Kept apart by duty...

Reunited by love?

Arlette Dryden has never forgotten William Latham, the Royalist soldier who accompanied her to safety while the Battle of Worcester raged. Or how her heart broke when he left. Now it’s the exiled king’s return parade, and stunned Arlette locks eyes with her charismatic cavalier again. She’s still irresistibly drawn to him, but as both have convenient betrothals beckoning, can their long-held passion conquer all?

HELEN DICKSON was born and still lives in South Yorkshire, with her retired farm manager husband. Having moved out of the busy farmhouse where she raised their two sons, she now has more time to indulge in her favourite pastimes. She enjoys being outdoors, travelling, reading and music. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure. It was a love of history that drove her to writing historical fiction.

Also by Helen Dickson

The Master of Stonegrave Hall

Mishap Marriage

A Traitor’s Touch

Caught in Scandal’s Storm

Lucy Lane and the Lieutenant

Lord Lansbury’s Christmas Wedding

Royalist on the Run

The Foundling Bride

Carrying the Gentleman’s Secret

A Vow for an Heiress

The Governess’s Scandalous Marriage

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Reunited at the King’s Court

Helen Dickson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90121-9

REUNITED AT THE KING’S COURT

© 2019 Helen Dickson

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

Arlette Dryden had been a motherless child when her father and brother took up their swords in support of the Royalist cause, leaving her alone at Mayfield Hall in Oxfordshire in the care of loyal servants. The news of a fresh battle having been fought between Cromwell’s army and Royalists at Worcester meant that Arlette, now thirteen years old, had made it her mission to hide her father’s horse, his precious Hector. A year before, the fine, huge, spirited horse had carried him in battle and brought him home wounded from the Battle of Dunbar, never to take up his sword again. Hector was conspicuous in the paddock. She would have to put him out of sight should marauding soldiers from Worcester come their way.

If passing strangers could be believed, having defeated the Royalists, the Roundheads now posed impending danger, so Blanche, the housekeeper, had told Arlette not to leave the house. She had promised she wouldn’t, but, unable to bear the thought of Hector alone and vulnerable in the paddock, with the thought of a Roundhead sitting on his back abhorrent to her, Arlette knew she must defy Blanche.

Panting and breathless by the time she reached the paddock, which stood away from the house, she had the satisfaction of seeing Hector nibbling the grass. Pleased to see her, the stallion nickered and tossed his black mane, arching his neck. She dared not risk taking him to the stables at the back of the house. They had once housed some fine horseflesh, but the horses had gone long since to serve the Royalist cause. Instead she guided him to a corner of the paddock where a hut was almost invisible behind a clump of overgrown laurel bushes. Urging him inside, where there was hay and water, then petting him and whispering in his ear that he had to be quiet, she went out, closing the door securely, hoping he would be safe.

Hurrying back to the house, she hoped that Blanche had not noticed her absence. With only a vague memory of her mother, who had died giving birth to her sister when Arlette had been barely two years old, and the newborn not having survived, either, Blanche had always been there for her and she loved her dearly. Arlette knew little about her mother. She had asked about her often and found it strange that no one, not even her father, would speak of her. They always side-stepped her questions and quickly talked of other matters. Perhaps, she thought—for it was the only explanation she could think of—her father had loved her mother so much that it was difficult for him to speak of her.

Besides, her father had enough worries. In the past, due to her father’s careful management, the estate had prospered, but the enormous fines imposed by Parliament on Royalists during the wars had almost crippled them. Any day now her father expected to be turned out of Mayfield Hall and the estate sequestered, which had happened to Royalist estates all over the country.

As she glanced towards the orchard, her attention was caught by a figure standing in the shelter of the pear trees watching the house. Cautiously she made her way to where he stood, looking at him with curiosity. He was young—scarcely more than a youth—perhaps seventeen or eighteen years of age. His clothes were stained and torn, his face streaked with sweat and grime and strained with exhaustion. An unmistakable smell of powder clung to his clothes. There was a bleakness to his darkly circled eyes. Dried blood stained the shoulder of his doublet.

The light from the sun was shining full on his face, and the sight of him caused Arlette a certain amount of unease. Where had he come from? she wondered. Holding her breath, she took in the beauty of him. It did not seem credible that a man could be so beautiful. He was unquestionably the most handsome male she had ever seen, with fine, clear-cut features that might have been described as feminine in their perfection but for the firmness of his mouth and strong chin. His dark brown hair, blackened by gunpowder and soaked in sweat, was clipped to just below his ears. He had strong shoulders under his dark blue doublet. His eyes were a vibrant blue that were normally filled with warmth and charm, but today burned bright with all he had done and seen with the besieged Royalists in Worcester. There was something about him that seemed familiar.

‘Who are you? I sense that we have met before.’

‘My name is William—William Latham—the son of Lord Robert Latham of Arlington Court in Warwickshire.’ His voice was rich and polished and had the tone of a gentleman. ‘This is the house of Sir Isaac Dryden?’

Arlette nodded. His name was familiar to her. He was a friend of her brother Thomas. ‘He is my father. Have you been at Worcester? We were told there is a battle raging.’

He nodded, his expression grave. ‘That is correct. It is over now and the King defeated. I was there. I—have news for your father.’

Arlette stared at him, her instinct telling her all was not well with Thomas. ‘Is it Thomas?’ she ventured to ask, fearful of what he might say. ‘My name is Arlette. Thomas is my brother. He is with the King’s army.’

‘I know. We fought together.’

‘I remember Thomas speaking of you.’

He nodded. ‘We were at school together. I am here at his request. I must tell you that there is a need for haste. Will you take me to your father?’

She nodded. ‘He is anxious for news of Thomas. You look exhausted—and you’re wounded.’ She noticed how he held his shoulder.

He breathed deeply. ‘It’s not easy to run for your life with a sword wound.’

‘Don’t you have a horse?’

‘I did. Due to the wounds inflicted on him at Worcester, I had to abandon him some miles back.’

Tilting her head to one side she looked at him gravely. ‘Is there someone to look after him?’

He nodded. ‘I met a kindly farmer who promised me he would take care of him. Now, I don’t wish to bring trouble to your house so we must hurry. The countryside will very soon be crawling with Roundheads searching for fugitives from the battle. Anyone found harbouring them will be granted no quarter.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ll take you to my father right away—but I must tell you that he is very weak. It is thought that he will not last much longer,’ she told him in a small voice.

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘He was wounded at Dunbar last September. He managed to make it back, but he has not left his bed since. Come, I will take you to him. He will be eager to hear what you have to say.’

Eighteen-year-old William tried to keep up with her as, light of foot, she sped ahead of him. An image of his stricken horse and the bullet with which he had put it out of its misery had been what he considered to be a humane kindness. The horse had served him well and it had been a hard thing for him to do. It was not something he could share with this innocent child. He had not lied when he had told her about the farmer. The man, a Royalist sympathiser and knowing William was trying to make good his escape from the Roundheads, had agreed to dispose of the horse.

Mayfield Hall was a fine old house. The red brick glowed warmly beneath the sun, the diamond-paned windows winking in the light. They entered through the heavy oak doors and William’s boots echoed on the floorboards as he walked through the large baronial hall. Looking around him, he saw that, like many Royalist houses throughout the land, the war had left its scars. Fine furniture showed signs of misuse. Panelling and wainscoting had been ripped from the walls. Windows had been broken and left unrepaired. He made no comment as he followed in Arlette’s wake.

After climbing the wide oak staircase to the upper floor he followed her along a landing where she came to a stop before a door. William looked down at her, aware of her concern. She was a child, very young—he was to learn later that she was thirteen years old. In her blue dress she looked disarmingly like some little woodland nymph. There was a strange intensity in her enormous eyes with their liquid depths, which were a cross between green and blue, and her curly mop of hair had the brilliance of sunlight.

‘Please wait here a moment. I’ll go and tell him he has a visitor.’

William did as she asked, hearing muted voices from behind the closed door. After a moment she returned.

‘When my father left for Scotland he was a fine upstanding man. Please do not be alarmed by his appearance. His suffering has taken its toll on him.’

William entered the room where Sir Isaac Dryden lay abed. It had the smell of a sick room and vials of medicines and pots of salve littered the surface of a dresser. Despite the girl’s warning he found it hard to hide his shock at the appearance of Sir Isaac Dryden. He was painfully thin. Against the pillows his flesh was waxen and clung to the bones of his face. But the eyes that studied him were sharp and shrewd and bright with intelligence. William moved close to the bed and gave a formal bow. There was no mistaking the gravity of the moment.

‘My daughter informs me that you are William Latham—your family home is Arlington Court in Warwickshire, which I recall Thomas telling me about.’

‘That is correct.’

‘Welcome to Mayfield Hall. You are the son of Lord Robert Latham, I believe.’

William nodded. ‘He was killed during the siege at Colchester in forty-eight.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. I knew him well. He was a fine man.’

‘Yes—yes, he was.’

‘It cannot have been easy for you coming here. News has reached us of the battle at Worcester and that it ended in a bloody defeat for the Royalists.’

‘The battle was doomed before it began.’

‘My son—Thomas...?’

‘Was taken prisoner.’

A great relief swept over Sir Isaac. ‘Thank the Lord. You, too, have survived the battle and I imagine you are impatient to put as much distance between you and the victors as you can.’

A fit of coughing rendered him speechless and left him exhausted against the pillows. Arlette moved closer to the bed, her young face filled with concern.

‘Father, you will tire yourself. You must rest.’

The trace of a thin smile touched the old man’s lips. ‘I’ll have plenty of rest soon, Arlette.’ He gave another hollow cough and when it was over he looked at his visitor. ‘I am dying, sir—I’ve been dying ever since I was wounded at Dunbar. I have prayed the good Lord in his wisdom would keep me alive until my son came home. I see now that is not to be.’ He shook his head despondently. ‘Thomas was a scholar. He had no enthusiasm for soldiering.’ His eyes met those of the young visitor with perfect understanding. ‘Tell me what happened to him?’

William met his eyes and read his need to know. ‘He fares better than most—but his treatment in the hands of his captors will be harsh.’ Glancing sideways at the girl standing across the bed, he saw pain fill her eyes.

‘The war has dealt ill with those loyal to the King,’ Sir Isaac murmured quietly, ‘my own family having lost brothers and nephews at one battle or another. My daughter Hester lives in London—she married a Parliament man—a mercer. The marriage caused a bitter divide between us. Arlette and my son are all I have left. May the Lord spare them.’ His skeletal hand reached out to touch his daughter’s cheek with a reverence that did not go unnoticed by William. ‘So—tell me. Where is Thomas now?’

‘We were both taken prisoner—along with ten thousand others. We were herded into the cathedral from where we were to be marched to London. I was fortunate. In the mayhem that ensued after the battle I managed to escape.’

Sir Isaac digested this calmly. ‘How was Thomas? Was he wounded?’

‘No—merely exhausted and hungry—but his spirit remains high. Food was scarce. In the final minutes we were together he asked me—if I was able—to come here and assure you that he did not perish in the battle.’

‘I thank you for that. It means a great deal to me knowing he survived. As to how he will be dealt with, that is another matter, but even Cromwell’s army will lack the resources to try so many prisoners. But what of you now? I imagine Roundheads will be searching for those Royalists who escaped Worcester.’

‘They are. It is my belief that the wars are over, the Royalist cause in ruins. The drawn-out conflict has reduced honest citizens to beggars and no corner of this land has been left untouched by the evils of war. The world as we knew it before the wars has gone. England has suffered enough. It’s my intention to go to France.’

‘If Cromwell offers a pardon to Royalists willing to abide by the laws of the Commonwealth, will you accept it?’

‘Never.’ A fierce light burned in William’s eyes. ‘I did not enter the fray until my sixteenth birthday and before he was cruelly executed, I fought hard for King Charles the First. I will not give it all up now. His son, King Charles Stuart, has my undying loyalty. It is unthinkable that I desert him. He needs support now more than ever. I expect Arlington Court will be sequestered along with many other properties of those who supported the King.’

‘And young Charles Stuart? Where is he?’

‘The last I heard he had escaped Worcester, thank God.’

‘The day will come when he comes into his own, I am confident of that—and when he does, all that has been stolen from those who remained loyal will be returned. This time will pass.’

‘Will it? Do you really believe that?’

‘It must. I cannot conceive of the people of England turning permanently against their King. Reason will prevail in the end. I am sure of it.’

‘I pray it will be so. There is nothing we can do but wait and see. But I must take my leave of you. Should I be found here it will not go well with you.’

‘Three times Roundhead patrols have been here—you will have seen the evidence for yourself. Each time the house was searched. You are right to put as much distance between you and them as possible. But I see you are wounded,’ he said, his gaze going to the blood that had seeped into his doublet. ‘You must have it tended to and take refreshment before you leave, but I have a favour to ask of you and, in the light of what has happened at Worcester and my own weakness, it is most urgent. I am almost at the allotted time on this earth. What matters to me now is Arlette. I fear greatly what will happen to her if she remains here.’ He looked at his daughter with loving but worried eyes. ‘It is my wish that Arlette goes to live with her half-sister in London.’

Arlette gasped. ‘No, Father. I will not go. Do not ask me to leave here. It’s too cruel. I could not bear it—living in the house of a Parliament man. I am your daughter and my place is here with you.’

‘A daughter’s place is to obey her father,’ her father pointed out, his voice softening.

There was an unusual flush on the girl’s cheeks and the eyes with which she regarded her father were openly defiant. ‘I will not go. Do you really think I would willingly go to safety, leaving you behind to face danger?’

‘Understand me, Arlette. Understand why I am doing this. I am unwilling to subject you to any unnecessary suffering should the Roundheads come here—as they will, I am sure of it. I know you haven’t spent much time with Hester during your childhood, but you will be safe with her and, despite our differences, I believe her husband to be a moderate man. She is a woman of integrity and honesty and she will endeavour to do her best for your welfare and protection. Do as I ask, Arlette. I beg you.’ He looked at William. ‘You will take her?’

William looked at Arlette standing like a miniature statue, feeling her withdrawal from her father. Her dejection pierced his heart. He saw her attempt to struggle to mask her painful disappointment and inexplicable sadness. His gut tightened with the instinctive need to protect her.

‘Will you do it?’ Sir Isaac asked.

William nodded. ‘I will take her,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I will then make my way to the coast and take ship to the Continent. My mother and sister are there already.’

Having reluctantly agreed to Sir Isaac’s request, to ease his unease and to soothe Arlette’s, William met her eyes and smiled, relieved when she met his gaze unflinchingly. He was encouraged by her quiet display of strength.

With a need for haste, just one hour later, after William had eaten and had his shoulder tended by the housekeeper, and Arlette had gathered provisions and a few necessities she would need to see her to London, they left, mounted on Hector.

With her small body nestled close to William’s and tears clogging her throat after saying a final farewell to her father and Blanche—who had been more like a mother to her over the years—Arlette was strangely comforted and reassured by William’s presence and the warmth in his voice. But knowing she would not see her father again on this earth, her young heart ached fit to burst with her loss.

As they rode away she turned and looked back at the house, drawing in a deep breath, willing the scent of the surrounding countryside and the image of the house to remain with her for the long years ahead.

It was a strange kind of existence as they travelled towards London. Arlette rode pillion behind William and when they encountered the odd traveller he implied that she was his sister and that they were going to visit family in London. They kept away from the main thoroughfares, for not only were they more likely to run into Roundheads on the main routes, but they were also notorious for thieves.

On the first night as they settled down to sleep beneath the stars, with the desolation of her loss and hopelessness at the thought that she would never see her father again, Arlette’s tears had flowed. Looking at her huge eyes awash with tears, silently beseeching him for comfort, William had responded automatically and taken the distraught girl in his arms. She was remarkable. Torn from her home and thrust into the unknown with a virtual stranger at such an early age, she showed a bravery and selflessness he admired. She was also strong and healthy and the following morning the tears had dried from her eyes.

William was glad of her company. After the carnage that had been Worcester, seeing his friends brutally slain and his desperate escape which had driven him to the brink of exhaustion, it was Arlette he focused on to escape the pain of those memories. After looking back on the bleakness of that time, he totally lost himself in her sweetness, entering her world where everything was fresh and alive. Should danger confront them, he would protect her with his life.

When they finally reached London after three days on the road their weariness was beginning to tell on them both.

Arlette entered a strange time in her life. Only Hester could understand what torment she was going through, feeling the same cruel loss of her family. William’s presence also gave her comfort for a short time and, whatever the future held for either of them, there would be no escaping the strong bond that had developed between them during the time they had been together on the road.

William was relieved to find Hester’s husband, Richard Arden, was in the Midlands on mercer business, which reduced his fear of being turned over to the authorities. He experienced a deep concern for Arlette. Before he left he voiced his concern to her sister.

‘The leaving of her home and her father has hurt her deeply. The emotional scars will be almost impossible for her to erase for a long time.’

‘She will be well taken care of, but you are right. She is bereft. It will take her a long time, but she is strong. I have every faith she will come through.’

The summer had ended and the encroaching chill of autumn was in the air when William took his leave of Arlette. He was in the yard. She went to him with a heavy heart. That day when he had arrived at Mayfield Hall, she had been meeting a stranger and was filled with anxieties and fears. Now she was facing the painful task of saying goodbye to someone who had become precious to her. She shivered, wishing this day had never come. Not only had a closeness developed between them, but also a tenderness.

William pulled his hat down over his ears and hugged Arlette, who was clinging to his hand.

‘I don’t want you to leave,’ she whispered, her eyes wide and vulnerable and shining with tears. ‘I want to go with you.’

‘I can’t take you with me, Arlette. I am going to join the King in France. With my father dead and the rest of my family in France, my estate in Warwickshire seized by Parliament and myself declared a traitor, I have no choice.’

‘But you will come back, won’t you?’

‘Perhaps—in time. But I will not return to England while it is ruled by Cromwell.’ Seeing the pain in her eyes, he placed his hands on her young shoulders and bent down so that his face was on a level with hers. ‘It is right that you are here with your sister.’ As he held her from him, his look was earnest. ‘You do understand why I have to go, don’t you?’

She nodded, swallowing down the lump in her throat and blinking back the tears that threatened to flow from her eyes at any moment. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘But you won’t forget me, will you?’

‘You have become very dear to me, Arlette. I could never do that.’

Giving him a teary smile, she backed away from him. ‘Wait a moment. I have something for you.’

William watched her scamper off, then, hearing a horse’s hooves clattering on the cobbles, he saw her leading Hector towards him. He smiled.

‘What have we here?’

Arlette glanced at the pathetic-looking horse her sister had managed to find for him, which Arlette rejected. ‘I want you to have Hector.’

‘But Hector was your father’s horse. I cannot take him.’

‘I want you to have him. I know it is what my father would have wanted. Besides, Hector likes you. I know you will take care of him.’

With emotion almost choking him, William wrapped her young body in his strong arms and hugged her hard, then he took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead.

‘Goodbye, Arlette. I wish you joy and happiness and luck in your life. May God bless you.’

‘William,’ she said as he turned from her. He looked back with a questioning look. ‘Be careful, won’t you?’ she said hoarsely. ‘With your life.’

He was silent a moment and then said, ‘Of course I will. Why? Why would you say that? Is it precious to you?’

She nodded slowly. ‘Yes. Will I see you again?’

He smiled. ‘I do have a habit of turning up when least expected. Perhaps I may have cause to come and visit you in London—or better still at Mayfield Hall when all this is over. Would I be assured of a welcome in your house?’

‘There will always be a welcome for you, William—no matter where I am.’

Lowering his head, he turned and walked away. Arlette watched him, wanting to say something more, but she couldn’t. The words were trapped in her throat and tears welled up in her eyes. She had been aware that one day he would have to leave her, that his presence in her world was transitory. But it had come too soon. Sorrow and emotion swamped her, wrenching at her heart. He left her then and she watched him ride away. All that remained of his solid presence was the trace of a light kiss on her forehead, the image of his back and the painful noise of Hector’s receding hooves.

Hester came to stand beside her, placing her arm about her shoulders.

‘Will he come back?’ Arlette asked in a low voice.

‘As to that I cannot say.’

Her desolation was as acute as when she had left Mayfield Hall. ‘He has to come back,’ she whispered to herself. ‘He has to. I couldn’t bear it if he didn’t.’

Chapter One
1660

Having been summoned by her sister, after spending the morning sitting by the river watching various craft moving along—which always delighted her—Arlette brushed the dried grass from her skirts, straightened her hair and hurried into the house.

Oaklands House, west of London, was a lovely house. It had been Richard Arden’s family home for generations, built in better, more prosperous times to get away from the plague which descended on the city every year. Its airy halls, parlours and reception rooms were carpeted and tastefully furnished. Beyond the domestic quarters, the buttery, bakehouse and wash house could be found. The gardens were a well-kept delight and extensive, the smooth lawns dropping down to the river’s edge. Hester kept the house in perfect order, ruling the servants with a firm hand.

The Ardens were hard-working mercers. The family’s substantial business premises were in Spitalfields, where fabrics were stored and trained women and apprentices in leather aprons carried out the work of weaving. Hester’s husband, Richard Arden, a harsh, controlling man, went into the City each day, one of the servants rowing him down river. Devoted to business and administration, not for him was life idle and carefree.

Richard had prospered in his trade before the wars and because he had declared for Parliament when the troubles began, he had been allowed to continue with his business unhindered, but it had suffered very badly from lack of trade during the Commonwealth. Now King Charles and his courtiers were returning, with nobles and their ladies flooding the capital once more, trade in finer fabrics—brocades from Milan, silks from Lucca and Venetian velvets of supreme quality—would be in demand once more. But that was in the future and Richard had no capital put by to invest.

Arlette found her sister in the parlour. With more constraints than excesses, when Arlette had come to Oaklands House, she had soon realised that life was not going to be easy for her, but she wearily accepted the way Richard treated her without complaint. In the beginning he had welcomed her into his home with a genuine warmth, glad that Hester would have the company of her sister and to have an extra pair of hands to help with the everyday chores.

Hester had a desperate yearning for a child of her own. In the early days of her marriage she had lost a child and, as the years went by and she failed to conceive another, being deprived of this natural function enjoyed by most women of her acquaintance had left her feeling deeply disappointed and inadequate in some way as a woman. She was tense at the moment—she had been for days—she was always like this when she was going to visit Richard’s sister, Anne Willoughby, who had a large brood of children, which only exacerbated Hester’s own sorry situation.

Hester lifted her brows and stared disapprovingly at her sister’s attire, her eyes lingering overlong and with exasperation on a rip in her skirt, caused when it had become snagged on a thorn bush. Arlette was aware of Hester’s displeasure over her friendship with James Sefton—in her sister’s opinion the time she spent with James could be more usefully spent. The Sefton family of Willow Hall were neighbours. With his fair hair and boyishly handsome face, James had a precocious and open manner. Arlette valued his friendship, but their relationship was no more than that. Direct from his travels abroad, he had returned to England ahead of his father, who was to return from his years in exile with King Charles Stuart. His mother, of Puritan stock, had remained at Willow Hall throughout the wars.

‘Mary said you wished to speak to me, Hester.’

‘I sent for you half an hour ago, Arlette. Have I not enough to do without worrying about you all the time? As you well know we are to travel into the city tomorrow and there are a thousand and one things to be done. Anne and her husband are expecting us in good time. Since we are to stay with them overnight I have much to pack—which is something you can help me with when you have cleaned yourself up.’

Arlette knew exactly what Hester was thinking when she looked at her. Her pale blue eyes were narrowed with annoyance as she darted sharp disapproving glances at her, having burst into the house shattering the peace. Arlette knew she must present a frightful vision in her stained and crumpled skirts. Shoving the untidy mop of hair back from her face, she sank into a chair in a most unladylike pose, doing little to appease Hester’s displeasure. She prided herself on being intelligent, quick-thinking and sharp-witted, but much as Hester loved her she was always accusing her of being problematical and a constant headache. She heard Hester sigh heavily, as if tired of her burden.

News had reached them shortly after William Latham had brought Arlette to London that their father had died following a visit from Cromwell’s soldiers searching for Royalists who had fled Worcester after the battle. Like hundreds of Royalist properties, Mayfield Hall had been sequestered by Parliament. Neither of them had been back to Mayfield since, although Blanche sometimes wrote to Arlette with news of friends and neighbours who had been a part of her life, and the elderly Parliament man and his wife who now lived in Mayfield Hall. They had learned that their brother Thomas, along with over a thousand English and Scottish captives and some foreign mercenaries, had been sent to Barbados as virtual slaves. Whether he lived or had died they had no way of knowing.

Arlette was more beautiful than Hester had ever hoped to be, but she lived for the moment and had little interest in anything that was not to do with outdoor pursuits.

Following his ten-year stay in France, the King’s exile was over. His ship, the Royal Charles, along with the rest of the fleet, had arrived in Dover, where he had been received with obeisance and honour by General Monck, commander-in-chief of all the forces in England and Scotland, the man who had played the most crucial part in his restoration. The King was expected to enter his capital during the next few days. It was for this reason that they were going to stay with Anne and her husband, who lived on the Strand. Anne and her brother Richard had been raised in a Puritan household and when the troubles had started between the King and Parliament they had supported Parliament, but Edward, Anne’s husband, was a staunch Royalist and he welcomed the return of the monarchy and was insistent on celebrating it.

Mortified that she had upset her sister and keen to make amends, Arlette swept her hair back from her face and stood up. ‘I will help you, Hester. I’m sorry. It was remiss of me to leave you to do it all. It completely slipped my mind. Was there something else?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact there is. Sir Ralph Crompton has approached Richard again. Do you forget that soon you are to be betrothed?’

Arlette’s face fell. The effect of Hester’s remark was like having a bucket of cold water thrown over her and was a reminder that soon she would have the mundane affairs of a wife to fill her days—soon, but not yet—and she continued to resist. ‘I do not forget, Hester, but...’ She sighed. ‘I don’t see why I have to marry him.’

‘He is taken with you, Arlette. You know perfectly well he is.’

This was true. Sir Ralph was also a mercer and nothing would please Richard more than for his sister-in-law to marry an important and respected member of the guild, a man who played a prominent role in London’s civic life. Along with other members of the guild, Richard had suffered because of the restrictions austerity imposed on him by the Commonwealth. He felt the humiliation of his reduced status and when Sir Ralph expressed his interest in making Arlette his wife, it was like balm to his wounds. She did not have the dowry formerly anticipated and the most worthy of the men seeking wives, those able to provide her with standing and security, would turn their attention elsewhere. Marriage to Sir Ralph would provide Richard with an important connection and raise his standing with the guild. Sir Ralph had offered a sizable stipend to be paid for Arlette’s hand in marriage, which would not be forthcoming if she turned him down. Richard had readily accepted on Arlette’s behalf.

The instant Arlette had set eyes on Ralph Crompton she had taken a dislike to him, but she had thought she sensed the trace of a satisfied smile on his smug face. She had moved away when he had positioned his hand on her waist as though he had the right. He had appraised her, studied her with the sure eye of someone who knows exactly what he likes and is used to getting what his desires dictate. She had never believed herself capable of stirring such a desire in anyone, but just as an animal scents danger, with the same primal instinct she knew that Sir Ralph Crompton had decided to pursue her.

‘There must be hundreds of women he could choose from. Why me?’

‘Just thank your lucky stars that he still wants you.’

‘Of course he does. Who else would he get to take care of his two motherless daughters?’ Arlette replied, unable to hide her bitterness at such a prospect.

Hester waved her objections aside. ‘Nevertheless, your defiance and the gossip directed against this family, brought about by your friendship with James Sefton of late, are all too much. Your behaviour has upset Richard. If Sir Ralph did change his mind, I would not blame him.’

‘Then to escape his attention perhaps I should damage my reputation some more,’ Arlette retorted, tossing her head rebelliously. The moment the words had left her mouth she had cause for regret, for her flippant remark only angered Hester further.

‘Do not even think of doing that,’ Hester snapped, breathing deeply in an effort to control the anger that seemed to erupt more quickly of late no matter how hard she tried to temper it. ‘Think yourself lucky that marriage to Sir Ralph Crompton will provide you with the standing and security you deserve.’ Noting Arlette’s defiance, she sighed, shoving her hair tiredly from her brow. ‘You are my sister and I love you dearly and I do understand that you are set against the marriage—but...’

‘Richard would be not so understanding. Where your husband is concerned, my opinion counts for nothing.’ Arlette sighed. ‘Worry not, Hester, I know I am duty-bound to marry Sir Ralph and I have committed myself to doing what is right. I will not go back on my word,’ she said, no matter how distasteful she found the consequences.

‘Richard is only doing what he thinks is best for you,’ Hester said in his defence. ‘You have to marry as your circumstances demand and Sir Ralph is the only one offering. It’s high time you were married. This alliance is important to Richard—more than you realise. You should be grateful he is doing this.’

Arlette took a deep, tight breath. That she was being sacrificed for Richard’s ambition angered her, but she had learned to know her place in Richard’s house and knew better than to defy the rules and make her own destiny. All her life she had hoped she would have the freedom to choose her own husband, but, when it came to it, Richard had chosen for her. A good alliance, he called it—but the last person she’d ever have chosen was Sir Ralph Crompton.

‘I had hoped you might repent of the folly of your ways,’ Hester went on, ‘but it seems that is not so. I have tried so hard since you came here, Arlette, hoping to find more submission in you—obedience, even—but I have come to realise it is not in your nature. With no one to steer you, you were left too much to your own devices at Mayfield Hall. I love you dearly, but you do try my patience to the limit.’

‘I am deeply sorry to have caused you so much grief, Hester, truly, and I am most grateful for everything you and Richard have done for me. But,’ she said, with a note of defiance, ‘I am twenty-two years of age and even though I know I have to marry Sir Ralph, I would like to have had a say in my choice of husband—and Sir Ralph it would not be.’

Furious by what she considered to be Arlette’s insolence, Hester was unable to curb her tongue as it began to run away with her, which was something she would come to regret later. ‘You ungrateful girl. You put me in mind of your mother. You are turning out to be just like her after all. Her ingratitude, after all our father did for her, was unforgivable also.’

Arlette stared at her in puzzlement. ‘My mother? Why do you mention my mother? And why should she have need to be grateful to our father?’

‘Our father was a fool ever to marry her.’

‘Please don’t say that, Hester. I will not let you shake my kinder memories of my mother. She was my mother and I loved her dearly.’

‘How could you? You scarcely remember her.’

‘I was a mere child when she died—I know that. I know very little of how she came to wed our father.’

‘Then it’s high time you did,’ Hester replied sharply. ‘It’s high time you knew what kind of woman she was.’ Anger had brought blood rushing to her face and a hard glitter to her eyes. She looked so frighteningly angry that Arlette almost turned and fled the room. Suspecting that her sister was about to enlighten her to the more disagreeable traits to her mother’s character she turned away, unwilling to hear anything to discredit her.

‘Pray excuse me, Hester, but I will not stay and listen to anything you might say that is disparaging.’

‘Oh, yes, Arlette, you will listen.’

She had always sensed Hester’s deep dislike of her mother, whose name was never mentioned between them. The reason for this dislike had always remained a mystery to her, but she felt it must be something deep and profound, that maybe it was because their father had taken another wife after the death of Hester’s own mother.

‘So our father would have you believe that she died giving birth to our sister in an attempt to hide the truth. She did not care for our father. The man she loved—whose bed she had wallowed in and whose child she had conceived while Father was away in London about the King’s business—was a widower.’

Arlette was filled with an overriding horror at what Hester was telling her. The whole of her world seemed to be rocking about her. It could not be true. ‘But—but that cannot be—she would not...’

‘Yes, Arlette, she did. Open your eyes to the truth. Like a fool Father worshipped her—she could do no wrong in his eyes—but when he returned home after a long absence and found her nursing a child and knowing it could not possibly be his, he turned both her and her child out.’

Arlette stared at her, sick with horror at what she had been told. Feeling light-headed, she slumped into a chair at the table, staring ahead of her, but seeing nothing. There was a constriction in her throat and tears swam in her eyes. ‘What happened to her? Where did she go?’

‘As to that I cannot say. I do not know.’

‘And my sister?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know that, either.’

‘What was my sister’s name?’

‘I don’t remember. Miranda—Matilda—something like that. What does it matter now? She was your sister, not mine.’

‘It does matter to me. Very much. But why have you told me now? You could have spared me this and continued with the deception.’

‘Because, Arlette, I have reached the limits of my endurance in keeping this secret,’ she uttered tiredly. ‘I think it is high time you knew what kind of woman your mother was.’

‘Say what you like, Hester. It is easy when she is not here to defend herself. I will remain faithful to her memory no matter what you say. Does Richard know of this?’

‘No—I was too ashamed to tell him.’

Arlette’s cheeks burned with indignation and heated words rose to her lips in defence of her mother, regardless of what she had just been told, but her sister silenced her before she could utter a word.

‘As your sister, I will continue to do my duty towards you, which is what our father would have wanted, and see that preparations are made for your betrothal to Sir Ralph as soon as possible—for the sooner you are wed with a family to care for the less I will have to worry about.’

When Arlette was able, she escaped to her room beneath the eaves to consider at length what Hester had told her. Her father was not young at the time he had married her mother, being forty years of age. His first wife had died shortly after giving birth to Hester. Arlette’s mother was twenty years her father’s junior and she had been told she had died in childbirth along with the newborn infant.

After what Hester had confided, she could imagine the anger and the grief at Mayfield Hall at a time when, at two years old, she had been too young to understand the goings-on in the adult world. Her father had been a good and gentle man, but the wars had taken him away from home all too frequently, leaving Arlette in the capable and loving hands of Blanche.

Because of Hester’s revelation, she discovered to her dismay that suddenly everything she believed to be stable had been upset, twisted from its course. Her mother might still be alive—and her sister. She had a sister. She could not imagine how her mother must have suffered to be cast out, away from everything she held dear—having to leave her daughter Arlette behind, knowing she would never see her again.

She sat on the bed, trying to sort out the confusion of her thoughts, the violent swings of her emotions. How could her father, Hester and Blanche have kept this from her?

She had been sitting on the bed for half an hour when there was a soft tap on the door. It was Hester. Arlette noticed how downcast she looked and very tired.

‘What is it, Hester? Is something amiss?’

She shook her head. Crossing to the window, she stood looking out, her back to Arlette, a noticeable dejection about her stance, which was unusual since she was always busily employed with no time for idle chatter. ‘I’m sorry, Arlette. I spoke harshly. I didn’t mean to—only—I don’t know what comes over me at times. I apologise if you find me unsympathetic. I realise how what I told you must have upset you—naturally so—but what I told you was the truth.’ She left the window and came to sit beside her on the bed, taking hold of her hand.

The gesture and soft words touched Arlette. Hester was never outwardly demonstrative with her or anyone else, but for all her harsh temper, she had a soft heart and Arlette had an enormous love and affection for her.

‘I’m glad you told me, Hester. I only wish I had been told about my mother earlier. I do not blame you—there was little communication between us when you married Richard and came to live in London. But I cannot believe Father kept it from me—and Blanche. How could they do that? All these years I have believed my mother to be dead—when all the time she is alive.’

‘He was deeply hurt by her deception, Arlette. It was a difficult time for Father. He could not forgive your mother for what she did. Her betrayal hurt him deeply. When she left Mayfield Hall, he forbade her name to be mentioned. She really was dead to him. I spoke the truth when I said that I have no idea where she went—or if she is still alive, even. As far as I am aware there was no further communication when she left Mayfield.’

‘I wish I could find her, Hester. I wish I knew where to look. Do you know the man who...?’

Hester shook her head. ‘No. The only thing I know is that he was a widower. Some believed it to be Lord Stanhope, from Warwick. She talked about him a lot when she returned from visiting her cousin who lived there. You went with her. It was at a time when Father was in London on the King’s business, which happened often in those days before the wars. Lord Stanhope was a frequent visitor to her sister’s house apparently. But it was not known for certain how close they had become. I do recall when she returned from her visit how quiet she was. She appeared to be unhappy about something.’

Arlette had no recollection of that time. She had been far too young to remember. But she stored Lord Stanhope’s name in her mind. At least it was one line she could follow when she had the time.

‘I would like to see you happier, Hester,’ she said softly. ‘There is a great deal of bitterness in you of late.’

‘Circumstances change us all.’

‘But there is so much that is good in life.’

‘I see little of it.’

‘It is a dark period we have gone through. But it is past. It is for us to build a new life.’

‘There are two things that could make me happy—one is to see you settled in marriage and the other would be if I were to have a child. Why have other women been so blessed and not me? It’s a question I ask myself all the time.’

She sat beside Arlette with the pallor of her face like marble, a contrast to those startling blue eyes which were so like their father’s. Arlette immediately felt very angry with herself, angry at being so blind to Hester’s suffering. The child she had lost had meant so much to her and Richard. She felt an overwhelming tenderness take possession of her.

‘I don’t know, Hester. I wish I did. But it’s not too late. Why, you are still of an age for childbearing. Many women have children older than you. Perhaps you worry too much about it.’ With a sigh Arlette took hold of her hand. ‘I know you aren’t looking forward to going to stay with Anne, who has a habit of flaunting her children in your face. Do not let her upset you—I beg of you. Concentrate on why we are going—to see King Charles enter London and to enjoy the celebrations. Why, the whole of London is gripped by the excitement of his restoration.’

‘You forget that Richard is not of your persuasion, Arlette—nor Anne.’

‘Then all I can say is thank the Lord for Edward. He is determined to show his support of King Charles and there is nothing that Anne can do about it.’

Hester gave her one of her rare smiles. ‘No, there isn’t and I will try to enjoy myself,’ she said, her Royalist upbringing coming to the fore. ‘Do you think there will be celebrations in Mayfield village?’

‘I am sure of it. There wasn’t a family who was not loyal to the King.’

‘Have you no wish to go back to Mayfield, Arlette?’

‘I don’t know.’ An image of her brother, now just a dim shadow of her past, appeared in her mind. ‘I’d like to think that Thomas will come back and return to our old home. Perhaps now King Charles has come into his own he might make it possible and the property that was sequestered will be returned. We must put in a petition—which, I believe, is what Royalists who had their houses seized are going to do.’ She was filled with nostalgia for Mayfield—images of childhood, tastes and smells, Mayfield village and the recollections of people she had known.

She thought about what Hester had told her, becoming quiet and withdrawn as she began to consider how she might discover further information about what had become of her mother and sister all those years ago. May God help her for she could not ignore it. Curiosity and the need to know would drive her on. But how could she go about it? There was no way that she could see. If still alive, they could be anywhere. With reluctance she had to admit that she could do nothing at this time. But she would not let it lie and was fiercely determined to pursue the matter when the opportunity arose.

Richard’s sister lived in one of the grand private houses along the Strand. Following the austere years of the Commonwealth under the rule of Oliver Cromwell, when all pleasures were denied, when things had been difficult and uncertain and political tension had permeated every household, everyone hoped that with the King’s return to his throne the days would follow a different rhythm. Already the dour cloak of puritanism was being shed and places of entertainment, closed during the interregnum, were beginning to open. In taverns, tankards were raised in toasts to His Majesty, to Charles Stuart, coming home at last to England and his people, Charles Lackland no longer.

It was the twenty-ninth of May, 1660, King Charles’s thirtieth birthday, and the whole of London, gripped with excitement, was rejoicing. The Strand was lined with people who paraded bearing effigies of Charles Stuart adorned with flowers. There were street sellers doing a good trade and thieves looking for rich pickings. The crowd chanted, ‘Long live the King!’, and in taverns pot boys sped backwards and forwards with tankards foaming with ale. Cannons fired from the Tower announced that the King had crossed London Bridge and a cacophony of bells being rung in every church steeple were a joy to hear. The sky was cloudless and the sun gilded the lattice windows of the Willoughby household.

It was a large house and was filled with friends and neighbours all celebrating together, all eager to see the sights from the balcony that overlooked the Strand. Happy children managed to get under everyone’s feet and Richard, testy and often bad-tempered, having resigned himself to the King’s return, was conversing with a group of gentlemen, his head with its black steeple hat bobbing as he showed interest in a consignment of printed calico from India.

Trembling with excitement and eager to welcome the King along with everyone else, aware that this day was too important to be missed, Arlette stood at an open window and looked down upon the parade. For this momentous occasion she had donned her finest buttercup-yellow gown with a tight, pointed bodice, round neckline trimmed with fine lace, full elbow-length sleeves also trimmed with lace, and a sweeping skirt. She wore her honey-gold hair loose with pretty clips at the sides to hold it from her face and secure the sprigs of May blossom she had picked earlier.

Her heart was throbbing a heavy beat when the King, preceded by heralds blowing long slender trumpets, came into view. He was flanked by his two brothers. All three were attired in silver doublets. They were followed by the Lord Mayor and the Aldermen of the City adorned in scarlet gowns and gold chains. Then came the King’s loyal cavaliers. Not for these gentlemen who rode into London along roads strewn with sweet-smelling flowers and herbs the drab garb of the Puritans. These handsome gentlemen who came with the King presented a vibrant, colourful spectacle: scarlets and gold braid, bright blue and green doublets, flowing locks and flamboyant cavalier hats with an array of dancing plumes and cascading lace at their throats and wrists.

They laughed and waved atop prancing horses, catching flowers that were thrown from happy children and besotted maids in low-cut gowns lining the route, pressing forward the better to see. Yet in the eyes of these cavaliers there was a hunger, a world weariness, a resolve never to be poor again. Ten years they had waited for this, ten years in exile in a foreign country, where to relieve the boredom many had turned to debauchery—a legacy they brought with them on this day of Charles Stuart’s restoration.

Along with everyone else Arlette laughed and waved as the parade, which seemed never ending, passed by. She scanned every face, wishing with all her heart that her brother Thomas was here to share this time and not in bondage on Barbados. Her gaze was drawn to one gentleman in particular: a gentleman whose face was partly shielded by the brim of his wide hat. He smiled broadly, his teeth dazzling in a face so handsome she couldn’t resist taking a flower from Anne and tossing it in his direction. He laughed, catching it in his gloved hands, looking up to see who had tossed it, inclining his head in the briefest of bows.

At just turned twenty-two, Arlette had the beautiful, fine bone structure as her mother, the mother she could not remember, and the admiration in this cavalier’s eyes as they passed over her made her catch her breath. All her senses came alive. They stared at one another across the distance and the rapport, the communication between them was tangible. Suddenly a familiarity sprang between them, shooting from one to the other like a spark of lightning. That was the moment Arlette recognised her cavalier of old, the man who had brought her to safety before leaving for France. It was William Latham—out of sight for nine years, but forever in her thoughts. She told herself that she had clung to him as she would any protector or friend, that he had been her means of getting to London and Hester, but her heart had broken in two when he had left her. Even after all this time her memory of him and that short time they had been together had not dimmed. And now he was here. He had come back.

She saw his eyes widen as a slow realisation of who she really was made its way from memory. Pushed along by those coming up behind him he was soon past the house, but not yet out of sight. He looked back at her, craning his neck when others blocked his sight. Unable to stop herself, Arlette turned and ran down the stairs and into the wide hall, which gleamed like a mirror and smelled of lemon polish. Hester was walking by carrying a tray of food in preparation for the celebrations later. On this occasion Arlette took no notice of her when she told her not to leave the house. She had an urgent need which took her on to the street.

Pushing her way through the throng, she didn’t stop until she was close to William. Hampered in every direction, he managed to steer his horse towards her. Not until he was close did he dismount, careful not to let go of the reins lest his horse got carried away. Suddenly a muscular youth in snug breeches and coarse linen shirt reeled towards her. He had broad, peasant features and untidy brown hair, and Arlette didn’t like what she saw in those bloodshot eyes. His wide lips curled into a leering grin as he lurched in front of her and dragged her into a shop doorway.

‘What’s a lovely girl like you doin’ out on her own? Lookin’ for company, love?’

‘Let go of me,’ she demanded coldly, trying to pull away from him as his heavy body weaved in front of her. ‘You’re drunk.’

‘The whole of London’s drunk today. Come now, have a drink with me—and afterwards, well, we’ll see.’

‘You’re disgusting. Let me pass.’

‘Not so fast, little lady,’ he growled as she tried to push past him.

‘I believe you’re bothering the lady,’ a dry voice said.

It came from behind Arlette. A strong hand grasped her arm and pulled her away. William Latham stood between her and her assailant, tall and absolutely nonchalant. The youth flushed, glaring at the intruder. William Latham stood in a lazy slouch, his arms by his sides. There was nothing intimidating in his manner, but the youth hesitated just the same, clearly uneasy.

‘This is none of your affair,’ he grumbled belligerently.

‘I’m making it my affair,’ William drawled. ‘Now on your way before I make you regret bothering the young lady.’

His voice was lethargic, totally devoid of menace, yet the youth turned pale. Stumbling back a step and almost falling, he muttered something unintelligible and then turned and went on his way as fast as his wobbly legs would allow, disappearing into the crowd.

‘Thank you,’ Arlette uttered. ‘He was drunk.’

‘And I appeared just in time.’

‘I’m happy to see you have survived the troubles,’ she breathed, her eyes shining with happiness as they looked into his.

He caught hold of her arm and drew her into the recess of the shop doorway. At the same moment their gazes met and Arlette’s heart gave an unexpected flutter. She couldn’t believe he was here. William did not move. His repressed admiration was almost tangible in his stillness. His eyes burned into hers. His hand holding her arm seemed to pulsate with life, sending shock waves through Arlette. Her lips parted and she moistened her lower lip with the tip of her tongue.

An inexplicable, lazy smile swept over his face as he looked at her and held out his hand. ‘Enchanté, mademoiselle,’ he said quietly.

Arlette had the impression that he actually liked what he saw. Automatically she gave him her hand, thinking he would simply take it in his, but he covered it with both of his and kept it. His eyes were warm with admiration as they looked straight into hers.

‘Arlette! I cannot believe it is you—here.’ Raising her hand, he pressed his lips to her fingers.

She slanted him a smile. ‘Do you make a habit of kissing the hand of every lady you meet?’

William laughed. ‘The devil I don’t. Only those I like.’

‘I did not think you would recognise me.’

‘You have grown up and you are right. I hardly recognised you. What are you doing here?’

They smiled at each other and happiness rose in Arlette’s chest. ‘Don’t look so surprised. You did bring me to London so where else would I be?’

‘Back at Mayfield Hall.’

She shook her head, her eyes clouding with sadness. ‘No. Father died soon after we left and as far as we know, Thomas is still on Barbados—at least that is what we think. Nothing has been heard of him since he was taken prisoner. I am anxious about him. I hate to think some ill has befallen him.’

William frowned. ‘I understand your concern. I, too, expected some news of him before now.’

‘The house and estate have been confiscated. Hopefully things will change now the monarchy has been restored.’

‘Every Royalist has the same hopes.’ He fell silent, looking at her as if he could not get enough of her. ‘You look well, Arlette, so grown up and élégante. Life and London obviously agrees with you.’

‘I’m glad you think so and I like London very well,’ she admitted awkwardly, withdrawing her hand, annoyed with her attack of nervousness. ‘Although when I came here I found it all so confusing at first.’

‘And you became settled with your sister and her husband.’

‘Yes, but I missed my father and my home terribly.’

‘And have they prospered under the yoke of Cromwell?’

‘There were times when things were difficult. When war broke out Richard turned a healthy profit in the wool trade—all those woollen uniforms—but after Worcester everything changed, for everyone, not just Richard. In the beginning I found it strange living in such a strict household—although now I don’t hold a candle for either party as long as there is some form of normality and no more wars. Whatever Richard’s true feelings his business and his home have survived intact and unmolested, although money is in short supply at present.’ Her lips twisted with irony. ‘My brother-in-law has double standards. He trims his cloth to the wind. After the death of Cromwell and thinking the King might be restored, he has become more tolerant in his dealings. Parliament man he may be, but he will not be averse to selling silks and velvets to Royalists in the name of business.’

‘A wise man knows where his allegiances lie in times like these.’

‘That may be so, but Richard is still of the opinion that all pleasures such as music and dancing are the work of the devil.’

‘Let us hope that now the King has come home we will see better times.’

His voice was gentle. It was smooth and deep and wrapped itself winningly around his words and his powerful charm and manner radiated a rapier-sharp intelligence. Arlette was mesmerised. Lithe, tall and extremely handsome, she had no doubt there were plenty of ladies who would find him attractive. There was a vigorous purposefulness about him that bespoke impatience and an active life. With his lively eyes and quick smile, his face demanded attention and respect. The young William Latham she had once known with the boyish good looks had become a man. He presented a dazzling figure, yet there were harsh lines on his face and a tension in his manner that suggested some kind of struggle unrelieved by his return to England. His gaze scanned her face and swept down her body. Self-consciously she ran her hands down her skirts and tried to restore her wayward golden hair to some order. Confused and strangely vulnerable, she averted her eyes.

‘I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a disadvantage. I’m not normally so dishevelled.’

He glanced down at his own clothes, travel-stained and creased from being so long on the road. ‘And neither am I. Having been on the road since early morning, I am somewhat discomposed myself.’

‘Is this the first time you have been back to England since you went to France?’

‘It is. Nine long years—it seems like a lifetime. I wasn’t alone. It wasn’t what any of us would have chosen—we had no choice.’

‘And what did you do for nine years, William? Did you spend all your time in Paris, enjoying all the gaieties that city has to offer?’

He laughed. ‘No, far from it. When I arrived there it didn’t take long before boredom set in. Along with many others who were not prepared to see out their exile in idleness, I went to the Low Countries with the King, who founded a regiment of guards under the command of his brother, the Duke of York. We went into service under the Spanish flag.’

‘So your fighting did not cease when you left England,’ she said, curious to know more about those missing years in William’s life and wondering what he had got up to when he left for France. She had the feeling that the adventure he had embarked upon was not all he hoped it would be.

‘No. The regiment saw much service and too many deaths. Too many. It’s not always easy to be a soldier and a survivor. I may still be alive, but I have lost all that is important to me. My mother passed away and my sister married a Frenchman.’

‘I’m so sorry, William. That must have been difficult for you.’

He nodded, his expression sombre. ‘It’s a hollow victory over death—but I am grateful to be alive. I’m home now—one of the lucky ones.’

He fell silent, seeming to lose himself in his thoughts.

‘William?’ She touched his arm. It was the merest touch, but she might as well have branded him with a hot iron.

He forced himself back to the present and turned his gaze on her. ‘Like every other Royalist who has been plotting towards this end, there are many things that need to be done. I’m tired of wandering. My years of fighting and adventure are over, but I never had any doubt in my mind about the justice of the King’s cause. It is time to stop dwelling in the past and concentrate on the present and the future. From this day I intend to live out the rest of my life in England and never again pick up my sword in anger.’

‘You will find much has changed.’

‘I don’t doubt it—although things could not have turned out better. It is fortunate that the King has come back to where he belongs. Are you enjoying the celebrations?’

‘Yes. We are staying with Richard’s sister overnight.’

‘And Hester? She is well?’

‘Yes, she is. Speaking of Hester, I should be getting back. She will miss me and scold me most severely because I left the house.’

‘Of course. Come, I’ll escort you.’

Curling his right arm around her shoulders, he casually guided her towards the house. Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips.

‘I shall be in London for a while, Arlette. I’ll call on you later and I would like to pay my respects to Hester and her husband. I did not meet Richard when I brought you, which is probably as well. As a malignant he might very well have had me arrested.’

‘I’d like to think not. You did my father a great service and I know Hester was most grateful.’ She smiled up at him. ‘Goodbye, William. If you are able, you would be welcome at the celebrations later.’

Standing in the doorway for one last glimpse of him, she noted that he moved with a casual grace and an air of authority that she had not encountered in anyone before. Deliriously happy, she almost skipped into the house.

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