlotte. “I was right there in the carriage with you, and you didn’t say a word!”
“I was afraid you would become hysterical and make such a fuss that I would not be able to slip away,” admitted Annette. “So I left a note for Rowan in your glove.” The glove she had found at the inn with one finger stiff with stuffing! Charlotte had been sure at the time that it contained a message.
“I already had a horse waiting when I left you. I rode north at once, but my horse was a poor one. Rowan overtook me at Coimbra—I was surprised to see him.” “But he was bound for Evora, and Evora lies to the east,” said Charlotte sharply.
“I know, madame.” Annette sighed. “But the man he was to meet in Evora was dead when he got there, and he rode north in great haste. It was fortunate that our paths crossed, because we slipped into Spain together and I was able to help him there.”
“And where is Rowan now?”
“Somewhere upon the sea, madame. He had to hurry back to England and he took ship from Oporto. He sent me down to Lisbon with money for your passage. He said I was to put you on the first ship bound for London and you are to inquire for him at the Gray Goose Inn in Southwark. He will be waiting for you. In London.”
So if Annette were to be believed, she and Rowan were both innocent of Eustace Talybont’s death. Charlotte had been mistaken about the dark rider, mistaken about the man in the blue suit and distinctive blue tricorne being Rowan. It had all been explained away. . . .
“Annette,’ she said quietly, “why do you do all this for Rowan?”
Annette did not answer for a long time. A sad little smile curved her hard mouth. Then, “I should think you would have guessed, madame. I love Rowan. I have loved him from the moment I met him, the day he saved my life in Marseilles.”
Charlotte breathed a long sigh. She supposed she had known it all along, but there it was—out in the open.
“It need not concern you, madame. It was all over between Rowan and me a long time ago.” A shadow of such hunger passed over her eyes at that moment that Charlotte thought with sudden compassion, But you it will never be over, will it, Annette?
“You would do anything for him, wouldn’t you, Annette?” she asked softly.
“I have done anything for him, madame,” was Annette’s sad admission. “And yes, I would again.”
“You are a loyal friend, Annette.” Charlotte leaned forward. “Rowan does not know it yet, of course, but we are to have a child.”
There was a look of sudden raw envy on Annette’s face. It was swiftly gone. “I am glad for you both, madame. But as for me, I must not remain in Lisbon. I have booked your passage, madame, on the Cormorant, and I have brought you a cloak so that you may leave the inn by night and go aboard. Rowan would not wish you to be followed. ” Again that shadow of danger that seemed to follow Rowan wherever he went.
“Thank you, Annette,” said Charlotte. And that night, when, muffled in a long dark cloak at the Lisbon docks, she was about to go aboard the London-bound merchantman Cormorant, she turned impulsively to Annette. “Will we see you in London? You are always welcome.”
Annette shook her head.
“No, madame,” she said in a low voice. “I think I am leaving Rowan’s life now. We will go our separate ways. I am for Paris, where I will probably open up a millinery establishment, for I am tired of dressing hair. And perhaps now that he is to have a family. Rowan’s life will take some other direction. I wish you well, madame.’’
“And you too, Annette,” said Charlotte warmly. “I thank you for all you have done for Rowan—for all you have done for us both.’’
“Just one thing.” Annette’s voice had changed slightly, and Charlotte, about to leave, turned back. “Make him happy.” There was a warning note in the words.
“I will try.” Charlotte smiled at her.
Then Annette was gone in the darkness. Charlotte stood looking after her with a brisk wind blowing her golden hair—the same brisk wind that would fill the Cormorant’s sails and carry her back to England. She doubted she would ever see Annette Flambord again.
20
London, England, Autumn 1732
London was not at all what Charlotte had expected.
The voyage home to England had seemed interminable, enlivened only by the merry conversation of a quartet of Cambridge students who had been summer tourists in Portugal and were now wending their way home, late, browned by the hot Portuguese sun, and bursting to tell her—and anybody else who would listen—about their travels, their first abroad. In her worry over Rowan and her pregnancy—thank God she didn’t yet show!—Charlotte had speculated very little about what her own country’s capital would be like, and London burst upon her as a complete surprise.
After Lisbon, with its pink palaces and pastel-painted houses and gaily tiled fountains, it was like going from summer directly into winter, and Charlotte
felt the change long before the Tower of London or the Houses of Parliament rose up before her.
Here was a cold gray city of commerce, shrouded in fog, swept by the winds of autumn—a center of trade. Here there was no great inpouring of diamonds and gold from rich colonies overseas. Here apprentices thronged and men went about their business in a businesslike way. Nor was the Thames like the Tagus with its colorful lateen-sailed fragatas—here sober river barges and stately ships rode at anchor or moved upriver past the dangerous currents at London Bridge.
If Lisbon was a city of coaches, London was a city of hackneys and Charlotte—with the Cambridge students calling hearty good-byes—took one of those hired hacks to the Gray Goose Inn in Southwark, the inn Annette had told her Rowan had designated.
Although she had not expected to be met at the ship, sailing dates being uncertain and the Cormorant having arrived unexpectedly early, it was daunting to alight from her hack at the Gray Goose Inn and to find no word left for her.
“Who did you say is expecting you?” demanded the innkeeper, a slight swarthy man whose cold eyes Charlotte did not entirely like.
“Rowan Keynes,” said Charlotte anxiously. “Do you know him?”
The swarthy innkeeper grunted. Whether that grunt meant yes or no, Charlotte could not tell. “Wait here,” he told her, indicating with a sweep of his arm the common room. “I will see what I can find out.”
With her baggage piled about her, Charlotte sat for a good two hours before the innkeeper bustled up with a hard-faced giant of a man dressed in rusty brown, who he told her was Yates, Mr. Keynes’ man.
Yates had nothing at all to say for himself. He looked Charlotte up and down, his pale eyes expressionless, and silently carried her baggage outside to a small dark leathern coach. And in that coach she rode to Grosvenor Square and alighted at number forty-three. Its plain facade told her nothing, and Rowan was not at home.
“When will my husband be back?” she asked Yates.
He only shrugged. “Ye’re early,” he grunted, as if that explained everything, and set her luggage down near the front door, as if it might not stay.
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