Laughter rippled through the house as they walked toward the front door where Preston would take his leave. "If she’s horrible, fat, and wretched, she’ll be a damned good sight if she’s alive. If she’s a murderess, I’m prepared to buy her freedom, and if she’s indentured, I’ll break her bonds."
"You’ll be her knight," Alicia laughed excitedly. "You’ll find her and take her from all her miseries of the years and deliver her to her rich parents and..." Again she laughed, her heart glad and her imagination wild.
Preston paused before the front door and leaned down to kiss her forehead. "Sweet lady, you are the only person I’ve known, including my own family, to see any hope in the situation."
"Of course, I am, Preston, but look: nothing wonderful should’ve happened to me, but I am here, wearing gowns—the king’s own ward for a time." She shrugged. "Why wouldn’t I imagine the very best? Hurry and go so you can tell me what you find."
He started to leave and then turned to her again. "Lucky you caught your lord, darling. If my sister had not been lost, you can be sure I’d have seen her married to Geoffrey. Thank the stars it’s too late for him to speak for Alicia."
First a puzzled look and then an overall sensation of pure shock settled over her. She leaned unsteadily against the doorjamb, but Preston did not notice, for he had tipped his feathered hat and turned to go.
"Preston? Lord Tilden?" she called weakly. He turned to look at her. "Alicia?" she questioned.
"Aye, though she was Letty to the family." He shrugged and smiled, still exuberant because of Alicia’s excitement. "Do you think she’ll want to throw off that pet name?"
Alicia shook her head dumbly. "I think Alicia is a beautiful name," she whispered. "Go with God."
He raised a hand to her and walked briskly down the street. As his broad shoulders disappeared from her sight, a tear glistened on her lashes and her trembling lips whispered another farewell. "Go safely—my brother."
For endless days and longer nights Alicia’s mind was totally consumed with the probability that she and Preston were related by blood, that she was the sister he sought. The only tokens of her childhood, her links to him, were the similarity in the way his sister had disappeared and the small toddler’s gown that she was found wearing when the Thatchers took her in. She still possessed the gown, though it was nothing more than a tattered rag now. And it bore no evidence of being something of the Tilden family; there was no crest or initial anywhere on the garment.
The dream that had once comforted her now plagued her. She strained to make every detail more clear and was convinced that Preston was the older brother who had tended her, scolded her, and loved her. And the fair-haired woman who cried: she must certainly have been her mother. The red cloak—why had she not worn the red cloak? And what time of year was it? She remembered cold and rain, but she wasn’t sure whether the memory was of traveling or of another time and place. But the name was hers. And it was not a common name. Her looks were not unique; many English girls had brown hair and blue eyes. She had no marks on her body that would have been there since birth.
"But I am his Letty," she told herself. "There is no doubt."
Where the doubt loomed large was in what to do about it. She troubled for only a short time on whether to tell Geoffrey. There was no point, since he rarely took the time to talk to her about anything at all and clearly was not interested in Preston’s business in England. His biggest concern seemed to be in quickly spending Charlotte Bellamy’s dowry.
She thought of confronting Preston with the possibility, but the thought of being shown to be an impostor was terrifying. Preston might well be prepared to pay Alicia’s bondage, free her of debts, and help clear her name, but was he ready to face the king with her treason?
Her fear became more real when she went with Margaret to the Exchange. It was an outing she had not allowed herself often, for she was still a bit at odds as to how she was supposed to act in public. On this trip abroad she had it in her mind to buy linen and thread to try her hand at needlework: something Margaret wanted to teach her. "All the high-bred noblewomen do it," Margaret had said. And it was perfect for lying deep in thought without drawing too much attention to yourself, Alicia thought.
And so the things were purchased, and Alicia was lingering over a display of lace and ribbons when she heard her name called. "My lady Seavers, dear heaven. How marvelous you’re looking; how grand."
As she turned she was amazed to see Lady Castlemaine, complete with her own entourage of courtiers and servants, and with her vizard held up over her eyes. Barbara was done in the face patches that were so popular, and her belly swelled with child, for she was preparing to deliver her fifth. Alicia stood shocked for a moment, for the attention took her by surprise.
"You must come to supper, my lady. Why, you’re all the talk of Whitehall since you’re seen about so little these days."
Alicia smiled then and curtsied before her ladyship. She had heard that Barbara’s popularity was slipping and that the suppers Frances Stewart gave were packed with all the important people. With some pride, Alicia thought Barbara wanted to draw people with Alicia’s presence.
"I’d be honored, madam," she replied demurely, wondering how she would dare find an excuse for not going. She was not sure whether she liked or hated Barbara Palmer, but she surely feared her. Being her protegee in a manner was fun, but being her enemy must be terrifying.
"Then I’ll call on you soon, madam, and we’ll arrange it. I’ve been so aflutter with invitations myself that it takes some doing to plan a party. But I will manage something very soon."
Barbara’s departure was carried out with as much aplomb as her arrival, her servants and admirers trailing along behind, giggling maids and mincing fops all in a line at her back.
Alicia turned back to the lace and ribbons, not quite seeing them, a light glow creeping to her cheeks. She was somewhat embarrassed by the fuss and took just a moment to focus on what had interested her earlier. She shook off the slight daze and was about to turn to Margaret with a request to go on home, when she met with angry eyes. She found herself face to face with a lass of about her own age, though she was a good deal larger. The eyes bore down on her and the copper curls seemed to tremble.
Alicia’s mouth stood slightly open in wonder.
"So ye’r the one," the girl growled. "Ye’r the one what calls herself ‘Lady Seavers.’"
"Margaret?" Alicia said, looking around.
"I don’t know who you are," the girl spat, "but I know who you ain’t! You ain’t Charlotte Bellamy, that’s sure." With that the young woman snatched at the purse hanging on Alicia’s wrist, and the cord bound and tore at her gloved hand as the purse was pulled off. Alicia gave a cry and a shriek, and Margaret dropped what she was holding to join the fight, but the girl grabbed the article and ran through the crowd of people, quickly disappearing from sight.
"Stop the thief!" Margaret screamed, half chasing the woman. "Stop her, she’s taken milady’s purse! Catch her, the fat one!"
It was then that Alicia realized who that had been. From the king’s own words, "I thought your hair might be red. And that you were well fed." Alicia prayed they would not catch her.
"Margaret, please, let’s just go..."
By that time a crowd had gathered, and Rodney, their driver and escort, having heard the screaming and seen the commotion, had pressed his way through the people and taken Alicia by the arm.
"Please, Rodney, take me home," she pleaded weakly. No further request was necessary. He pulled her out of the crowd, while Margaret gathered their packages and followed.
Alicia said not a word. The complexity of her mixed identities grew beyond any sense in her mind, and silence was her only friend.
Geoffrey Seavers walked briskly into the house on Tiller Street, taking off his hat when he entered. He looked about and noticed that it was well kept and orderly. There seemed no one about, so he stood admiring the sitting room for a time. The house was
comfortable and clean and had a nice smell. Even though he had his own chamber here, he chose not to use it. Being in this house reminded him all too often that he had lied and cheated the crown, and had a great many knots to untangle.
"Afternoon, milord," came a voice. "Nice t’see you about."
He smiled at Margaret as she passed him and went in the direction of the stairs.
"Is her ladyship in?" he asked.
"Aye, sir. In her rooms."
"Ask her if I may come up."
"Aye, milord," Margaret said, continuing away from him.
Within moments she returned to send him to Alicia. As he entered the chamber, he found her sitting behind a frame, her forehead furrowed into a few troubled lines and her fingers playing havoc on a piece of linen.
"Come in, my lord," she beckoned him. "I’ll be glad to put this damned thing aside."
He frowned slightly at her language but appreciated very much the sight of her pushing the frame away from her chair and standing. She must surely like to primp, he thought. He never found her less than perfectly gowned and coiffed. He forced himself to remember that there was nothing about their relationship that was anything but business. He tried to consider her one of his staff; someone he was paying to do a chore.
"How have you been?" she asked.
"Quite well. I understand you’ve had some trouble."
"Trouble?" she asked, looking puzzled.
"At the ‘Change. Something stolen?"
She looked away. "There was nothing of value taken. The thieves are running the streets. I won’t go out as often."
"You go out hardly at all as it is."
"By your request, my lord," she reminded him.
"Yes, of course. Well, I have only a little time but I think since the weather is warmer now we should travel to the country to look over the land Fergus Bellamy left. I’d like to see it sold before very long."
"I’ve been told there are revenues to be had from the land since there’s farming there. Are you sure you wouldn’t do better to keep it?"
"I’d rather get rid of what was the Bellamys and begin building for the Seaverses."
Alicia looked at him closely. "And who will that be, my lord?"
His confused look answered her, and then, as he caught her meaning, he turned away from her.
"There should be no reason why we can’t talk, my lord. Tell me who you think will be ‘The Seavers Family.’"
He responded with a mumble and she took two paces to touch his shoulder and turn him around. "I imagine I’ll marry someday." And then at the pained look in her eyes, he pleaded, "Alicia, please, don’t do this."
"Will you look for yet another rich woman?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I shouldn’t have a great need for money, but there needs to be blood in her name." A heavy sigh escaped him. "Enough blood to satisfy all my dead ancestors."
Alicia turned and walked toward the window, pulling back the heavy velvet drape and looking out. "I wonder..." she started, not looking at him. "I wonder: if I had a noble family, how would you treat me then?"
Geoffrey came up behind her and put his arms on her shoulders. Her curls tickled his nose and her sensuous fragrance tempted his desire. "I think, cherie, considering your life before we met, you should be a little grateful for this much. And it would be helpful to me if you would punish me with your sadness a little less."
She turned abruptly, practically into his embrace. "But you are not happy, my lord."
"No, Alicia, my love, I am not. But do you see what I face? I’ve bought this bargain for myself, and the sooner it is done and there is no risk of losing all I’ve struggled to gain, the sooner I can stop fearing discovery." He sighed deeply and his green eyes were sincere. "I will look upon that day with gladness."
"Had you never thought that our bargain need not end? If I were in truth Charlotte Bellamy it would not end—and who could prove otherwise?"
He softly touched her lips with his. "You tempt the saints," he whispered. "But this lie sits ill with me, and a lifetime of it I cannot abide."
"Then there is something of love between us, Geoffrey," she murmured.
"I want you. I do not know love."
"You will chance nothing on it," she told him. "Not a farthing."
His eyes grew dark and his lips fixed in a stern line. "Nothing."
She turned away from him and looked out the window again. His mind was made up and she would not ask him again. But when and if he changed his mind, she would listen.
"How soon can you be prepared to travel?"
"At your convenience, sir."
"Two days?"
"How shall we go and what should I bring?"
"We’ll go by coach. Bring only traveling clothes and essential servants."
"Two days will be fine," she said, turning back to him. The hat he held in his hand was turning in his grasp. "I will be ready."
"Thank you. And good day."
"Geoffrey," she called. He turned to hear her. "Will it be very long before I am—before this is done?"
He looked down, fiddled with his hat a bit more, and then looked up at her. "I think not terribly long. Perhaps by the fall. Are you eager?"
"No," she breathed.
"We may need longer, to assure those—to be certain there is no suspicion."
She nodded and bit her lip, a gesture that caused him to feel some pain. He hated for her to hurt. He could do nothing to help her but perhaps free her soon.
"There have been deaths in the city," she remarked. "They say it’s plague."
"Every death is called plague. It’s nothing."
"It frightens me."
"There are more important things to fear. The Dutch. The truth."
"I don’t fear the truth, my lord. It has never harmed me before."
He put his hat on his head and tapped it once. "This once, Alicia, it could."
Nine
The property that had been restored to Fergus Bellamy lay west of London. The roads as far as Newbury were decent, but as the need to leave the well-traveled path and ride slightly northwest arose, the roads became wretched. Geoffrey rode alongside the coach while Rodney sat with the driver. Two horsemen, a meager number for a lord, accompanied the travelers, and Alicia rode within the coach with Margaret, her only servant. All in all, this prestigious family did not travel with as much pomp as usually accompanied nobles, and therefore did not get much recognition along the road. Innkeepers did not bow and scrape at their approach; while Geoffrey would have preferred more attention for himself and those with him, he didn’t get it, since it was not apparent that he was wealthy. He made his journey more in the manner of a tightfisted merchant.
The manor and surrounding land had been called Bellerose when it belonged to the Bellamy family, but the name had fallen away when the last Bellamy to own it, namely Fergus, left it to be looted and taken by someone else.
The road to the manor house was miserable, for it had been a long time since it had been tended. As the coach jounced toward the house, Alicia clung to the seat fighting regular attacks of nausea. "This ‘rose,’" she groaned, "should be a sight to see!"
When they finally halted and she threw open the coach door to look, she sighed with joy. The manor rose in red brick from the ground to four or five stories. The grounds were certainly neglected and tangled, but she could see that among the overgrowth were rosebushes and trees. Having been deprived of a life filled with wealth and castles, and having little other than Whitehall to compare this property to, she thought it beautiful. Her opinion of Whitehall was that it was a slice of city mess she could do without. The country talked to her; spoke her language.
"Bellerose..." she murmured, a smile coming to her lips.
"More thorn than rose," Geoffrey grumbled. "It won’t get a good price at all. Who would want it? I would fain see the villages around it."
"But it’s wonderful!" she insisted, jumping down from the coach without assist. Her slippered feet i
mmediately found mud and she picked up her skirts with a curse. "Drat! I’ve never learned prudence."
Geoffrey indicated the remainder of the road with his hand and smiled at her. "How do you propose to get the rest of the way to the house, madam?"
Alicia formed a pout and looked up at him. "Since there are no gentlemen on this trip, I am in a quandary, sir."
Geoffrey chuckled and dismounted, leaving his hat on the saddlehorn. He sloshed through the mud to where she stood and scooped her up in his arms, carrying her to the house. The mud rose up his black leather boots and the filth from her gown and shoes scraped against his breeches. "We’ll have a mess to clean up once we get inside."
"I’ve got to preserve my gowns," Alicia told him. "Once you’ve thrown me over for a new baroness, I’ll have no one to buy me clothes."
"You taunt me in my darkest hours," he scolded.
"Finally, my lord," she told him as he mounted the stairs to the landing, "after all these months I feel like a bride."
He set her down quite firmly on the slab, a jolt that caused her to look at him with some disapproval. "I spoke too soon," she grumbled.
Geoffrey couldn’t help laughing at her, for she had held up very well through the whole of the trip. Less than satisfactory lodgings did not upset her—she was used to worse—and never had she complained about their meals or hard traveling. Even the house, which was, in his opinion, a complete disaster, pleased her. Aye, there were advantages to having partnered himself with a resilient tavern wench. She had an honest and delightful excitement and took pleasure over the simplest things, and when he least expected it, she would laugh at their troubles.
"Just keeping you in line, madam," he said with a bow. He looked over his shoulder and saw that Rodney was in a spot because of Geoffrey’s gallant action, for Margaret hovered in the open door of the coach with something of expectation on her face, and Rodney was flushed scarlet at the thought of having to carry her to the house. "Do you imagine he’ll follow suit?"
Alicia looked toward the coach and covered her mouth as she giggled. Geoffrey began pounding on the manor door, while Alicia’s attention was held entirely by Margaret and Rodney as they looked at each other in confusion. At her further laughter, Geoffrey turned. Margaret was not a small woman, and while Rodney was a large man, he had met his match. Though he was prepared to try, it was possible they’d be sprawled in the mud in no time. Even the horsemen were struggling to keep their faces composed.