A crowd gathered instantly, some claiming they had been injured by flying debris as the sign broke up on the icy cobbles, and the chocolate shop’s owner rushed out to survey the damage. But Charlotte, gasping over her narrow escape, was suddenly aware that even though the wind was sweeping under her skirts and trying its best to tear her velvet hat from her head, she was resting in a pair of most reassuring arms and a pleasant square-cut masculine face lit by warm intelligent brown eyes was looking down into hers with concern.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded. And when Charlotte shook her head, “You should not be out in this weather in your condition.”
“I think you are right,” Charlotte said shakily, gaining her feet again with his assistance and finding that she was trembling. “You have saved my life, sir, and I do thank you.” “You are very pale,” he observed. “I think a cup of hot chocolate might restore you.”
He led her into the now empty shop, for curiosity had driven the patrons into the street. But the cold wind soon drove them back again, and Charlotte, seated across from her tall savior, was glad to be in a room full of people, buzzing with conversation. As she felt the warmth of the hot chocolate bringing life to her cold limbs, she smiled at him, and it occurred to her that he looked vaguely familiar.
“I am glad you came along when you did, else I might at this moment lie crushed beneath that large sign out there, ” she told him ruefully. She was assessing him as he spoke: strong, masterful, about Rowan’s age, and dressed as a gentleman in olive velvet lightly accented with gold embroidery and gold buttons.
From across the table he was peering at her keenly. “I believe I know you,” he murmured. “You are Rowan Keynes’ wife.”
“Yes.” Charlotte regarded him with interest. “Do you know my husband?”
He nodded. “Indeed I do. What is Keynes thinking of, letting you wander about in this weather unescorted?” “Oh, he didn’t know. Charlotte rose quickly to Rowan’s defense.
“If you were mine,” he said softly, “I would know where you were at all times—for you are such a lady as might be stolen away from a man.”
Charlotte caught her breath. It was the first charming speech she had heard from a gentleman not her husband since her pregnancy had become noticeable. “I thought you looked familiar,” she said. “Tell me, have we met?” She was sure they had not, and he shook his head regretfully. “I have but admired you from a distance, I am afraid. Your husband is known to have a high temper and a jealous nature. Indeed, he holds his ladies as close as if they were in a seraglio,” he added humorously.
“I am sure he did not hold Katherine that closely!” she said in a tart voice, for the idea of Katherine in a harem was ludicrous—she would break out!
“No, not Katherine,” he mused.
So there had been other “ladies” in Rowans life who had been held close. She wondered briefly who they were. Actresses from Drury Lane, dancers from the music halls perhaps?
“I have seen you walking about Grosvenor Square,” he said. “I have rooms not far from there.”
“So that is where I have seen you, walking about the square. You do not sound quite like a Londoner. Does your wife enjoy London?”
He smiled at the question. “I have no wife and you have a keen ear. I thought I had lost my West Country accent after all these years in London. But my time here may be fleeting. I have a sister in Kent who insists that I join her there until her first child is born, and a sister in Cornwall who insists that I return for her wedding, and a sister in Lincoln who insists that I come and make peace between her and her husband. As a man afflicted with too many sisters and afraid to make a choice, I remain skulking in London!”
Charlotte found herself laughing heartily for the first time in weeks. By the time they had finished their second cup of chocolate, they were fast friends, she had learned that his name was Francis Tremont, and she had invited him to tea the next day.
He squired her home in a hackney coach, bowed deeply at her front door, and departed. He arrived early for tea the next day, his costume refurbished by a fancier cravat and a gold-headed cane—and he brought her a book to read. Charlotte seized on the book with delight—it was The Fortunate Mistress, by Daniel Defoe, who had died a year ago in his London lodgings with his last days shrouded in mystery. When two days later a dimpling Charlotte told Francis Tremont how much she had enjoyed the romantic entanglements of its heroine, Roxana, her newfound friend promptly returned with another picaresque novel by Mr. Defoe entitled The Fortunes and Misfortunes of Moll Flanders.
On learning that Rowan was away at their “north-country estate,” Francis Tremont gallantly declared himself at Charlotte s service “to take her anywhere she wished to go.” With the arrival of the baby just over two weeks away, Charlotte was not eager to go anywhere but to childbed to get it over with, but she forbore saying that.
Francis was interested in the house and she showed him about the downstairs, telling him the Duchess of Kendal had once lived here.
“The Maypole? Yes, I know. They tell me her bedchamber was a scandal—baroque and full of fripperies. ”
“That is Rowan's room now,” she said, thinking how greatly changed it must be, stiff and masculine as it now appeared, with its sturdy furnishings.
His grin flashed. “Tell me,” he asked conspiratorially, “could I see it?”
“He keeps it locked.”
He laughed. “Oh, I might be able to manage that! I’ve a way with keys.”
Charlotte laughed too, for his warm ingenuousness was catching. “I’m afraid I couldn’t make the stairs again today,” she admitted.
“Oh, well, perhaps another day,” he said. “I should like to brag to my friends that I had seen the Maypole’s bedchamber!”
He was very pleasant, she thought, full of light banter. He asked her occasional questions about Rowan, but not, she thought, too many. His behavior toward her was impeccable, although his merry eyes told her that if she were not far gone in pregnancy, if he were not Rowan’s friend, he well might be romancing her. She found his company stimulating, for he was both knowledgeable and well-read and full of quips about London personages about whom Charlotte had heard. Francis Tremont, she realized, could easily become a habit.
She did not ask herself what Rowan would think about her entertaining one of his friends at tea so often while he was away. She also ignored the whispers and rolling eyes of the chambermaids and Yates’ black looks and mutterings.
Her time was very near now. She lumbered about, despondent, wishing it was over. But when Francis Tremont dropped by for tea, she decided to make it downstairs— one more time.
He was at his best that day at tea. Resplendent in a new coat of mustard velvet that went well with his olive trousers, he insisted on showing her a new parlor game—and accidentally knocked over her teacup. When one of the chambermaids came in to sop up the tea from the rug, he told Charlotte, rather grandly, that he would pour her next cup himself—to make amends. And he did so, while Charlotte leaned over instructing the maidservant in the cleanup, because she was sure Rowan prized that rug.
She drank her new cup slowly, listening with fascination to some details of scandal at court, and suddenly felt dizzy.
It is the baby coming! she thought in fright, and rose. “I must get to my room,” she said abruptly. “I do not feel well.
Francis sprang forward, all solicitation. Charlotte took an unsteady step, her world turned black, and she keeled over in his arms.
He was halfway up the stairs, carrying her at a brisk clip, when Yates, who had been upstairs, dashed down with a roar and yowled for Cook. She came and held the unconscious Charlotte propped against her while Yates, who had seemingly turned into a wild man, all but pushed Francis Tremont out the front door. Then he got her upstairs and two chambermaids put her to bed.
But it turned out to be a false alarm. Charlotte woke groggily but her labor pains did not begin until the next day. They began insidiously, progr
essed to gritting-the-teeth-just-bearable, and moved on into a black agony that seemed never to end. Finally Charlotte brought into the world a daughter—a delightful, squirming little red-faced bundle who cried lustily and whom Charlotte clutched weakly to her bosom in a kind of joy she had not known existed.
That was a day when Francis Tremont was not received at tea. Indeed Yates shut the door in his face and informed him that the mistress of the house was upstairs producing an heir.
“You should not have any more children, the doctor advised her bluntly. “It is dangerous for you. And you must spend the next three weeks in bed—maybe more.”
Charlotte, absorbed in this new and lovable creature in her arms, only nodded. She felt no disappointment at being told she should bear no more children. This one lovely child was surely enough for anyone.
“I shall name you Cassandra and hope that you will know more of the future than I,” she whispered against the baby s smooth cheek.
Rowan came back the last of March. Charlotte, still in bed on doctor's orders, with some trepidation, heard him come bounding up the stairs, for by now she knew the truth. The baby's eyes held more than a hint of green and the feathery down on her head was almost as white as goose feathers—Cassandra was Tom's daughter, not Rowan's. Charlotte was glad that on this first meeting a wet nurse was suckling the child in the nursery.
She lay back against the pillows, making a lovely picture there. The rich glow of the firelight cast an orange glow over her soft peach velvet dressing gown and made fiery highlights race across her golden hair so that it seemed to smoulder.
“Yates tells me you have named our daughter Cassandra. ” Rowan, looking very fit, was pulling off his gauntleted riding gloves as he spoke. He had come leaping into the room, obviously dashing by Yates, and now his dark eyes lit up at the sight of Charlotte, looking so lovely there among the pillows. “For the woman who predicted the fall of Troy and was not believed, I take it?”
“Yes,” said Charlotte soberly. “I hope that my daughter will read the future better than I ever did. How are you, Rowan?”
He laughed boyishly. “Never better. Where is she? I would see her.”
“She is being fed—I have employed a wet nurse. ”
“Ah, very wise.” He bent down and planted a kiss on the top of her white breast, pushing down the velvet dressing gown with his lips as he did so. “We will be able to go about more easily if you are not tied down by having to nurse the baby.”
“Yes, I thought that would please you.” She spoke mechanically, because she had dreaded this moment, lain awake at night worrying about it. Now she could hear the wet nurse’s heavy footfall outside, and she steeled herself.
The plump wet nurse—a young farmgirl actually—brought the child in, smiling, and held her out for Rowan’s inspection.
He looked down upon Cassandra with approval, touched her small face with a tentative finger—and was rewarded by a lusty wail.
“Strong lungs and a feisty temper.” He chuckled.
“Yes, she is like you in that,” Charlotte said, amazed at how readily sugared lies spilled off her tongue to protect that small helpless bundle held in the arms of the young wet nurse.
“And how are you?” he asked cheerfully. Plainly he had seen nothing wrong in the way the child looked.
“I am ordered to stay abed another week. The doctor warns me not to have another child. He says—”
“Oh, bother doctors. ” Rowan shrugged. “They are wrong as often as they are right.” He watched with approval the graceful way she took the baby from the nurse’s arms, the glow of happiness that made her lovely face even more beautiful.
He could not know how she was thanking God at that moment. Her prayers had been answered—Rowan had found nothing amiss.
He stayed with her all that evening, ignoring the prowling sounds Yates made downstairs. His latest venture—he did not say what venture or where—had been successful, very successful. They could afford a bigger house if she wanted one. Charlotte shook her head.
“Just so you are back safe,” she said—and meant it.
Rowan smiled deep into her eyes. “Another week in bed?” he murmured.
“Yes, and the doctor warns me—”
“Not to have more children.” He grinned. “Well, I’ll let you get your sleep then.” He left her and she heard him whistling as he unlocked the door to his bedchamber. Yates apparently had given up and gone to bed.
Charlotte closed her eyes in thankfulness that this day had ended well, and slept—right through breakfast.
After breakfast, Rowan thundered up to her room.
“I hear you have been entertaining Francis Tremont.” His hard gaze raked her.
Yates had been talking to him!
“I thought he was your friend,” she said in defense. “And he saved my life in Cheapside when a great sign crashed to the street directly where I’d been standing—it seemed little enough to offer him tea. ”
“What were you doing marching about the town alone?” he demanded.
“I couldn’t stand it cooped up here alone with servants who won’t talk to me,” she cried in desperation. “And you have seen to it that we have no friends—at least none who come to the house.”
The front door knocker sounded down below. Rowan looked thoughtful. “That will be . . .” He never finished telling her who it would be. “I must go out and I may be back rather late, so dine without me. We will speak of this later,” he added grimly.
Charlotte got up and went to the window. Through the panes she could see Rowan leaving—with Yates and another man. Alarmed by what she thought was his jealousy, she decided to dress and go downstairs. She was feeling stronger today, and since they could not make love just yet, she might be better able to win him over if she met him at the door looking her best. Rowan loved beauty— everything in this house told her that. And she certainly couldn’t look beautiful with her hair tousled, lying in bed all day.
Right after the baby was born, Charlotte had used a trick her mother had told her about in the Scillies: she had taken a stack of linen squares and placed them over her stomach and bound them tightly to her body—despite the doctor s frown and mutterings about vanity. Not for her, a sagging stomach! Now, as she dressed she was glad she had done it, for her figure was almost as lissome as it had been when Rowan had carried her north to Scotland.
She chose a pale blue brocade gown delicately edged with silver—ah, that would catch the candlelight this evening! And swept her hair up and let it fall down fetchingly at the sides, with a pale blue satin riband. And went downstairs.
She had dressed swiftly so that if Rowan came back for something, he would find her dressed and looking lovely. Hardly had she reached the foot of the stairs before the door knocker sounded. Yates was not in, and none of the chambermaids appeared. Charlotte opened the front door herself.
Francis Tremont stood there smiling. He had a book in his hand.
“I thought you might like this.” He held up the book. “It’s all the rage—everyone’s reading it.”
Charlotte was caught in a dilemma. Every instinct warned her to snatch the book, mumble her thanks, and retreat, shutting the door in his face. But here was a man who had done no wrong, indeed a man who had saved her life—and helped her while away otherwise boring afternoons.
Ever reckless, Charlotte chose the dangerous path. She greeted Francis Tremont warmly. After all, what was the harm? Rowan was away, she could explain diplomatically that the baby was now taking all of her time—Francis would understand. And he would disappear pleasantly, regretfully from her life, and seek some other lustrous— and, one hoped, unmarried—lady. “Do come in, Francis,” she said. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”
He accepted with alacrity and Charlotte showed him into the drawing room and rang for tea. It was brought immediately and Charlotte poured them each a cup.
“As I came in I thought I saw one of the royal coaches just rounding the corner of t
he square,” he said conversationally. “It should have just about reached the house by now.”
“Oh, really?” Charlotte came to her feet. She had never seen either the royal coach or the royal family. She hurried to the window, stood peering out, while Tremont lingered by the teacups. “I don’t see it,” she reported in disappointment.
“It must have gone the other way, then,” he said lightly. “But I am sure I saw it. Come back, your tea is getting cold.”
Thus bidden, Charlotte returned to the tea table and sat down. Francis lifted his cup. “I will make you a toast in tea,” he said humorously. “To royal coaches—even those that disappear!”
Charlotte laughed. Francis was always good company.
A cold voice from the door said, “Don’t drink that!’’ And Charlotte turned in amazement to see Rowan standing in the doorway with Yates just behind him. They could not have come in by the front door—she would have heard them. They must then have gone round and crept in the back way! Across from her Francis Tremont had come to his feet.
“Exchange your cup with Tremont’s,” suggested her husband sardonically. “Then drink your toast to royal coaches.”
Charlotte stared down into her untouched teacup. Wordlessly she proffered it to Francis. But he made no move to take it. Indeed he was already setting his cup back on the table. “I think I had best take my leave,” he said jauntily. “It is good to see you again, Keynes.”
“Is it indeed? Well, since you have been enjoying my hospitality these past weeks, the least you can do is drink the tea my wife proffers you!”
“Thank you,” was the sunny answer. “But my presence here seems to be causing marital discord. I’ll just make my way out, if you please—”
“I don’t please.” Rowan’s tall figure blocked his way. His hand was resting on his sword. He looked formidable.
“Rowan,” cried Charlotte. “Let him go!”
But even as she spoke, Francis Tremont’s sword snaked out of its scabbard. “You’re frightening your wife, Keynes, ” he said mildly.
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