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The Vagabond Duchess
Claire Thornton
He'd promised to returnBut Jack Bow is dead. And Temperance Challinor's quietly respectable life is changed forever.Practical Temperance has no time to grieve for the irresistible rogue who gave her one night of comfort in a blazing city. She must protect her unborn child–by pretending to be Jack's widow.A foolproof plan. Until she arrives at Jack's home…and the counterfeit widow of a vagabond becomes the real wife of a very much alive duke!



Temperance hardly heard the duchess as she gazed unseeingly at the carved legs of the desk, finally allowing herself to believe Jack was alive.
Joyful excitement suddenly bloomed in her heart. She would see Jack again. She would!
New energy surged through her. She leaped to her feet—
And stumbled with shock as she registered what else the duchess had said.
“Your son?”
“Yes, he’s my son.”
“B-but…”
“Sometimes he calls himself Jack Bow,” said the duchess. “
But his full name is John Beaufleur, second Duke of Kilverdale.”

Praise for Claire Thornton
THE DEFIANT MISTRESS
“If you are looking for something decidedly out of the ordinary, this novel is worth checking out.
—All About Romance
“Sweeps readers from Cromwell’s London to France, Italy and back…colorful backdrop, varied settings and vivid details.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
RAVEN’S HONOR
“Claire Thornton has written an exciting historical unlike anything I’ve read this past year…. I highly recommend this intoxicating love story.”
—Romance Junkies
GIFFORD’S LADY
“Claire Thornton is truly gifted in creating stories that are so unusual—with charismatic characters, intriguing plots and subtle humor. Her hero steps off the page and into your heart with his bravery and sensibilities.”
—Romance Junkies
“[Abigail] and Gif share a wonderfully tender and intimate love scene that’s one of the best I have read this year…. It’s a standout.”
—All About Romance

The Vagabond Duchess
Claire Thornton


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Author Note
The stories in the CITY OF FLAMES trilogy take place during the reign of Charles II. This was an era of great color, drama and variety. The king scandalized some of his subjects with his many mistresses, but his reign also saw the emergence of modern banking among the London goldsmiths. Actresses appeared for the first time in London theaters, while members of the Royal Society met every week to witness scientific experiments.
Athena Fairchild, Colonel Jakob Balston and the Duke of Kilverdale are cousins, but they’ve led very different lives. Athena grew up in England, Jakob in Sweden, and Kilverdale spent his childhood exiled in France as a result of the war between Charles I and Parliament.
The cousins’ romances take place in various locations, but London is at the heart of the CITY OF FLAMES trilogy. The cousins all meet the one they love in the city—although Athena’s happiness is destroyed almost before it begins.
Athena’s story, The Defiant Mistress begins in May 1666 in Venice and the events span the rest of the summer. Jakob’s story, The Abducted Heiress, and Kilverdale’s story, The Vagabond Duchess, both begin in London at the start of September 1666. In the early hours of the morning of 2 September, a fire in Pudding Lane will burn out of control….
While I was writing these books I fell in love with the characters and their world. I hope you enjoy reading their stories as much as I enjoyed writing them.



Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue

Prologue
The Palace of Whitehall, London, April 1666
A French youth sang a love song. A group of courtiers played basset around a large table, gambling huge sums with fashionable disregard for the consequences. The King lounged at his ease, amused by the clever, cynical conversation of his noble companions.
The Earl of Swiftbourne stood aloof from the clamour around him. He was nearly half a century too old to be part of the circle of witty young men who entertained the king, and too hard-headed to risk his fortune at the gambling table. He owed his status at court to the fact he’d been one of the men, along with the Duke of Albemarle, who’d helped Charles regain his throne. Swiftbourne was well aware royal gratitude could be fickle, but he was adept at navigating the hazards associated with power. For the time being, he was confident his position was secure.
A few feet away from Swiftbourne, an aristocratic rogue was trying to seduce one of the ladies of the court. From the tone of her responses, Swiftbourne judged the rogue was close to success. He ignored the couple as he focussed on the group around the King. His grandson, John Beaufleur, the Duke of Kilverdale, was among them.
Kilverdale was just short of twenty-six and in the prime of his youth and power. He looked every inch the courtier in his periwig, silk brocade coat and Venetian lace, but he also had the manners and intelligence necessary to hold his own in the Court of Charles II. It was an environment where little was sacred and noble poets could shred the reputation of a rival with a few anonymously circulated verses.
Kilverdale had been the target of such satires in the past, but now he was doing nothing more scandalous than asking the King’s permission to leave the country.
‘A retreat! Kilverdale seeks a retreat because he has been over-matched by Rochester’s wit!’ Fotherington exclaimed.
Swiftbourne controlled a scornful curl of his lip. The youthful Rochester was a fine poet and a brilliant conversationalist, but he did not intimidate Kilverdale. Swiftbourne was confident his grandson could match wits or swords with any man present should the need arise.
‘I must fetch my cousin from the English convent at Bruges, your Majesty,’ Kilverdale said.
‘A nun, by God!’ said Fotherington.
‘She is a guest of the nuns,’ Kilverdale said, continuing to address the King.
‘I visited the convent at Bruges myself, when I was on my travels,’ said Charles. ‘Remember me to the Abbess.’
Kilverdale bowed gracefully in acknowledgement of the request. His expression, as so often, was courteously unreadable. Swiftbourne knew the English nuns on the continent had done a great deal to help the King’s cause when he was in exile. The Abbess might justifiably have expected a little more from Charles than his remembrances now.
‘Is she beautiful?’ asked Fotherington. ‘I have heard rumours her name is Athena and your mother sent her to the nuns because she is so beautiful.’
‘You must present her to us,’ said the King, his interest caught.
‘I thank your Majesty for your kindness. She will be honoured to attend Court—but I must present her to my mother first,’ Kilverdale replied. ‘Athena has lived retired from the world for several years. She must become accustomed to society by degrees.’
‘Is she an heiress?’ asked one of the fops crowding around.
‘That depends on the quality of the man who courts her,’ Kilverdale said, a cold glint in his eye.
The fop opened his mouth and then shut it again. It was well known that, unlike many of the debt-ridden noblemen adorning Charles’s court, Kilverdale’s title was backed by a large fortune. The implication in his words was clear—if he approved a suitor for his cousin’s hand, he would bestow a dowry on her. If he didn’t approve of the man, he would be ruthless in preventing access to his cousin.
Of course, Kilverdale’s cousin was also Swiftbourne’s granddaughter, but Swiftbourne had no intention of interfering with Kilverdale’s plans for her. Athena had been living in the convent to hide from her abusive husband, but she’d recently been widowed. It seemed Kilverdale had decided it was time for her to return to England and make a more satisfactory second marriage. Despite his sometimes eccentric reputation, the Duke had always had a well-developed sense of responsibility for those who depended upon him. Swiftbourne was curious to discover what kind of matchmaker his grandson would prove. So far he’d been notably reluctant to enter marriage negotiations on his own behalf.
Kilverdale took formal leave of the King and turned to make his way out of the chamber. As he did so he looked straight at his grandfather for the first time.
Even after fifteen years it still shocked Swiftbourne to be confronted by that flat, hard gaze. There were times when he was convinced Kilverdale hated him, other times when he was sure ruthlessly controlled rage seethed behind the polite stare. And sometimes he caught glimpses of the devastated eleven-year-old boy whose world had been overturned by a few short words. It was those occasions Swiftbourne found most disturbing, though he always concealed his feelings behind the impenetrable mask of the professional diplomat.
‘My lord.’ Kilverdale paused to acknowledge his grandfather. ‘I am glad to see you in good health.’
‘Thank you,’ said Swiftbourne, allowing just a touch of irony to shade his cool response. ‘It’s an inconvenient time to cross the channel, now we’re at war with the French as well as the Dutch.’
Kilverdale raised one eyebrow. ‘I dare say the enemy will come to more harm than I if we encounter each other,’ he replied. ‘Good evening, my lord.’
‘Good evening.’ Swiftbourne watched Kilverdale walk away. Two sons and a grandson had already predeceased him—he did not wish to receive the news of this grandson’s death. Of all his children and grandchildren, Kilverdale was the one who most resembled him. Swiftbourne had survived seventy-four years with his health and wits intact and his fortune significantly enlarged. He comforted himself with the thought Kilverdale was more than capable of equalling that achievement.
Kilverdale was approached several times as he made his way out by his friends—or those who sought his friendship. Swiftbourne watched with cynical amusement as one enterprising girl nearly tripped up at Kilverdale’s feet in her efforts to catch his eye. It was far from the first time such a thing had happened. The young, unmarried and wealthy duke had been a target for matchmaking parents and ambitious daughters ever since he’d returned to England six years earlier.
Kilverdale restored the girl’s balance with a deft gesture, spoke a few coolly courteous words and moved on. The next attempt to waylay him was far more determined. The Earl of Windle stepped away from the basset table and moved directly in front of Kilverdale. Even at this distance Swiftbourne could see the bullish expression on Windle’s face. It was well known the Earl’s fortune was in a desperate state. His plans for recovery centred on finding a rich husband for his daughter. At first he’d tried to lure Kilverdale into marriage negotiations. Recently his attempts at persuasion had become less subtle. Swiftbourne began to stroll towards the two men.
‘I regret I do not have time to linger tonight, my lord,’ Kilverdale said.
‘You can spare the time to take some wine with me, I’m sure, your Grace,’ Windle replied unctuously.
‘Unfortunately not. I’m bound for Flanders at first light,’ said Kilverdale. ‘I—’ His eyes narrowed as Windle caught his coat sleeve.
The Earl flushed angrily, but released his grip. He was naturally inclined to be a bully, but Kilverdale’s prowess with a sword was too well known for Windle to risk forcing a quarrel on the Duke. ‘I will be pleased to travel with you to the coast so we can conclude our discussions before you leave,’ he said.
‘I do not recall starting a discussion with you that cannot be concluded with a simple “good evening”,’ Kilverdale said, turning away.
‘By God, Kilverdale, you must take a wife soon!’ exclaimed Fotherington. ‘Why not Windle’s daughter?’ He glanced between the two men, clearly hoping his meddling would incite some entertaining fireworks.
‘With all due courtesy to the Lady Anne, I am already committed to another,’ Kilverdale snapped. ‘Good night, my lords.’ He turned on his heel and strode out before any of them could respond.
After a second’s shock Swiftbourne found himself the focus of all eyes. He’d been as startled as the rest of them by his grandson’s announcement, but his expression remained impassive as he said, ‘Do not expect me to reveal Kilverdale’s secrets, gentleman. No doubt he will provide further enlightenment when it suits him.’
‘Are you in his confidence, my lord?’ Fotherington asked. ‘I had not realised you were on such warm terms with him these days.’
Swiftbourne raised an eyebrow. ‘I am pleased to assure you that Kilverdale and I enjoy terms of more than adequate warmth, sir,’ he said, and took even more pleasure in the way Fotherington wilted under his icy gaze.
There was a sudden commotion at the basset table as one of the players won a considerable sum. It was a signal for a general regrouping and a few moments later Swiftbourne discovered the King at his elbow.
‘Committed to a bride, or a paramour?’ Charles asked, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. ‘Either will be something of a novelty for Kilverdale—if there was any truth in what he said to Windle. Let us hope he returns swiftly to Court so we can enjoy the next act in this drama.’

Chapter One
London, Friday 31, August 1666
T emperance kept a wary eye on her surroundings as she followed the link boy through the dark streets. It was nearly midnight, and the bustling daytime crowds had long since gone home. Normally she would never venture out so late, but business had been slow all summer. She could not afford to lose the potential sale at the end of this journey. She listened for threatening sounds in the shadows and kept a firm grip on the stout stick she held by her side. She maintained an equally firm hold on the carefully packed goods she carried in her other arm.
The link boy stopped abruptly, lifting his torch to illuminate the sign of the Dog and Bone tavern. Temperance was so startled by the snarling beast revealed in the flickering light she took an involuntary step backwards.
‘Here you are,’ said the boy.
Temperance released a careful breath. After a second glance, she decided the sign was badly painted, not deliberately vicious. All the same, she wished her apprentice hadn’t been taken sick that afternoon. If Isaac hadn’t been near blind from the pain in his head, he could have come with her. His presence would have increased her status in the eyes of her potential customer.
She slipped the stick through a side opening in her skirts and hung it from a concealed belt. She took a coin from the pocket, which was also hidden beneath her skirts, and gave it to the link boy. Then she braced herself and pushed open the tavern door.
A thick fog of wine and tobacco fumes and too many closely packed bodies rushed out to greet her. Temperance stepped inside, realising at once that something unusual was happening. She’d anticipated the unpleasant smells. She hadn’t expected to be presented with an impenetrable wall of male shoulders the moment she stepped over the threshold. The men were all looking at something she couldn’t see, and blocking her from moving any further into the room. For an alarming moment she thought they might be watching a fight.
Her first instinct was to leave. She’d rather lose the sale than risk being caught up in a brawl. Then she realised the mood of the crowd was good humoured. She edged further into the room, trying to see what the men were looking at. She was tall enough to peer over the shoulders of most of those blocking her view, but the crowd was a couple of rows deep. Heads kept getting in her way. It was infuriating.
At last she tapped on the shoulder of one of the men. When he looked around, his eyes widened in surprise. She was about to ask him where the tavern keeper was, but he grinned and said, ‘Can’t see, lass? I’ll wager you’ll take more pleasure in looking than most of us will. Come through.’ He stepped back so she could move in front of him.
Temperance hesitated for half a second. It wasn’t sensible to let herself be hemmed in by a crowd of strangers—but curiosity got the better of her. With a murmur of thanks she accepted his offer. From her new position she could see all attention was focussed on a figure sitting near the unlit hearth. She’d just noticed he was holding a lute when he began to play. The crowd immediately fell silent.
At first Temperance couldn’t believe it. What kind of musician could hold a tavern of drinking men in thrall at nearly midnight? But after a few moments the music reached out to her, drawing her in as surely as it held the rest of the audience. She craned to one side, trying to get a better look at him. She saw a head of black hair and the flash of a white shirt before someone got in her way.
Then he began to sing. To her astonishment, she felt goose bumps rise all over her body. His voice curled deep down inside her, stirring nameless urges so intimate and disturbing part of her wanted to run away and hide. The rest of her wanted to get a lot closer. Such a thing had never happened to her before. Half-angry at her inexplicable reaction, but unable to deny her compulsion to look at the singer, she pushed forward until she was at the front of the standing crowd.
She clutched her bundle against her chest and stared at the musician. His black hair nearly reached his shoulders. It glowed like a raven’s wing in the candlelight, but it didn’t look as if it had ever been tamed by a barber. He’d taken off his coat, and his white shirt was open at the neck. She was fascinated by the movement of his strong throat as he sang. Her fingertips tingled with the urge to touch him there. To explore beneath the plain white linen.
When she became aware of the improper nature of her thoughts she flushed and directed her attention elsewhere. It didn’t help much. The soft linen revealed the breadth of his shoulders, and he’d pushed his sleeves back to his elbows. She watched the play of sinews in his forearm as his long fingers plucked the strings. He had clever hands, she thought dazedly, watching the swift surety with which his left hand moved over the neck of the lute. It was both exciting and unsettling to watch him play with such skill. The room seemed even hotter than it had a few moments ago.
He lifted his head and glanced around his audience. His dark brown eyes were set deep under black brows. He had a nose like a hawk, cheekbones to match and more than one day’s growth of stubble on his strong jaw. His voice might hold the allure of a fallen angel, enticing her to commit all kinds of sinful folly, but he looked like a vagabond.
His gaze passed over her in the crowd then returned to focus upon her face. His eyes locked with hers. Temperance stood rooted to the spot. He had seen her. His dark eyes seemed to pierce straight to her heart. A hot wave of self-conscious awareness rolled over her.
Just for a second she thought she heard a slight hesitation in his supple voice. Then she was sure she’d imagined it, because he continued to sing with utter confidence—and his lips curved in a small, but unmistakeably arrogant smile.
That smile jarred her out of her stupefaction. No doubt he took it for granted he could turn a woman’s knees weak with a simple song. He was surely a seducer and a vagabond who left broken hearts and lives behind him without a qualm. Temperance wrenched her gaze away from him, furious and embarrassed she’d fallen under his spell for even a few seconds. She gripped her bundle of goods so tightly her knuckles turned white.
She refused to look at the musician again, but she couldn’t stop listening. It was an irritating, tormenting pleasure. She wanted to listen to him, she just didn’t want to feed his arrogance by seeming to enjoy his song. She stared at the fireplace to one side of the musician and pretended she was indifferent to him. To her indignation a note of humour crept into his voice. Even though the taproom was full of people, she was certain he was singing to her—and laughing at her. It was insufferable. She glared at the mantelpiece. In an effort to distract herself she focussed on a crack in the plaster of the chimney breast, allowing her eyes to follow it all the way up to the ceiling. The amusement in his voice grew more pronounced; even the lute seemed to be laughing at her as he plucked a lively, teasing melody from its strings.
She realised too late it must have looked as if she’d stuck her chin in the air in response to his initial amusement. Very slowly, by casual degrees, she allowed her gaze to drop until she was once more looking at the mantelpiece. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead and hoped the song would soon come to an end. How many verses did it have? Was he even singing the same song he’d started with? Or had he slid seamlessly into another one so he could deliberately prolong her discomfort? She stopped looking at the mantelpiece and stared at him suspiciously.
The fellow had the gall to grin at her! His fingers didn’t fluff a single note and his voice remained perfectly in tune—but he grinned at her!
How dare he! The urge to box his over-confident ears was almost too strong to resist. She imagined a discordant jangle and the pleasing sight of the dark-eyed vagabond wearing a necklace of lute strings and small fragments of wood around his cocksure neck.
A man beside her chuckled.
‘Jack Bow is singing for more than his supper now,’ he murmured. ‘Does he take your fancy, lass? You’ve surely taken his.’
‘No!’ Temperance’s denial emerged more forcefully than she’d intended. She saw several heads turn to look at her, and some men began to smile in an obnoxiously knowing way.
Her skin burned. She forgot her reason for coming to the tavern. All she wanted to do was remove herself from the mortifying situation at once. She was about to push through the crowd to the door when the musician ended the song with a flourish.
He was rewarded with applause and whistles. Several men called out to him, offering to buy him a drink. For a moment Temperance lost sight of him as the tavern patrons moved into new positions. She belatedly realised she wasn’t the only woman in the room—though at this hour of the night she was most likely the only respectable woman present. And she was only here because the plague that had devastated London the previous year had been so bad for business. The City was almost back to normal now, but if Temperance was to restore her shop to a sound footing she needed every sale she could make.
Where was the gentleman whose servant had roused her to wait on his master? She resisted the urge to glance in the direction of the singer and instead tried to locate the tavern keeper.
A door on the far side of the taproom crashed open. Temperance couldn’t see who came out, but then an irritable voice shouted, ‘Where the hell’s the draper I sent for?’
Temperance pushed her way towards her still-unseen customer. When she got closer she saw he’d just emerged from a private room that led off from the main taproom. He was a fashionably dressed young man, but his clothes were the worse for wear. He was also at least two inches shorter than Temperance.
He scowled at her when she stopped in front of him.
‘I want a draper, not an overgrown doxy,’ he said.
Temperance swallowed an angry response. His appearance was at least as unappealing as hers. Worse, in fact. She might be unusually tall and no great beauty, but at least she was sober and well groomed and didn’t wantonly insult strangers.
‘I am the draper,’ she said coldly. ‘Your man said you want a length of linen and a length of muslin.’
‘You have them?’ His red-rimmed eyes focussed on the bundle in her arms. ‘Show me.’ He stepped back into his private room and she had no choice but to follow.
She didn’t particularly want to do business in public, nor did she relish the thought of being alone with this well-born lout—but when she entered the smaller chamber she saw he had a friend with him.
‘Has that damned caterwauling finally stopped, Tredgold?’ the other man demanded.
Temperance bristled with indignation at the insult to the musician. Caterwauling? The dark-eyed vagabond might be as arrogant as the devil, but he had the finest voice she’d ever heard, and his musicianship was remarkable.
‘Give me the linen.’ Tredgold grabbed the bundle of goods from her arms and tore it open.
‘Be careful!’ Temperance protested, as the piece of muslin fell into a puddle of liquid on the floor.
Her customer ignored both her and the muslin. He shook out the length of linen and tossed it over his head. Temperance watched in disbelief as he stuck his arms out and swayed from side to side. Then he started to moan and groan.
‘OoooOOOOooooOOOOoooo…Arghhhh…. OOOooooooOOO!’
His friend stared at him with an open mouth for several seconds, then clutched his head and cowered in his seat.
‘Oh! Oh, I’m so scared. Oh, my poor heart! Oh, I’m dead!’ At his last dramatic exclamation, he collapsed sideways, disappearing from view beneath the edge of the table.
Temperance’s own heart thudded with alarm and confusion. For an instant she almost thought he really was dead, then she realised he had been sitting on a high-backed bench. He’d just fallen sideways on it. Now he was lying there, laughing like a lunatic.
‘Do you think it will work?’ Tredgold demanded.
‘The old goat might die of laughter—but not fear,’ his friend replied, sitting up again. ‘Whoever heard of a ghost with brown velvet arms? If you take off all your clothes and wrap the linen around you, you could pretend you’ve risen from the grave. That might work.’
‘Hmm.’ Tredgold threw the length of linen across the table—where it soaked up some spilled wine—and took off his coat. For a horrified moment Temperance thought he was going to disrobe further but, to her relief, he seemed content to experiment in his shirt sleeves and breeches. He wrapped the linen around himself in untidy folds.
‘Give me the muslin, wench,’ he ordered, pointing at where it still lay on the floor.
Temperance handed it to him and hastily stepped back. He twisted it round his upper body and head and turned back to his companion.
‘Now what do you think?’
‘I’ve never seen a corpse wrapped in pink,’ said his friend, looking at the spreading wine stains on both the muslin and the linen.
‘It’s blood, of course!’ Tredgold said impatiently.
‘Not that colour. You’ll never frighten the old man to death in pink muslin.’
‘What are you trying to do?’ Temperance asked.
‘Scare his grandfather into his grave,’ the friend said.
‘What?’
‘He’s nearly ninety. Until he dies I can’t claim my inheritance,’ Tredgold said as if he had a genuine grievance.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself!’ Temperance exploded. ‘I won’t be party to such an evil scheme. Take off the linen at once!’
‘I am taking it off,’ Tredgold snarled. ‘It’s not going to work. I’ll have to think of something else.’ He tossed the fabric on the floor, flung himself into a chair, and poured some more wine.
Temperance stared at the stained, crumpled cloth. She couldn’t sell it to another customer now.
‘You must pay for the goods you have spoiled,’ she said, trying to control her anger.
Tredgold laughed. ‘I’m not paying for those useless rags.’
‘I did not bring you rags. I brought you lengths of fine linen and muslin—as you requested,’ Temperance said. ‘It is you who have ruined them. You must pay for what you have played with and spoiled.’
Tredgold raised his eyebrows superciliously, allowing his gaze to move up and down Temperance’s body in an insulting assessment. Then he shrugged one shoulder. ‘Send your master to claim his dues,’ he said. He turned away from her, tilting his chair on to its back legs as he reached for the wine jug.
Temperance kicked the nearest chair leg as hard as she could. Tredgold crashed backwards with a shout of alarm. The wine jug flew into the air, its contents drenching Tredgold and splashing Temperance’s skirt. It hit the edge of the table, then smashed to the floor.
Temperance stood over Tredgold as he blinked up at her. Her heart was pounding, but she was far too angry to be afraid.
‘You will pay me,’ she said. ‘Get up and give me the money.’
Tredgold stared at her for a few seconds, then his dazed expression turned spiteful.
‘You bitch!’ he raged. ‘I’ll teach you—’
She took a step back, reaching through the slit in her skirt for her stick. She was taller than Tredgold, but under no illusion she could match his strength.
Tredgold disentangled himself from the chair and staggered to his feet. He was too dazed to move quickly. There was time for Temperance to flee, but it wasn’t in her nature to run away. She cursed her decision to come to the tavern, but she held her stick by her side and kept her watchful attention on Tredgold and his friend.
Tredgold shook his head and winced. Then, without warning, he lunged towards her.
She only just had time to lift her stick and jab him in the stomach. He swore and reeled away. He hadn’t realised she was armed.
Temperance released a jerky breath. The first victory was hers. But though the stick extended her reach, she hadn’t managed to get as much power behind her blow as she’d hoped. Tredgold wasn’t incapacitated, and now he was forewarned.
Since there was no further need to conceal the stick she held it in both hands in front of her, ready to defend herself from Tredgold’s next attack.
He came at her in a rush, faster than she’d expected, his mouth drawn back in a snarl of rage. Both fists were raised—
The next instant he was spun around and slammed back into the edge of the heavy table. The table screeched across the floorboards until it hit the end wall. The vagabond musician had come to Temperance’s aid. Now he waited, a mocking smile on his lips, for Tredgold to recover.
Tredgold leant on the table, his head bowed over his braced arms as he took several heaving breaths. Suddenly he reared up and around with a feral growl. He threw a wild punch, which the musician easily avoided. He blocked another flailing punch, then replied with a blow of his own that laid Tredgold cold on the wine-soaked floorboards.
Temperance started breathing again, her wits slowly catching up with events. She didn’t know when the musician had entered the side room. She’d only become aware of him after his lightning intervention saved her from Tredgold’s charging attack. She stared at him. He looked back at her, absently flexing his left hand, the one he’d used to hit Tredgold. Apart from that small gesture he seemed unperturbed by the brief, violent incident.
Temperance’s thoughts and emotions were in total disorder. She should be making a dignified exit from the tavern, but she kept staring at the musician. It was the first time she’d seen him standing up. He was a couple of inches taller than her own five feet ten inches. It was so rare for her to have to look up to meet a man’s eyes, she couldn’t stop looking. He was lean-limbed and graceful, but there was unmistakeable power in his broad shoulders. Even dressed only in shirt and breeches with his hair ungroomed and his chin unshaven, he was the finest figure of a man she’d ever laid eyes on.
His mouth quirked up at the corners as if he was well aware of her admiration.
She jerked her gaze away from him.
‘Cocksure,’ she muttered, annoyed with him for being so arrogant and with herself for being so easily bedazzled.
He grinned. ‘What does he owe you?’ he asked, indicating Tredgold with a nod of his head.
‘For the linen and muslin,’ Temperance replied, trying to collect her wits. Even when she was still half-dazed with shock she was determined the musician understood she was a respectable tradeswoman. ‘He ruined them.’
‘How much?’ The musician searched for and found Tredgold’s purse.
‘Hey!’ Tredgold’s friend exclaimed.
‘How much?’ The musician looked at Temperance, ignoring the half-hearted protest.
She told him, and watched as he counted out the coins in full view of Tredgold’s friend.
‘There,’ he said to the gape-mouthed youth. ‘You can tell him you witnessed a fair accounting of his debts when he recovers.’ Tredgold was already stirring and groaning. The musician dropped the purse on to his stomach and gave Temperance the price of her linen and muslin.
‘Thank you.’ She blinked at the coins, hardly able to believe she’d been paid after all.
‘And now I’ll escort you home,’ said the musician.
‘Escort me?’ Temperance looked up. ‘Oh, no, sir, there is no need—’
‘Are you not here alone? If you have an escort, he did a poor job of protecting you,’ the musician said.
‘My apprentice is sick,’ said Temperance, standing straighter as she consciously gathered her dignity and authority. ‘I will hire a link boy—’
‘Certainly,’ said the musician. ‘And I will escort you.’ He headed for the taproom as he spoke. The watching men fell back to allow him easy passage.
Temperance followed him. She had no choice. He’d created the only clear path through the room. But she couldn’t help being exasperated at the way the men parted for him just like the red sea had parted before Moses. After all, he was…
‘Just a man who doesn’t own a comb,’ she muttered. And nearly bumped into him when he stopped suddenly.
He grinned at her over his shoulder. ‘But I do have a useful left,’ he said. ‘And I’m even better with my sword. I doubt a comb would be much protection against footpads.’
Temperance opened her mouth, then closed it again. However much she wanted to put him in his place, she couldn’t forget he’d saved her from Tredgold’s attack, and made sure she was paid for the spoiled goods. She was in the musician’s debt.
She watched as he buckled on a sword belt with a brisk familiarity that suggested he was indeed competent with the weapon.
‘Are you a soldier?’ she asked.
‘A soldier?’ He quirked an eyebrow at her. ‘No. The only cause I’ve ever fought for is my own.’
One of the men in the crowd laughed. ‘Jack Bow’s a soldier of fortune, lass. He goes a-venturing with his sword and his lute. He’s got a host of tales to tell about the far-off lands he’s visited.’
‘Oh.’ Temperance’s gaze focussed on the musician’s hands as she considered that unsettling information. It sounded as if he was a mercenary. He’d saved her from Tredgold when there were witnesses to applaud his actions, but was it wise to be alone with such a man in the dark city streets?
‘I’m afraid there are no interesting adventures to be had in Cheapside,’ she said, making a final, half-hearted attempt to dissuade him from escorting her. ‘You will be very bored, sir.’
‘The man hasn’t been born who could be bored in your company, sweetheart,’ he replied, shrugging into a plain olive-green coat. He slung his lute case over his back and grinned at her dumbfounded expression. ‘Let’s go.’
Temperance followed him out of the tavern. ‘I am not your sweetheart!’ she said as soon as the door closed behind them.
‘So where is your man?’ asked Jack Bow. ‘The one with the right to call you sweetheart?’
‘There isn’t one,’ said Temperance. Her public status as a virtuous spinster was essential to her continuing right to trade in the City as a member of the Drapers’ Company. It didn’t occur to her until too late that she should have been more circumspect with this stranger.
‘Why not?’ he asked.
‘Why…? That’s none of your business.’ She strode off down the road.
‘Such a pretty, hot-blooded wench must have suitors queuing at your door,’ he said, falling into step beside her. ‘Do you beat them off with that stick?’
‘Just because you helped me doesn’t give you the right to make fun of me!’ Temperance exclaimed. ‘Go away and vex someone else.’
‘Oh, sweetheart, the night’s young—and I haven’t finished vexing you yet,’ he replied. ‘You do respond so charmingly.’
‘What?’ She blinked at him in the darkness. ‘You are a cocksure knave. I don’t believe anyone who speaks so brazenly can possess a scrap of delicacy or proper modesty.’
He laughed.
Temperance walked faster.
‘What of father or brothers?’ he asked, easily keeping pace with her. ‘Why did they send you to answer Tredgold’s summons?’
To her surprise she detected an undercurrent of disapproval in his voice.
‘Surely a man of your ilk would have no qualms about sending a woman to the Dog and Bone?’ Temperance said, dodging his question. ‘It ill behoves you to criticise others.’
‘A man of my ilk…?’ he mused. ‘What a pretty picture you have of me. Are your menfolk sick or just lazy?’
‘Isaac is sick,’ said Temperance, uncertain what to make of his persistence. ‘Otherwise he would have come with me.’
‘And Isaac is?’
‘My apprentice.’
‘Your apprentice?’ he repeated. ‘You are the mistress?’ He laughed softly. ‘No wonder you did not take kindly to Tredgold’s insolence.’
‘It is my draper’s shop,’ Temperance said proudly. ‘I am my father’s only surviving child. I inherited it from him and I manage it in every particular. I do it very well.’ She refused to let her voice falter as she made the last statement. There were many things in her life she couldn’t claim, including a queue of suitors calling her sweet names, but she had worked hard to learn her father’s business. ‘I have no wish to marry and be ruled by a man.’
‘But you could continue to do business as a feme sole, could you not? As long as your husband had his own trade and took no part in yours?’
‘In certain circumstances. But if my husband wasn’t a freeman of the City I might lose the right to trade completely.’ Temperance paused, surprised by Jack Bow’s knowledge of City practices.
‘How do you know that?’ she demanded.
She sensed, rather than saw, his shrug. ‘My great-grandfather was a grocer,’ he replied. ‘I know a little about the customs of the City.’
‘A grocer! Why didn’t you follow in his footsteps? If you didn’t care to be a grocer, there are many trades in which a strong, quick-witted man can prosper.’
‘He died before I was born,’ Jack explained. ‘I followed in my father’s footsteps.’
‘And he was a rootless vagabond.’
Silence followed her hasty retort. As it lengthened she wished her words back. She hadn’t meant to insult a man she knew nothing about. There was something about Jack Bow that prompted her to speak far too recklessly.
‘I’m sorry—’ she began, wanting to apologise for her slight to his father, though she had no intention of softening her manner to Jack himself.
‘Uprooted,’ he said at the same instant. ‘Uprooted, not rootless. He knew where he came from. He was thwarted in his efforts to return there.’
‘I do not know him. I should not have said such a terrible thing,’ Temperance said.
‘Why not?’ said Jack. ‘It was me you were describing, not my father, after all.’
‘Well…’ Temperance swallowed. She could sense the change in Jack’s mood. For the first time humour was absent from his voice. He spoke quietly, with perhaps a hint of fatalism in his manner.
‘Where do you come from?’ she asked. The simple question took more courage than she’d anticipated.
‘Most recently from Venice—by way of Ostend and Dover,’ he replied. ‘I must have lost my comb along the way.’
‘Venice! Truly?’
‘Very truly,’ he said. ‘The biggest wild goose chase I’ve ever taken part in. I might as well have stayed in London and lined my barber’s pockets for all the good I achieved. What’s your name?’
‘Temperance,’ she began, disconcerted by the sudden question. ‘Temperance—’
‘Temperance?’ He started to laugh. ‘You were misnamed, sweetheart. Restraint of any kind seems to be completely alien to your character. Tempest would be far more apt.’

Chapter Two
Saturday 1 September 1666
I t was a warm, sunny afternoon as Jack strolled through the City. The wooden shutters of all the shops were opened for business. It was fortunate Cheapside was such a broad thoroughfare because in some cases the lower boards projected as much as two and half feet beyond the shop front. The upper shutters were raised to provide a modicum of protection for the goods displayed on the lower board. Shopkeepers stood or sat in their doorways to guard their goods and attract the attention of potential customers. Often it was women who occupied the carved seats in front of the shops. Cheapside was one of the fashionable meeting places in the City. It had become famous for the pretty tradesmen’s wives who bantered with the men-about-town sauntering past. More trestles and stalls were set up in the street itself, though hundreds of other sellers sold their wares from nothing more than a sack or a basket on the ground.
Jack was in no hurry. He paused to exchange compliments with the blue-eyed wife of a goldsmith, then strolled on a few more yards. He was taller than most of those around him, and an instant later he was grateful for the advantage it gave him. Coming towards him was the last man he wanted to meet in London or anywhere else. He ducked into the nearest shop, which happened to be a mercer’s, and watched the Earl of Windle walk past the door and on towards St Paul’s. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Windle since their encounter at Court six months ago. As far as Jack was concerned, the longer their next meeting was delayed the better.
He left the mercers and continued along Cheapside, his blood quickening in anticipation as he approached Temperance’s shop. He’d enjoyed his encounter with the hot-tempered draper the previous night. They were well matched in several pleasurable ways. For once he was in no danger of getting a crick in his neck when he talked to a woman. She wasn’t a classic beauty, but he’d felt the pull of attraction to her from the moment he saw her in the taproom. It had been impossible to miss her in the crowd. Her personality was so vivid that, even when she was standing quite still, her thoughts and emotions had been easy to read.
Most of all, he enjoyed the way she challenged him at every turn. She was very different from the women who tried to win his favour at Court. He could not imagine Temperance heaping him with false flattery or pretending to trip up at his feet to catch his attention. She’d thanked him for his help with Tredgold, but she clearly wasn’t the woman to gush her undying gratitude. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise him to discover she believed she’d been capable of dealing with the contretemps in the tavern on her own.
As he drew closer he saw the shutters of the draper’s shop were open and goods were laid out on the board, but Temperance wasn’t sitting in the doorway. Mildly surprised by her absence, Jack lengthened his stride.
‘Go back to bed, Isaac,’ said Temperance.
‘But, mistress, I must not shirk my work,’ he protested.
‘You are not shirking,’ she replied. ‘You spent all yesterday afternoon and most of the night groaning about the pain in your head or throwing up. You know when these headaches come upon you, you are fit for nothing the next day. Go upstairs and rest. I will expect you to work doubly hard on Monday.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ Even though he tried to hide it, she saw the relief in his face.
He was turning to the stairs when the light from the open doorway at the front was suddenly blocked. They both looked towards the customer.
The newcomer had his back to the light, and his appearance had changed in one, very startling way since she’d last seen him, but Temperance recognised Jack Bow immediately.
‘What have you done to your hair?’ The disconcerted question escaped before she had time to think better of it.
He grinned. ‘I traded it for someone else’s,’ he replied, stepping into the shop. ‘No doubt a buxom country lass was glad to sell these locks for a profit.’
He was wearing a black periwig. The hair was as black as his own but, instead of the wild, shaggy mane of the previous night, it fell in thick, graceful curls around his shoulders. It was longer than his own hair, and changed his appearance considerably. He was smooth shaven as well, and Temperance caught the faint scent of orange flower water when he moved. Today he looked far less like a rogue and a lot more like a gentleman. But he still wore the same travel-creased coat, and his lute case was slung across his back just as it had been when she’d last seen him. His hawklike nose and piercing eyes were those of a vagabond.
Her heart began to beat triple time. She was nervous and excited all at once. She wanted to invite him in. She wanted to send him on his way before he turned her life upside down. She was conscious of Isaac staring at her. For pride’s sake she wanted to treat Jack Bow like any other customer, but for several long seconds she couldn’t think of anything to say. All she could do was look at him.
He returned her gaze just as intently. She wasn’t used to such concentrated scrutiny from a man—not unless he was bargaining with her. But Jack Bow wasn’t looking at her like a tradesman. He was just…looking at her. Heat rolled over her body.
‘Mistress?’ Isaac said uncertainly.
With an effort Temperance wrenched her gaze from Jack’s face. She could see from Isaac’s expression that he was worried, unsure what he should do.
‘Go to bed,’ she said. Her voice didn’t sound as if it belonged to her.
‘Bed?’ said Jack. ‘It’s the middle of the afternoon.’
‘He is not well,’ Temperance defended her apprentice.
‘Ah.’ Jack’s shrewd gaze rested on Isaac for a few moments. He nodded as if accepting the accuracy of her claim. ‘You may safely obey your mistress, lad. I’ll not do her any harm.’
‘No, you won’t!’ Temperance retorted. ‘And I’ll thank you not to make so free with your orders in my shop, sir!’
Jack grinned. ‘Why don’t we step outside so you can keep an eye on your goods?’ he suggested.
Temperance followed him to the door as Isaac went upstairs. She looked across the width of board, automatically checking nothing had gone missing while her attention was elsewhere. She smoothed a piece of linsey-wolsey beneath her hands, then glanced up to see he was watching her with a half-smile on his lips.
‘Why were you so extravagant?’ she burst out. ‘There was nothing wrong with your hair. If you’d only combed and dressed it properly—’
‘Don’t you admire my new locks?’ His long fingers briefly caressed one of the black curls that lay against his shoulder. The gesture reminded her of the preening fops she sometimes saw strolling past her shop, but there was nothing remotely foppish about the wicked gleam in his dark eyes.
‘I suppose you’re bald underneath,’ she said, feeling disgruntled and not sure why.
‘Not quite. Are you regretting the lost opportunity to run your fingers through my hair? You should have mentioned your preference last night.’
‘Keep your voice down!’ Temperance ordered, alarmed at his indiscretion. She glanced around to see if anyone had heard him. Fortunately, Agnes Cruikshank, her neighbour to the left, was engaged with a customer.
‘Yes, Madam Tempest.’ Jack grinned.
‘All my cloth is of the finest quality,’ she declared. ‘Are you thinking of a new coat, sir? Something to do honour to your fine new hair. This pink would go nicely with the sweet little curls.’
‘Black or blue might be more appropriate,’ he mused, testing the quality of the fabric between his fingers and thumb. ‘To match my bruises when you pull out the stick banging against your thigh.’
‘I never beat my customers—’
‘Unless they refuse to pay,’ he reminded her.
‘I didn’t! I just kicked his chair. It was you who—’ She broke off. How on earth had he lured her into this ridiculous argument? But all he had to do was look at her with that exasperating, disturbing gleam in his eyes and she forgot all proper reticence.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.
‘I came to make sure you’re none the worse for your adventure last night.’
‘Thank you. As you can see, I am very well,’ Temperance replied, trying for a note of sedate formality.
‘Very well indeed,’ he said. ‘Your eyes are as clear as the summer sky…’
‘Blue,’ she said weakly.
‘Obviously, otherwise I’d have compared them to something else. And your hair…’
‘Brown,’ she said.
‘Are you determined to destroy the poetry of the moment?’ He frowned at her. ‘I am famous for my sonnets, you know.’
‘You are?’
‘Humorous, witty or romantic, as the occasion requires.’
‘I’ll bear you in mind, should I ever find myself in need of a rhyming couplet,’ Temperance said.
‘Excellent. Would you, perchance, accept a sonnet in praise of your beautiful eyes in exchange for a length of this nearly as fine blue broadcloth?’
‘No.’
Jack put one hand over his heart and assumed a pained expression. ‘You’re a hard woman to do business with, Mistress Tempest.’
‘I can’t buy coal with pretty compliments,’ she said, feeling flustered.
‘Have you ever tried? The coal merchant might be susceptible to cornflower blue.’
‘I don’t think so. He… You do talk nonsense!’ She pulled herself together.
He smiled, and butterflies swooped in Temperance’s stomach. His smile was quite different from his teasing grin. It revealed a kinder, quieter side of his personality and called forth a much more profound emotional response from her than his cocky grin.
‘How long have you been mistress here?’ he asked.
‘My father died nearly two years ago,’ she said.
‘A difficult time to take on such a responsibility.’
‘Yes.’ She pushed a strand of hair back from her face, her eyes unfocussed as she remembered that time.
‘Did you stay in London?’
‘During the plague?’ She glanced at him. ‘I had nowhere else to go. We all survived.’ She shuddered as she recalled some of the terrible things she’d seen. ‘But it does seem the worst is past now,’ she added optimistically. ‘And I pray it will not return.’
‘So do I,’ Jack said quietly.
‘Were you here then?’ She looked at him curiously.
He shook his head.
‘Venice?’ she asked, remembering his comment the previous night and wanting to lighten the mood. ‘Or some other exotic location?’
‘Last year I was very dull. I went to Bruges…Oxford…but mostly I stayed in Sussex.’
‘Oxford? The King and Court went to Oxford to escape the plague.’
‘So they did,’ Jack acknowledged with a half-smile.
‘Did you…? Have you ever played for the King?’ Temperance asked, and held her breath waiting for the answer. He would surely laugh at her for asking such a silly question. But he was such a fine musician she could easily imagine him entertaining kings and queens.
Jack grinned.
‘What does that smirk mean?’ she demanded.
‘The King has more appreciation for my sonnets than you do,’ he replied. ‘The witty ones at any rate. He particularly admired one I composed about a lady’s—’
‘Never mind,’ Temperance interrupted, sure it would be scandalous. ‘Have you really spoken to the King? Or are you just teasing me?’
Jack smiled his quiet smile. ‘I have spoken to the King,’ he said. ‘And played my lute for him. I’ve played for Louis too, though that was several years ago.’
‘Louis? The King of France?’ Temperance stared at him. ‘We’re at war with France.’
‘We weren’t when I attended the French Court,’ Jack replied. ‘But the war was a cursed inconvenience when I was making my way back from Venice this summer. I got stuck at Ostend, waiting for the packet boat to form part of a convoy. By the time I’d languished in an inn for several days I could hardly afford to pay my fare home.’
‘What did you do?’ Temperance was half-fascinated, half-horrified by his revelations. She couldn’t imagine anything more terrifying than being stranded so far from home.
‘Played my lute, of course.’ This time his grin was shot through with pure wickedness.
Temperance knew—she just knew—his next revelation would be outrageous, but she had to hear what he did next.
‘Did you convince the captain of the packet boat to exchange a sonnet for your passage?’ she asked.
‘No. It was the good housewives of Ostend who showed the greatest appreciation for my talents,’ he replied.
‘What?’ She looked at him warily. ‘They gave you money when you sang?’
‘Yes, they did,’ he recollected. ‘I was sitting on the beach and they came to watch and throw me coins. Then a couple of them invited me to go home with them—to sing for them privately. Because they so greatly admired my talents.’
‘You are a rogue and a scoundrel!’ Temperance wanted to cry.
‘Only if I accepted their invitations,’ he said.
‘I’m sure I don’t care to know how you paid your way home,’ she said coldly.
‘I was rescued by my cousin,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you sell me some of this blue cloth?’
‘Not for a sonnet. And after buying that ridiculous wig I doubt you’ve enough coins left.’ She crossed her arms and glared at him.
‘How much?’
When she grudgingly named a price he delved in his pocket and produced the necessary coins.
‘Cut me a length,’ he ordered.
‘Yes, sir.’ She mutinously complied.
He leant his hip against the edge of the board and watched her.
‘There I was, playing my lute to pay for my supper, wondering how I could afford the packet fare without sacrificing my virtue—’
‘Your virtue,’ Temperance exclaimed, then snapped her mouth shut.
‘Indeed. When who should I see approaching but my cousin. A splendid, prosperous fellow. It turned out he was waiting for the packet too. So I prevailed upon him to sponsor me.’
‘Really?’ Temperance didn’t even try to keep the scepticism out of her voice. ‘What a coincidence. What was your cousin doing in Ostend?’
‘He’d gone to visit another cousin of ours in Bruges. But she wasn’t there.’
‘She? You may cease with this nonsense.’ Temperance folded the broadcloth with quick, angry hands. ‘And pay for your purchase.’
‘I really do have several cousins.’ Jack’s eyes twinkled at her as he handed over the coins. ‘One of them was a guest at the English convent in Bruges for several years. It was her fault I went to Venice this summer. I went to Bruges in April to fetch her home and found she’d already left for Italy, so I had to follow her.’
Temperance held the folded cloth in front of her and looked at Jack. Was it possible he was telling her the truth? He’d already mentioned visiting Bruges, and he’d told her about his trip to Venice more than once.
‘Is your cousin a Catholic?’ she asked, noting his reference to the convent.
‘No. At least, she wasn’t when she first became a guest of the nuns. She may have become more sympathetic to their mode of worship over the past few years,’ Jack replied. ‘But I can assure you she doesn’t have horns and a tail.’ There was an unusually acerbic tone in his voice. ‘My other cousin, the one I travelled with to Dover, is a good Swedish Lutheran. No doubt far more acceptable to your English sensibilities.’
Temperance stared at him, trying to unravel everything he’d just said.
‘Aren’t you English?’ she said. ‘I thought you were. You sound like an Englishman. You said your great-grandfather was a grocer here in London.’
‘Yes, I’m English. By birth at least,’ he replied.
‘But you have a Swedish cousin?’
‘Half-Swedish. One of my uncles decided to make his fortune in Sweden and married a Swedish lady,’ Jack explained. It was only when she noticed a slight relaxation in his posture she realised he’d tensed in response to her earlier question.
‘Don’t you feel English?’ she asked.
‘No. Yes.’ He lifted one hand towards his head, then abruptly lowered it.
‘You nearly forgot it’s not your hair,’ she taunted gently. ‘If you hadn’t wasted your money, every time you feel frustrated you’d be able to tug at your hair to your heart’s content. As it is…’ She let the words fade aggravatingly away.
‘Why are you prejudiced against my handsome periwig?’ he demanded. ‘It is no different from that of any courtier—even the King himself. Would you make fun of his Majesty if he came to buy linen from you?’
‘Of course not. But you must cut your coat to fit your cloth.’
‘Very apt. Are you ever going to give it to me? Or just clutch it against your breast until Judgement Day?’
‘Are you thinking a gentlemanly appearance will help you win another audience with the King?’ Temperance asked, experiencing sudden enlightenment. ‘I can see, if you believe it will help you win greater advancement, it might be worth the investment.’
‘I’m glad I’ve finally won your approval.’
‘I didn’t say that. If it was from pure vanity—’
‘Diable!’ Jack snatched the periwig from his head and stuffed it in his pocket. ‘There, are you satisfied?’
Her breath caught. His black hair had been cropped close to his head. Now there was nothing to soften his angular features and the predatory jut of his aquiline nose. His dark eyes simmered with impatience. He looked lean and dangerous. A hard, dark man capable of unimaginable deeds. Her first instinct was to take a step back, but she refused to give ground before him. Why had she allowed herself to forget her first impression of him? He was a vagabond.
Then he started to laugh. ‘You would try the patience of a saint, Madam Tempest. And Heaven knows, I am no saint. Let us call a truce on the subject.’
‘As…as you wish.’ Temperance’s hands felt unaccountably shaky as she turned away to finish preparing the cloth for him. ‘So where is your cousin now?’ she asked over her shoulder.
He shrugged. ‘Somewhere between London and Dover, I imagine.’
‘You left him behind?’ Temperance exclaimed.
Jack grinned. ‘I was in a hurry. There was only one good riding horse at the inn, so I took it. It was his own fault for going for a walk around the town.’
‘You abandoned him after he paid for your passage across the Channel?’ Temperance forgot her resolve not to get embroiled in any further arguments with Jack. ‘How could you have repaid his kindness so ill?’
Jack raised one eyebrow at her. ‘I took his clothes as well,’ he said, casting a disparaging glance down at the olive coat he wore. ‘Surely you didn’t imagine I normally wear such drab attire? But my own clothes had been worn to a thread by the time I reached Dover.’
‘You stole—’ Temperance clapped her hand over her mouth. Accusing a man of being a thief in the middle of one of the busiest shopping thoroughfares of London was a sure way to call unwanted attention upon them.
‘How could you be so ungrateful?’ she demanded in a furious under-voice, smacking the bundled cloth against his chest. ‘Heedless! Have you no conscience? What will you do when he catches up with you?’ she asked. ‘He’ll disown you—or worse.’
‘No, he won’t,’ Jack said. ‘And if he did, it would just mean one less relative to worry about.’
‘To be worried by you, you mean.’ Temperance pushed her hair away from her overheated face. ‘You’re a heedless knave. If you’re not careful, you’ll end at Tyburn.’
‘Would you come to wish me farewell?’
Temperance glanced sideways at him, furious with herself because she did care what happened to him. Just the thought of him meeting the hangman’s noose filled her with sick anxiety.
‘Folly,’ she muttered under her breath. She’d known him for less than one full day, and he done nothing but irritate her the whole time. Except for when he’d saved her from Tredgold and made sure she received fair payment for her linen and muslin. But apart from that….
‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.
‘Stupid.’ She turned on him. ‘Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Go and play your knavish tricks on someone else.’
He grinned. ‘I’ve played no tricks on you at all, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘But if you prefer me gone, that is easily arranged. Allow me a moment to restore myself.’
Before Temperance’s disconcerted gaze he replaced the periwig on his head and arranged it about his shoulders to his satisfaction. The contrast between his hawkish features and the long black curls now framing his face was compelling.
‘Farewell, Madam Tempest.’ He bowed and strolled away.
Temperance watched him go, then dropped into her chair. He was gone. She should feel relieved. Instead she felt flat. Disappointed. He’d gone. And even though he was a scoundrel of the first water, he’d taken all the sparkle of the day with him.
Covent Garden, Sunday 2 September 1666
Jack woke to the smell of coffee and muffled sounds from the coffee room downstairs. He climbed out of bed and stretched, bending his arms to accommodate the low ceiling. He’d enjoyed a convivial evening of music and conversation last night, but it was his afternoon encounter with Temperance that lingered in his thoughts. He smiled as he remembered her reaction when he’d told her he’d taken his cousin’s clothes and left him behind at Dover. She’d been just as entertainingly scandalised as he’d expected—and perhaps she was worried about his fate if his vengeful cousin caught up with him. Jack had no such fears, but he was flattered by her concern.
During his years of exile before the Restoration of Charles II, he had often travelled under the name of Jack Bow. It had given him a freedom of action he’d lacked when he’d been trying to maintain the dignity of his title without the support of either estates or fortune. But he hadn’t meant to assume the guise on his trip to fetch Athena. He’d only done so after he chased her all the way from Bruges to Venice and back again. By the time he’d reached Milan all his entourage had left him for one good reason or another. Once he was travelling alone it had been quicker and more convenient for him to do so as Jack Bow, rather than the Duke of Kilverdale.
He still hadn’t spoken to Athena, but he had caught up with the man who’d brought her back to England—and held a sword to his throat. The Marquis of Halross hadn’t turned a hair at having his intentions towards Athena questioned under such hazardous circumstances. Jack was reasonably satisfied Halross would make his cousin a good husband, but he couldn’t ask Athena if she wanted the marriage because Lord Swiftbourne had taken her to visit her family in Kent. Jack had decided to wait in London for her. He hadn’t yet resumed all the usual trappings of his rank, because he’d never before had a chance to wander unnoticed through the crowds of London. From the day he’d been part of Charles II’s triumphal return procession to the City, he’d always been surrounded by the pomp and formality associated with his title. It was a novelty to entertain a London tavern audience as Jack Bow, and know their praise for his music and story-telling was genuine—not prompted by the hope the Duke of Kilverdale would reward them for their flattery.

Half an hour later he wandered down to the coffee room. The serving boy had finished sweeping the floor and was scattering fresh sawdust over the boards.
‘Morning, Tom,’ said Jack.
‘Sir!’ The boy set aside his pail of sawdust at once. ‘There’s rumours of a fire in the City!’
‘A fire? Where’s your master?’
‘He went out to hear more. Three hundred houses burned already, so one fellow told me,’ Tom said, following close behind as Jack went to the door.
The coffee house was located in Covent Garden, well away from the heart of the City, but when Jack went outside he saw the street was unusually busy for an early Sunday morning.
‘It’s down by London Bridge,’ said Tom at his elbow. ‘They’re saying the Dutch started it. Do you think they did? I know you’ll want to see for yourself. I’ll come with you—to…to summon the lighter if you want to go by water.’
‘What about your duties here?’ Jack asked, looking at the half-finished floor.
‘Oh, Mr Bundle just wanted me to be here to wait on you,’ Tom replied. ‘Now you’re up I can wait on you wherever you like. And I’m sure you’d like to see the fire.’
Jack laughed at the boy’s opportunism. ‘Fetch me some bread and cheese, then. I can eat while we walk, but I’m not going fire-chasing on an empty stomach.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Tom tore off to the kitchen.
Jack frowned thoughtfully, then went to get his sword. He didn’t put much credence in rumours—at the end of a hot summer fires were a predictable hazard in the crowded timber buildings of the City—but he made it a habit to be prepared for the worst. If the Dutch were about to launch an attack on London, he’d not go to meet them unarmed.
‘Even the pigeons are burning.’ Tom sounded close to tears.
‘Yes.’ As Jack watched he saw a pigeon hover too close to its familiar perch. A sudden gout of fire singed its wings and it tumbled down through the smoke-filled air.
‘Why didn’t it just fly away?’ Tom said.
‘I don’t know. Most of them are.’ Jack offered the small comfort without taking his eyes off the horrific scenes all around them.
They were in a lighter on the Thames. All around them the river was full of lighters and wherries loaded with household goods, but some people were as reluctant to leave their homes as the pigeons. Jack saw a man shouting from a window only yards from where a house was already being consumed by the leaping flames. Other people clambered about on the waterside stairs. Even from a distance Jack had the impression they were scrambling from place to place without clear purpose, too confused and shocked to know what they should do.
Some people trembled in silent fear and others shouted and cursed. The roar of the fire made it impossible to distinguish one cry from another. In this area of London the wooden houses were packed tightly together and the narrow alleys made it impossible to get close enough to the fire to fight it. There were timber warehouses near the river, some of which were thatched, and many of which were filled with dangerously combustible goods: pitch, oil, wine, coal and timber. The fire had taken a strong hold, and it burned hot and savage. To make matters worse, a strong easterly wind was driving the flames relentlessly into the City.
The houses on the northern end of London Bridge were also ablaze. Only a break in the buildings caused by a fire over thirty years earlier saved the whole bridge from destruction. The gale blew hard across the flames, sweeping a searing rain of fire droplets over the boats below. The waterman Jack had hired cursed and manoeuvred the boat closer to the south bank. Smoke swirled around them in choking clouds.
Jack covered his mouth and nose with his handkerchief. He heard Tom coughing beside him. The surface of the river was full of objects that had fallen from the overladen boats. A chair smashed against the side of the lighter. Jack pushed it away, then looked up. Above him smoke coiled around the rotting heads of traitors displayed over Bridge Gate. The dead features were hideously illuminated by sulphur bright flames.
‘’Tis hell on earth!’ Tom gasped. ‘It was prophesied. ’Tis the year of the number of the beast.’
‘Sixteen sixty-six,’ Jack murmured. ‘Six, six, six.’ He was aware that many almanac writers had predicted the year would be significant. But until he had evidence to prove otherwise, he would continue to assume the fire had been caused by human actions—either accidental or deliberate.
‘I’ve seen enough here,’ he said to the waterman. ‘Take us back upriver.’
The streets were in chaos. Temperance found her way blocked over and over again by people, carts and horses. A man in front of her, carrying a huge load on his back, tripped and sprawled headlong. One of his packs broke open as it hit the ground. Bits of broken pottery, spoons and a couple of iron pans rattled on to the cobbles. Before Temperance could offer to help, he pushed himself upright and collected the unbroken utensils, cursing continuously. All around people shouted and pushed and got in each other’s way—but there were others who wandered or stood aimlessly, clutching their hands and doing nothing of use at all.
The wind plastered Temperance’s skirts against her legs and whipped her hair across her eyes. The smell of smoke pervaded everything. The fire was still far away from Cheapside, but it was devouring everything in its path. Temperance pushed her way through the crowds until she was close enough to see the fire leaping and roaring towards her. Even at this distance the heat was intense and the noise deafening. She was so shocked she stared into the horrible, mesmerising flames for several seconds, her thoughts emptied of everything except blank horror.
She gasped and shook herself back into a more practical state of mind, but she understood better now why some people did nothing but huddle close to their threatened homes and wring their hands. The fire was a hideous monster, beyond the scale of everyday human imagining. How could anyone hope to defeat it or even comprehend it?
She headed back to Cheapside. She was nearly home when she heard a shrill shout cut across the confused babble around her.
‘It was him! He’s one of the devils who started it!’ The accusatory voice was so filled with panic and rage Temperance didn’t immediately recognise it.
‘I saw him here yesterday. With my own ears I heard him call on the devil! He’s not English. He hates England!’
Temperance suddenly realised it was her neighbour, Agnes Cruikshank. For an instant she didn’t understand, then she remembered Jack Bow’s exasperation at her comments on his hair.
‘He’s a papist French devil!’ Agnes shrieked. ‘He wants us all to burn in our beds. I saw him throwing fireballs…’
Horror gave Temperance added strength as she forced her way through the increasingly hostile crowd. She broke through a gap to see Jack surrounded by angry, suspicious men and women. The threat of violence crackled in the air. Her neighbours—quiet, reasonable people she’d known all her life—were on the brink of turning into a lynch mob.

Chapter Three
T emperance flung herself forward, almost throwing herself into Jack’s arms in her urgency to reach him before anyone else. He reacted to her presence faster than any of his accusers. She saw the flash of recognition in his eyes, then he caught her shoulders and steadied her. She pulled out of his grasp and spun to face her neighbours, holding out her arms to either side to create a barrier between them and Jack.
‘He’s not French! He’s English!’ she shouted. ‘His great-grandfather was a grocer! Here, in the City. You’re an idle gossip, Agnes Cruikshank. But it’s evil to accuse an innocent man of such a sinful crime… What?’ she demanded over her shoulder at Jack. ‘Why do you keep pushing me?’
‘Because I don’t normally hide behind a woman’s skirts,’ he replied mildly, managing to reverse their positions so he was closest to the crowd. ‘Even when she defends me as well as you just did, Madam Tempest.’
‘Tempest?’ A man in the crowd repeated, in a snort of half-amused disbelief. ‘He’s got the measure of Mistress Temperance, right enough.’
‘He’s got the look of a foreigner,’ said another man.
‘I’m as English as anyone here,’ said Jack. ‘My great-grandfather was a grocer, but I was born in Sussex.’
Temperance tried to get in front of him again, but he caught her arm and wouldn’t let her.
‘I heard the rumours the fire was started by our enemies too,’ Jack said. ‘I came out this morning ready to defend us from the Dutch—but from what I’ve heard the fire started by accident, in the house of the King’s baker in Pudding Lane.’
‘Why did you speak in the heathen’s tongue yesterday?’ Agnes came close and peered up at him through slitted eyes. ‘I did hear you. You pulled off your wig and called on the devil.’
Jack grinned. ‘How long have you lived next door to Mistress Temperance?’ he asked.
‘Twenty-three years, near enough,’ Agnes replied, glowering at him. ‘I was there at her birthing.’
‘And in all those twenty-three years, haven’t you ever felt the urge to clutch at your hair and swear?’ he asked.
Several people laughed. Only the improvement in the crowd’s mood stopped Temperance from giving Jack a swift kick on his ankle. She’d thrown herself into the breach, determined to save him, despite his annoying behaviour and questionable morals—and now he repaid her by making fun of her!
‘In English.’ Agnes prodded him in the chest. ‘I chastise her in English. Not French.’
Jack caught Agnes’s hand and held it. ‘But when I was three years old the Roundheads drove my mother out of our home,’ he said, his attention apparently focussed entirely on Agnes. ‘She fled in fear of our lives. I had to wait seventeen years to return home to England. I am not at fault for what happened when I was still a child in arms.’
‘You visited the French Court. After so long there you must have French sympathies,’ Agnes said, but she no longer sounded so hostile.
‘I went to the French Court when I was fourteen,’ Jack said, releasing Agnes’s hand. ‘That’s a long time ago. I am not a French spy.’
‘What was your great-grandfather’s name?’ asked an elderly man Temperance recognised as Nicholas Farley. ‘I’m a grocer, perhaps I knew him.’
‘Edmund Beaufleur.’
‘Edmund Beaufleur!’ Farley exclaimed. ‘He was Lord Mayor in Queen Bess’s reign.’
‘That’s right,’ Jack said.
‘Well, well, well.’ Farley nodded with interest. ‘Edmund Beaufleur’s great-grandson. Who’d have thought it?’
Temperance couldn’t believe it. London was on fire yet, by the looks of things, any minute now Farley would drag Jack off to examine the Company records in the Grocers’ Hall. At least most of the potential lynch mob had dispersed.
‘It has been an honour to meet you, sir,’ said Jack to Farley. ‘I look forward to seeing you again in happier times. I’d enjoy learning more about my great-grandfather when we can talk at leisure.’
‘Yes.’ Farley looked up and Temperance saw the animation in his face replaced by grim anxiety. ‘There is much to do.’
‘Let’s go inside, sweetheart.’ Jack took her elbow and guided her towards her door.
‘Yes. Yes.’ She gathered herself and fumbled with her key. A few moments later they were standing in the shop. With the shutters closed the only light came from the open door. Temperance stared at Jack in the gloom.
‘They might really have hurt you,’ she whispered, remembering the volatile, angry mood of the crowd when she’d arrived. She started to tremble and wrapped her arms around herself. ‘They were going to attack you—just because Agnes Cruikshank always has to push her nose into other people’s business and n-never gets her f-facts right.’
Jack closed the distance between them and put his hands on her shoulders. She stood still as he rubbed his hands up and down her back. She was too shaken to protest at his action, and too tall to rest her head on his shoulder and pretend she hadn’t noticed what he was doing. She felt the warmth of his breath against her cheek, the solid strength of his body close to hers.
‘They didn’t hurt me—thanks to you,’ he said, his voice soft and soothing. ‘And I do thank you. You are a true virago of a draper, Mistress Tempest.’
She felt his lips brush her skin, then he kissed her. A real kiss, even though it was on her cheek, not her mouth. Her heart rate accelerated. For a moment she forgot about the disaster overshadowing London. She felt hot, excited, unsure. In the dark of the night she’d imagined him kissing her—even though she hadn’t known if she’d ever see him again. She’d hugged herself, pretending it was his arms around her, wondering what it would feel like if he was really holding her.
She’d been kissed a few times before, but it had always been an awkward, embarrassing experience. She’d been several inches taller than the hopeful suitor who’d pursued her when she was eighteen. The discrepancy in their heights might not have been a problem if he’d been genuinely attracted to her. Unfortunately, it was her inheritance that had appealed to him, and he’d lacked the necessary address to hide his real motivation. Temperance had sent him away without regret.
But Jack was different. In his arms she didn’t feel oversized and unfeminine. He was so graceful and sure of himself that somehow he made her feel more confident in her own appeal. She clutched his coat and lifted her head, instinctively turning her face towards his. His lips slid over her cheek in a hot trail, then his mouth found hers.
Temperance felt the jolt of intimate contact all the way to her toes. Yet it was only his mouth on hers. She held his coat in her clenched fist and his open hands lay on her back, but there was still an inch or two of space between their bodies. The only place where their naked skin touched was mouth to mouth. She was astounded that every novel, delightful sensation rippling through her body was generated by nothing more than the movement of his lips and tongue against hers.
It was too dark in the shop to see clearly, but she closed her eyes the better to lose herself in the experience. It was a wonderment she’d never known before. How could a man’s lips be so firm and soft at the same time? His caresses so delicate yet compelling? His tongue stroked her upper lip, teasing and exploring until her knees felt weak. Hardly aware of what she was doing, her arm slid around his neck as she leant against him for support.
His hold on her tightened. One hand in the small of her back pressed her against him. His other hand lifted to cup her head, holding her firmly in place as his tongue slipped inside her mouth and the gentle kiss became far more potent. Lights exploded behind Temperance’s eyelids. The pleasant feelings rippling through her inexperienced body suddenly became a torrent of hot, elemental sensation. She gasped and pulled back, half-thrilled, half-frightened by the unfamiliar feelings he aroused.
After a second his hold on her relaxed. She felt his chest expand as he drew in a deep, not quite steady breath.
‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured against her hair. ‘I didn’t intend that.’
‘Oh, no?’ Temperance pushed against him, upset by his comment. ‘In the dark did you forget what I look—?’
He silenced her with a brisk, almost impatient kiss.
‘Of course I remember what you look like,’ he said, releasing her. ‘Don’t insult me. Or yourself. Even I, irresponsible reprobate though you think me, occasionally put practical matters ahead of pleasure.’
Temperance caught her breath as a vivid image of the fire filled her mind. How could she have forgotten it, even for a few moments? Before she could speak, she heard feet clattering down the stairs.
‘Mistress, is it you?’ Her housemaid, Sarah, burst into the shop, with Isaac close behind. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘I don’t—’ Temperance began, for once in her life uncertain what to do next.
‘Pack up and be ready to leave,’ Jack said.
‘What?’ She turned to stare at him.
‘The waterwheels beneath the bridge have already been destroyed,’ he said. ‘Burning timbers fell on them from above. I saw the damage myself. No water can be drawn up from the river, even if it were possible to get close enough to the flames to douse them. And people have been smashing open water pipes in an effort to save their own homes. If the wind doesn’t abate, nothing will stop the spread of the fire.’
Temperance pressed her fingers to her mouth. A few moments ago she’d been kissing Jack. Her body was still flushed with the sensations he’d aroused. Now her thoughts turned sickeningly to the disaster that had overtaken the east of the City.
‘It’s still a quarter of a mile away at least,’ she whispered. ‘Surely…’
‘Pray for the wind to drop and a rainstorm to equal the deluge,’ said Jack almost brutally. ‘Perhaps the fire won’t spread this far—but it is better to be safe than burnt.’
In the silence following his words, Sarah began to cry. Temperance swallowed and tried to gather her wits. She looked around the shop. She’d lived here all her life. Through every crisis that had visited London during her lifetime she’d known at least her home was secure.
‘Go where?’ she asked. ‘How far? Everyone I know lives within a few streets of here.’
‘In the first instance, to Bundle’s Coffeehouse in Covent Garden,’ said Jack. ‘Bundle’s an old friend of mine. It’s nearly one and a half miles from the heart of the fire. God willing, it won’t spread—’
He broke off at the sound of running footsteps. A second later Temperance saw a woman in the doorway.
‘Is my Katie here?’ Nellie Carpenter half-sobbed her desperate question.
‘Katie? No. Nellie, what—?’
‘Oh, dear God!’ Nellie spun around. She was almost out of the door before Temperance managed to catch her arm.
‘Is Katie lost?’
‘I went out to hear the latest news.’ Nellie heaved in a shuddering breath. ‘She was by my side, I swear. I told her not to leave my side. But the next time I looked she was gone.’ Tears streamed unheeded down Nellie’s cheeks. ‘I’ve got to find her.’ She tried to pull out of Temperance’s grip.
‘Who is Katie?’ Jack was right beside Temperance.
‘Her daughter. She’s five,’ Temperance said. ‘I’ll help, Nellie—’
‘We’ll all help,’ said Jack. ‘Nellie, show us where you were standing the last time you saw her. And you two…’ he glanced over at Isaac and Sarah ‘…do you know what Katie looks like? Good, come with us.’
They spent the rest of the day searching the streets for the lost child, while ash fell on them continuously and the fire crept closer to Cheapside. By nightfall Nellie was almost collapsing from despair and terror.
‘We have to keep looking!’ she insisted, her voice harsh with desperation. ‘We have to—’
‘We will,’ said Jack, his voice as firm and confident as it had been that morning. ‘We won’t give up until she is found. I won’t give up until she is found.’
Tears filled Temperance’s eyes when she heard his avowal. Yesterday she’d almost decided he was a scoundrel without a conscience—today he was steadfastly looking for a child he didn’t know. It was true that, unlike many of the other searchers, he didn’t have a business to save, but it was still the act of a generous, compassionate man.
After dark, Jack insisted Temperance and Isaac stay together, but otherwise the search continued as before. Finally, well past midnight, Isaac spotted Katie huddled in a doorway. She was almost hidden behind a pile of rubbish. Temperance hadn’t seen her. She thanked God for Isaac’s quick eyes as she lifted the frightened child into her arms.
A few minutes later Nellie snatched Katie into her own embrace, scolding and crying over her restored daughter.
Jack took the key from her and opened the shop door, lifting the lanthorn he held high to provide light for the others as they stumbled inside.
‘Now we eat,’ he said. ‘What have you got in your larder?’
‘Eat?’ Temperance rubbed her face, smearing tears and ash across her cheek. ‘I don’t know. There’s some bread. Bacon. Cheese, I think…’
‘Now there’s a feast for a hungry man. Will you give me a share, even though I can’t play for it?’ he asked, a hint of his former teasing manner in his voice.
‘Of course.’ Temperance was too worried to reply in kind. How was she going to save her goods now? All the previous day she’d seen tradesmen packing their wares and household belongings into carts and barrows. They’d found Katie, and she’d never regret the hours they’d spent looking for her, but would there still be time to salvage her belongings?
Fear compelled her up the stairs, past the kitchen and on to the attic. Horror stopped her breath as she stared towards the fire. In the daylight it had been bad enough, in the dark it was a terrifying sight. The flames lit up the sky almost as bright as day. They were closer now, leaping over rooftops, dancing like obscene devils over church spires.
She gazed, transfixed, by the nightmarish spectacle. Jack came to stand by her side.
‘You’re right,’ she said, her voice harsh with anxiety. ‘We have to pack up and leave.’
‘After we’ve eaten,’ he replied.
‘There’s no time—’
‘There’s time to eat,’ he said firmly. ‘The fire looks more fearsome in the dark, but it is still no closer than Cannon Street.’
By the time dawn was casting a shrouded light over the city, Jack had found a cart for Temperance. She didn’t ask how he’d persuaded the carter to go with him, or what he’d paid to hire the cart. She’d seen for herself how the price of carriage had multiplied since the start of the fire. Porters, carters and watermen were all charging whatever their customers were capable of paying—and if one person didn’t have the money, another one, richer or more desperate, was sure to accept the exorbitant price.
Temperance didn’t let herself think about how deeply she might now be in debt to Jack. She’d ask him later. For now she concentrated on wrapping and loading the bales of cloth from her shop. Sarah had returned to her own family that morning, too frightened to remain close to the advancing flames, so it was only Jack and Isaac who helped load the cart.
She paused to catch her breath and noticed Agnes come out of her shop door. After today Temperance didn’t know when she’d see her neighbour again. She’d had many arguments with Agnes, but she didn’t want to part on bad terms, so she went to speak to her.
‘Where are you going?’ Agnes asked.
‘Covent Garden. What about you?’
‘My niece, Fanny, in Southwark. You remember her?’
‘Of course. What about your belongings?’ Temperance could see Agnes’s shop was already stripped bare.
‘St Paul’s,’ said Agnes. ‘No fire will burn the cathedral. I was lucky I managed to get my goods inside in time. Everyone was rushing there yesterday. I didn’t know you knew anyone in Covent Garden,’ she added suspiciously.
‘I don’t. Jack does. Where are Ned and Eliza?’ Temperance asked, referring to Agnes’s apprentice and servant.
‘They’ve gone ahead,’ Agnes said. ‘I’ll be on my way soon. I just came back…’ Her throat worked as she patted the doorjamb of the shop, her home for forty years. ‘I can’t stand here gossiping, girl,’ she said. ‘I’ve got things to do.’ She went inside without a backward glance.
Temperance walked over to Jack. He paused, one hand resting on the side of the cart.
‘We’re nearly done in the shop—why don’t you start upstairs?’ he suggested.
She nodded and went inside. It was agonising deciding between what she could take and what she would be forced to leave behind.
‘What’s going?’ Jack asked from behind her.
She pointed mutely, making ruthless decisions with tears in her eyes. Jack picked up the largest item and started downstairs. They finished loading the cart in silence.
‘Is that everything?’ Jack asked at last.
‘I think so.’
‘Good.’ He glanced over her shoulder, and she saw his expression change. She spun around, then clapped her hands to her mouth in shock.
The fire had reached Cornhill. For the first time she could see the flames when she was standing at her own front door.
‘Oh my God!’ she whispered. ‘It’s nearly here.’
For a moment her feet seemed frozen to the ash-covered cobbles. Then life surged back into her limbs. She dashed inside the building and rushed up the stairs. When Jack caught up with her she was flinging open cupboard doors and dragging drawers from the old dresser.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Everything. Nothing. What if I’ve missed something important?’ She stared around in panic, then headed up another flight to her bedchamber. ‘What if I’ve missed something?’ she kept repeating, as she tossed discarded items left and right in her distress.
Jack’s arms closed around her from behind. ‘You can replace anything except life,’ he said gently. ‘It’s better to live to fight another day than to take on a foe you can’t beat. Now be still and think quietly. You’ve already taken a little carved box. I know it’s important to you because you put it straight into your pocket. Is there anything else here that means so much to you?’
‘My brother made the box,’ she said, her thoughts going off at a tangent.
‘Where is he now?’ She felt Jack’s breath against her cheek as he held her from behind.
‘He died when I was thirteen.’
‘I’m sorry. Then of course you must keep it safe. Is there anything else here so important to you? Just close your eyes and rest a moment.’
His voice was so soothing and unhurried she did as he bid. Just for a few seconds she relaxed enough to let her mind range over her belongings and all the years to see if there was anything she’d forgotten.
‘My mother’s sewing box.’ She made an instant move to fetch it, dismayed she’d forgotten it until that moment. What else had she forgotten?
Jack held her still.
‘Anything else?’
‘I don’t know.’ Panic began to rise in her once more, and tears leaked from her eyes. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Fetch the sewing box,’ he said gently. ‘It’s time to go.’ He released her and stepped back.
She careered down the stairs and found the sewing box in its familiar place in the alcove by the fire. It had been in full view all the time. She was so used to seeing it there her eyes had passed over it every time she’d scanned the room for important things to save.
She clattered down the rest of the stairs to the shop floor, terrified they’d lingered too long and the fire would be upon them. To her relief, the flames didn’t seem much closer. The fire was making inexorable progress through the old timber buildings, but not so quickly a healthy man couldn’t stay ahead of it.
That didn’t stop the carter cursing them for the delay.
‘Be quiet and drive!’ Temperance snapped. He hadn’t lifted a finger to help them load the cart, but she knew he was being paid a fortune for his services.
She and Jack and Isaac walked beside it as it rattled over the cobblestones. When she looked around she realised they were the last people to leave this part of Cheapside. The fire roared behind them, so loud it drowned out the sound of the cartwheels. Sparks as well as ash showered down on them. High above them the thick black smoked blocked out the sun.
They were halfway to St Paul’s when Temperance remembered Agnes.
‘Isaac! Did you see Agnes leave?’
‘I…’ He drew in a breath and coughed on a gust of smoke. ‘I didn’t see her.’ He stared at Temperance. ‘But I wasn’t looking. Surely she must have—’
‘Did you?’ she demanded of Jack.
‘No.’
‘Carter!’ She lifted her voice in a cracked shout. ‘Did you see an old woman leave the shop next to mine?’
‘Wasn’t looking.’
Temperance spun around and headed back the way they’d come. She didn’t much like Agnes, but she couldn’t leave her to burn. Jack seized her shoulder, pulling her to a stop.
She tried to shake him off. ‘I have to go back. Make sure she left.’
‘You stay with the cart,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll go.’
Before she had time to protest at his high-handedness he was running back towards the flames.
Temperance paused on the verge of following him. ‘Carry on to Covent Garden!’ she shouted at Isaac. ‘Bundle’s Coffeehouse. Don’t forget.’
‘But, mistress—’
‘I have to see Agnes is safe. Go!’ she insisted, when he seemed reluctant to obey. ‘It’s your duty to make sure everything gets safely to the coffeehouse. I’m counting on you, Isaac.’
She pulled her skirt almost to her knees and started to run. Modesty no longer mattered. She had to catch up with Jack and find Agnes. She was still clutching the workbox to her chest. She wished she’d had the presence of mind to put it in the cart, but it was too late now. As she got closer to Agnes’s shop, her pace slowed. The far end of Cheapside was already a roaring wall of flames. As she watched, the fire leapt the width of the wide street. If Temperance hadn’t known better, she would have sworn the flames were alive. She wanted to turn and run, but she forced herself to go forward. Jack was ahead of her for sure and so, perhaps, was Agnes.
The shop door stood wide. She rushed inside, shouting their names.
‘Here,’ Jack called from upstairs. ‘Stay there.’
‘What? Why?’ Horrors flashed through her mind. She started up the stairs.
‘We’re coming down. Move, Tempest!’
She jumped back and Jack emerged into the shop with Agnes in his arms.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Temperance hurried ahead of him into the street.
‘Fell on the stairs and twisted her knee,’ Jack said. ‘Stay close to me.’
Temperance almost had to run to keep up with his ground-eating strides. She didn’t ask any more questions. She had no breath to spare and Jack had Agnes safe. An occasional shudder racked the old woman, and there was a pinched look on her face, but the fire would not get her now.
Jack paused once they were level with St Paul’s. There was a stitch in Temperance’s side. She wanted to double over to ease her aching muscles, but resisted the urge.
‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘Covent Garden.’ Jack sounded mildly surprised by her question. His voice was hoarse, and even his breathing was more laboured than usual.
‘Her niece lives in Southwark,’ Temperance said.
‘I can talk for myself, girl!’ Agnes snapped.
‘Does your niece have room for you?’ Jack asked.
‘Of course she does. She’s family.’
‘We’d best take you there, then.’ Jack set off again, striding through St Paul’s churchyard as he headed obliquely for the river. Temperance kept close to him as they pushed through the crowds around the cathedral. When she looked to her left she was shocked to see they were moving parallel with the fire. It had travelled further west along the edge of the Thames than she’d realised. They’d have to go further than she’d expected to find a boat to take them across to Southwark.
‘Perhaps we ought to go to Covent Garden,’ she said.
‘I’m sure Mistress Cruikshank would prefer to be safe in the bosom of her family,’ said Jack.
It occurred to Temperance that, if they took Agnes to Covent Garden, she would still be their responsibility. Whereas, if they took her to her niece in Southwark, they could leave her with a clear conscience. She started to nod in silent agreement and saw from the ghost of Jack’s familiar grin he was thinking the same thing.
It was very late by the time they reached their destination. Temperance had been outraged by the greed of the watermen. If she’d been alone she wouldn’t have been able to afford the crossing. It was a relief to hand Agnes over to her niece, Fanny Berridge.
‘You’re welcome to stay here,’ said Fanny, looking harried.
‘Thank you, but I’m eager to return to Covent Garden,’ Jack said, and a moment later Temperance found herself back in the crowded Southwark streets.
Even though it was nearly midnight, people were out of doors, watching the catastrophe unfold on the other side of the river. Temperance’s shoulders slumped at the prospect ahead of them. The journey to Covent Garden would be as exhausting and expensive as the journey they’d made from Cheapside to Southwark. She looked at Jack and saw he was carrying the sewing box. She couldn’t remember putting it down. She reached to take it from him, even though she was so tired she was almost past caring whether she lost it.
‘I’ll carry it,’ he said. ‘Come on.’ He guided her with his free arm around her shoulders.
‘At least we can sit down on the boat,’ she roused herself to say. ‘How can they be so greedy?’ She was thinking of the iniquitous amount Jack had paid for their last river crossing, but she was too tired to be angry. She was glad she was with Jack. If she’d been alone, there was a good chance she would have found the nearest quiet spot and fallen sleep in the street. She made an effort to be more alert.
‘Why aren’t you asleep on your feet?’ she mumbled, mildly resentful of his stamina.
‘It wasn’t my house,’ he replied.
‘What?’
‘Everything we’ve had to do over the past two days would be enough to tire anyone. I feel it myself.’ Jack flexed his arms and grimaced. ‘I wasn’t sorry to deliver Agnes. But I think it is grief which is making you so very tired. There’s no shame in that, sweetheart. Grief is a wearisome emotion. But it will pass.’
‘Where are we going?’ Temperance suddenly noticed they weren’t heading for the river.
‘To find a room—or at least a bed—for the rest of the night,’ he replied.
‘But all the inns will be full,’ Temperance protested, even though she yearned to lie down and close her eyes.
‘We’ll find somewhere,’ said Jack. ‘Even if we have to share an attic with the scullery maid.’
Temperance was so tired she could hardly find the energy to climb the stairs. She lifted one foot on to the next wooden tread and wearily levered her body up another six inches. Only a few more steps and she could go to bed. The familiar staircase was deep in midnight shadow. She pushed open her bedchamber door. The room was ablaze in bright orange fire. She stared in horror. The flames licked towards her. She turned and fled down the stairs. The fire pursued her. She ran through the streets, the flames hard on her heels. Her heart thundered with panic, but her exhaustion was forgotten. She tried to reach the Thames, but over and over new flames leapt up to block her route. At last she teetered on the very edge of the river steps. Black and red water swirled below. A boat bobbed just out of reach. The fire rose in a huge column behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the flames were poised to swallow her whole. She stretched desperately towards the boat, but it floated further away. She overbalanced. Falling towards the terrible river of burning blood—

Chapter Four
T emperance’s eyes flew open. Her heart was pounding, her limbs tingling with fear. Now she was awake the terror was even greater than in her nightmare. The dream had been so real she almost expected to be engulfed in flames at any second.
‘Gently, sweetheart,’ a soft voice murmured from behind her.
She felt a reassuring touch on her arm. Still more asleep than awake, it took several long, panicky moments for her to shake off the remnants of her nightmare. Slowly she remembered who she was with, where they were and what had happened to bring them to this place.
They were in a tiny room, little more than a cupboard, in a Southwark inn. The bed was small and the mattress lumpy. All Temperance could see when she looked straight ahead was the dirty plaster four inches from her nose. It dawned on her that Jack was lying beside her, but she couldn’t see him because she was facing the wrong way.
He kept running his hand lightly up and down her upper arm and talking softly to her. He must have realised she was having a nightmare.
She took a deep breath and began to cough. Jack helped her to sit up. She leant against him as she tried to control the paroxysms. At last she was able to sit quietly. She rested her head on Jack’s shoulder, too heartsore to care about propriety.
‘Did you dream about the fire?’ he asked.
She nodded jerkily and started to cry. From the moment she’d realised Agnes had been left in her shop there had been no time to dwell on the fate of her home. Now she knew her dream had shown her the exact truth. She hadn’t been standing on her stairs when her bedchamber caught fire, but by now it had burned just as surely as in her nightmare.
‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry,’ Jack murmured.
She nodded, but she couldn’t speak. For a little while her grief was too overwhelming to control. It was the first time since the death of her father that there had been anyone to comfort her. She clung to Jack, uncharacteristically surrendering to the full force of her emotions. She’d been raised to show more self-discipline than this, but Jack didn’t seem shocked. He held her close in a strong, steady embrace. He even rummaged up a grimy handkerchief to offer her.
There was a window facing towards the Thames. The inferno burning on the other side of the river cast a flickering, shadowy light over the bed. Temperance kept her head turned away from the window, but the sight of the handkerchief provoked her into an unexpected hiccough of laughter.
‘I’ve got my own,’ she said. ‘I am a linen draper.’
She pulled away from Jack, immediately missing the sense of security she’d felt in his arms. It was tempting to lean against him again, but she sat up straight and concentrated on finding her handkerchief. Finally, she produced the square of linen and dried her eyes and blew her nose. She still had to stifle an unexpected sob now and then, but she felt calmer.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘What for?’ Jack sounded mildly amused. ‘You spurned my chivalrous gesture.’
‘For…’ She hesitated. ‘Never mind,’ she said, not wanting to dwell on her loss of self-control. ‘I suppose a man with your varied past is always finding himself in unusual situations. I expect weeping women are commonplace in your life.’
To her surprise, Jack started to laugh. ‘When all else fails I stick pins in them,’ he said. ‘Although fresh chopped onion is also—’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ Temperance interrupted crossly.
‘It has happened,’ he replied, more seriously than she’d anticipated. ‘But I hope I am wiser—and kinder—now.’
‘Is she…?’ Temperance’s breath caught at the implication of his words. ‘Is she waiting for you now?’ She knew so little about Jack Bow, but he had come to mean a lot to her in the past few days. Was she just another interlude in his wayward life?
‘No…’ Jack paused. ‘There’s no woman waiting for me,’ he clarified.
‘Oh.’ Temperance twisted the handkerchief between her hands, not sure what to say. She’d been so exhausted when they’d arrived at the inn she’d fallen on the bed without even noticing Jack was beside her. She’d slept heavily for a few hours, but now she was awake and her mind began to run in all kinds of anxious directions. Jack on the bed was only one of her worries.
She glanced up and inadvertently looked in the direction of the unshuttered window. Her stomach clenched at the ominous play of shadows and lurid light flickering across the room.
‘It’s still burning.’ She scrambled forward to see better. ‘What am I going to do?’ she whispered, clutching the windowsill. ‘It’s all gone. What are we all going to do? London’s gone!’
‘Rebuild,’ said Jack, sliding to the bottom of the bed to sit beside her.
‘That’s easy for you to say!’ Temperance turned on him. ‘You never stay anywhere. You just wander where you please—’ Her voice caught on a sob.
Jack’s arms closed around her. She struggled for a few seconds, resenting his efforts to comfort her when he was so unmoved by the fate of the City.
‘I’ve wept for other losses,’ he said. ‘People—not places.’
She heard the truth in his voice and stopped trying to pull herself out of his embrace.
‘I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ she whispered.
‘You’ll manage.’ He rested his forehead against hers for a moment. ‘But not tonight. You don’t have to manage anything tonight. Come on,’ he urged her to move back up the bed. ‘Lie down again. Rest. We’ll face our next set of problems in the morning.’
It was an awkward realignment. Jack knelt on Temperance’s skirt in the darkness and she scrabbled ineffectually against the mattress before she realised what was wrong, but at last they were lying next to each other again.
Temperance turned on to her back and gazed upwards. She gave a gasping groan and rolled on to her side.
‘It’s on the ceiling!’ She couldn’t believe the shadows of the fire even danced there. The monster was everywhere. In her home, in her nightmare, and even in the temporary safety of this rathole Jack had found for them.
‘I know,’ said Jack.
‘I can’t sleep now.’ She bit her lip because she was determined not to cry any more. ‘Every time I close my eyes I can see it!’
‘Think of something else.’ He stroked her arm.
‘I don’t know anything else.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve never been anywhere but London. In all my memories London is there. Now it isn’t… You tell me something else.’ She laid her hand on his shoulder. He’d removed his coat and she could feel the firm muscles beneath his linen shirt. ‘You’ve been so many places. Tell me about one of them.’
‘My home’s in Sussex,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Shall I tell you about that?’
‘Yes.’ She wondered if his home was in his mind because of her loss. ‘Please tell me.’
‘It’s green,’ he said. ‘I last saw it in April and everything was green. New buds and leaves. The daffodils made a brave show beneath the trees. Bright sunshine yellow.’
‘Good colours,’ Temperance murmured, clinging to the image of sunshine-yellow daffodils instead of the hideous red and black of fiery destruction.
‘Very good.’ He brushed his lips against her forehead. ‘The village green was in full bloom.’
‘What village?’ Temperance moved a little closer to him.
‘Arunhurst,’ he replied. ‘The church is very pretty. Norman…’ He kissed her cheek.
‘What church?’ Her hand slid around his waist of its own volition.
‘St Mary’s.’ His breath caressed her skin.
She turned her head and his lips found hers. The kiss began gentle and comforting, but almost immediately desperate passion exploded between them. Her hand locked in his shirt and she pulled him closer, responding without thought of consequences. Her whole world had collapsed around her ears, but Jack was strong and reassuringly vital. Alive.
He rolled her on to her back and deepened the kiss. His tongue was so bold. She’d never imagined anything like it. Excitement leapt within her. She lifted her hand to touch him and felt the crisp brush of his short hair against her fingers. She tugged desperately at his shirt so she could feel his bare skin. She needed to wrap her arms around him. To get as close as she could to his virile, living energy. When he kissed her like this she couldn’t think of anything else. She didn’t want to think of anything else. When he kissed her, all her problems vanished into oblivion. Her hands pressed against his naked back, feeling the flex of his taut muscles. Her heart thudded in her ears. Jack filled her senses and her mind until there was only room for the compelling needs he aroused in her.
He kissed her cheek, then bent his head to caress her neck with his lips. She stared up at the ceiling, but she didn’t see the flickering shadow patterns of the fire. All her attention was focussed on Jack. His breathing was as fast and ragged as her own. She could feel the hot urgency pulsing through his body.
He pulled up her skirts with an uncharacteristically clumsy gesture and then she felt his hand on her bare thigh. She gasped as almost unbearable tension filled her. He stroked the outer side of her leg, touching her more intimately than she’d ever been touched before.
She held her breath, her grip on his back tightening until her nails pressed into his muscles.
His fingers brushed along her legs as he found his way by touch alone. She moved restlessly beneath him, her breath emerging in quick, almost whimpering gasps.
His hand came briefly to rest on her inner thigh—then stroked boldly upwards. Potent sensation flooded her body. She trembled with an unfamiliar mixture of excitement and almost painfully urgent anticipation. She was swollen and aching, and when he touched her intimately air exploded from her lungs in a wordless gasp of pleasure.
Her legs fell bonelessly apart as he continued to stroke her hot, moist flesh. His own breathing was harsh with excitement. Her body responded to his teasing, tormenting fingers with small spasms of pleasure and intensifying need. When he took his hand away she gave a whimper of protest, but a few seconds later he lifted himself over her.
Her breath caught in her throat. The unfamiliar sensation of his erection pressing against her provoked a brief moment of clarity. She’d never thought this would happen to her. She was too tall, her personality too forthright. Men had looked with covetous eyes at her shop, but not at her. Now Jack was poised above her, his lean, muscular body taut with unfulfilled passion.
She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the intensity of the moment. It was so strange to feel Jack inside her, stretching her. She held tight to him, her anchor in the storm of new sensations.
He paused. She could feel the straining of his muscles as he held still. The expansion and contraction of his ribs as he braced himself over and in her.
‘Tempest?’ His voice emerged as a ragged moan.
She was so overwhelmed by the physical and emotional strangeness of what was happening she didn’t speak. Her fingers dug convulsively into his back. Pure instinct prompted her to raise her knees and he sank a little deeper inside her.
His shuddering groan reverberated through her. He began to move, his strokes steady and careful. At first it wasn’t quite comfortable, but gradually the discomfort was transformed into deliciously escalating tension. She arched her back, lifting her hips towards him. She was on the verge of something—
Jack’s thrusts became faster and less controlled. Suddenly he groaned and shuddered in her arms. She felt his hot release deep within her. His movements slowed until he was still except for his quickened breathing.
Temperance lay beneath him, her body tingling and somehow unsatisfied. She opened her eyes. She couldn’t see Jack’s expression. His head was a dark shadow between her and the lurid ceiling. She was breathing heavily. So was he. He was still inside her, yet she felt strangely disconnected from what had just happened. She’d dreamed of Jack the first night she’d met him. Now she was half-convinced she was still dreaming. Nothing that had happened in the past twenty-four hours had any place in her everyday life.
She became aware of her hands on Jack’s back, the grittiness of the soot and ash still clinging to both of them. In many ways he was little more than a stranger, and now her arousal was waning the unfamiliar intimacy of their position began to feel increasingly awkward. Part of her wanted to cling to him for reassurance, but another part of her wanted to push him as far away as possible.
Before she could do or say anything he withdrew from her, his movements carefully controlled as he lay down beside her as far away as the narrow mattress would allow.
For the first time since she’d met him their silence was oppressive with tension. It stretched taut between them, but it wasn’t the breathless, excited tension that had compelled her into his arms. It was darker, awkward and much harder to deal with.
She sensed him move and realised he was rearranging his clothes. Embarrassment burned through her. She hastily straightened her skirts, though she could still feel the imprint of his body on her and in her. She wondered how long it would be before she stopped feeling the after-effects of their lovemaking.
Dawn was casting a pale grey light over the bed. She stared out of the window and wished she was somewhere else. Morning was nearly here, but for the first time since she could remember she had no regular chores to perform. Why on earth had she allowed—encouraged Jack to make love to her? Grief must have addled her brain.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I didn’t mean that to happen.’
‘Are you blaming me?’ She was already feeling defensive—afraid she’d let him make a fool of her. She didn’t like the implication it was her fault.
‘No.’ He sat up and put his hand on her arm. ‘It was the two of us together. But I find you quite irresistible,’ he added.
Temperance folded her arms and looked away. ‘If you were a gentleman—’
‘You don’t mean that.’ He urged her to lie down again and propped himself on one elbow beside her. ‘To take advantage of you and walk away without a backward glance.’
‘Is that your idea of a gentleman?’ She looked at him. Now the room was lighter she could see his expression more clearly. What she saw in his eyes reassured her. To her relief it didn’t seem as if he regarded the loss of her maidenhead as a frivolous matter.
‘Isn’t it yours?’ he countered.
Temperance thought of some of her well-dressed, well-born customers. Tredgold, the man who’d planned to frighten his grandfather to death in the guise of a ghost, popped into her mind. If he’d been on this bed with her he wouldn’t waste any time worrying about her feelings. Mind you, she couldn’t imagine any circumstances in which she’d willingly come within ten feet of Tredgold, especially if there was a bed in the vicinity.
‘I don’t suppose it matters,’ she said, trying to make the best of things. ‘With London in such turmoil, no one ever will ever know or care what happened to me tonight.’
‘I know,’ said Jack. ‘And I care.’ He put his hand on her waist.
Temperance’s heart began to beat faster. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I wish we had more time.’ He leant closer and kissed her forehead. ‘I need to check for the latest news—and see if I can find Jakob. He was supposed to follow me to London. He’s Swedish. I hope no one mistakes him for a Dutchman.’ A shadow crossed Jack’s face.
Temperance remembered how the mob had nearly attacked Jack when they’d thought he was French. She understood his anxieties about his cousin, but she was dismayed he was leaving. After what had just taken place between them she felt awkward in his company, but she was even more upset at the idea of never seeing him again.
‘I’ll come back as soon as I can,’ he said. ‘Stay here. As long as you stay in this room and keep the door barred against strangers, you should be safe enough.’ He reached for his coat and the periwig he’d laid aside the previous night. ‘Here.’ He dropped a surprisingly large amount of money on to her lap. ‘I hope you won’t need it, but if the innkeeper tries to turn you out because he’s had a better offer, this should hold his hand.’
‘Is this my…fee?’ she said, staring at the coins without touching them. ‘For lifting my petticoats—’
‘No.’ His firm denial cut off her words. ‘I was going to give it to you anyway. If you don’t feel comfortable here, go back to Agnes’s niece.’
Temperance flinched at the notion of presenting herself to Agnes this morning. The old woman’s sharp eyes were sure to notice something different about her. If she was to protect her reputation, she had to ensure no one knew of her brief liaison with Jack.
‘I’ll stay here,’ she muttered. ‘Can’t I—’ She stopped, biting her lip. She’d been about to ask if she could go with Jack, but if he didn’t suggest it she wasn’t going to embarrass herself by asking.
‘We don’t know how much further the fire has spread,’ he replied, answering her unspoken question. ‘I don’t want to take you from safety into danger. Besides, you need to rest. When I’ve gone, bar the door and try to sleep.’
Temperance sat on the bed and watched as he put on his coat, sword and finally, his periwig. He looked at her and grinned. ‘Is it straight?’ he asked.
‘You are too vain for words,’ she grumbled. Despite everything, her mood lightened at his familiar smile. It did far more to reassure her than the money he’d dropped in her lap. Perhaps she was fooling herself, but she thought it was the kind of look a man gave to a woman he cared about—not one he’d used to ease a fleeting physical need. She knelt up, ignoring the strange, unfamiliar twinges between her legs, and rearranged his somewhat woebegone curls.
‘Thank you.’
She shifted her gaze from his hair to his dark eyes. He smiled crookedly at her. ‘I’m coming back,’ he said. ‘I promise.’
Southwark, late evening, Tuesday 4 September 1666
Temperance sat on the bed listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the inn around her, and the noisy disturbances in the streets outside. Earlier she’d left the small room long enough to buy food and drink from one of the inn servants, but she hadn’t dared go further afield. She’d had to give the innkeeper more money before he’d let her remain in the cramped chamber, and she knew if she went out she’d lose the room. She was worried about Isaac, but comforted by the knowledge he was safe at the coffeehouse in Covent Garden.
The strong gale had continued to blow most of the day, driving the flames across London. Temperance had fallen into an uneasy sleep in the early evening, only to be frightened awake by distant explosions. She’d scrambled to the window, horrified to discover the fire was burning even brighter than before.
A sudden pounding at the door made her jump.
‘Tempest? Temperance, let me in.’ Jack’s voice sounded harsh and strained.
She hurried to open it. He put his hands on her shoulders and moved her back so he could come into the small room too.
‘Did I wake you?’
‘No.’ He’d come back. He had. Her heart sang with happiness—then she sensed his tension and her stomach clenched with anxiety. ‘Did you find your cousin?’
‘No. I’ve just searched the Clink for him.’
‘The Clink?’ Temperance was sure she’d misheard. ‘The prison?’
‘Yes. Here.’ Jack caught her wrist and lifted her hand. ‘This is for you.’ She felt him put a heavy weight into her palm. She closed her fingers around it and realised it was a purse. ‘Put it away safely,’ he ordered. ‘Where’s your mother’s workbox?’ Without waiting for a reply he began to feel around for it.
‘Why do you want it?’
‘I’m taking you to stay with Fanny Berridge.’
‘It’s the middle of the night!’
‘I don’t have time to wait until morning,’ Jack said. She could hear the impatience in his voice, feel it in his movements as he dropped the workbox on to the bed.
‘I’m sorry.’ He took a deep breath, and she sensed his effort to speak more gently. ‘Take this as well.’
‘What?’ She held out her hand and felt even more confused when he didn’t give her anything.
‘Stand still.’ He lifted his hands over and behind her head. A moment later she felt a slight weight pull at her hair. ‘Keep this until I come back. You’d best put it inside your bodice for safety.’
She touched her breast and discovered he’d put a chain around her neck. She slid her fingers along the links and found a ring.
‘What is it?’
‘My ring. I can’t stay now, but I will come back.’
Temperance reached out to him and her fingers brushed his cheek in the darkness. She couldn’t see him clearly, but he radiated impatient, hard-edged anxiety.
‘Why were you searching the Clink for your cousin?’ she asked.
‘That’s where they took the prisoners when Newgate burned. Come.’ He took her wrist and pulled her towards the door.
‘Wait.’
‘I don’t have time—’
‘Jack.’ She paused, remembering how he’d helped her overcome her panic in the last moments before she left her shop. Now she must find the words to calm him. ‘There is a little time,’ she said gently. ‘I will go by myself to Fanny’s tomorrow morning. I will be quite safe.’ She cupped his cheek with her palm. ‘So you have that extra time to tell me why you think your cousin was a prisoner in Newgate.’
She felt him take a carefully controlled breath. She sensed it was hard for him to stand still and talk when he was eager to act.
‘When I reached Putney, I found Jakob had sent me a message on Sunday,’ he said. ‘In it he told me he was a prisoner in Newgate and asked me to go and get him out. But when I got back to London I discovered Newgate had already burned. The warders took the prisoners to the Clink, here in Southwark. I followed. I’ve been searching…searching… I even went to Swiftbourne’s house, but he has no news either!’ The torment in Jack’s voice was unmistakable. ‘I keep thinking…perhaps this happened because I stole Jakob’s coat at Dover—but why would they arrest the victim, not the thief?’
Temperance couldn’t bear to hear the anguish in his voice. She wondered who Swiftbourne was, but she was far more concerned about Jack. She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him fiercely.
‘That’s foolish,’ she said. ‘A man arrested at Dover would not be put in Newgate. It’s just a mistake and nothing to do with you. And you couldn’t find him in the Clink because, if he’s anything like you, he’s already escaped.’
For a moment Jack held himself rigid, then his arms closed around her, holding her as tightly as she held him. ‘That’s what I keep telling myself,’ he said. ‘Jakob’s a soldier. It must have been chaos when they tried to move the prisoners. He could easily have escaped then.’
‘He may even have been released before the fire ever reached Newgate,’ said Temperance, pleased to feel the tension in Jack ease a few degrees. ‘He’s probably rushing around London looking for you at this very moment.’
Jack sighed. ‘Most likely. But it was a hell of a shock when I read his letter. I won’t be easy till I’ve found him.’
‘I know.’ There were so many things Temperance wanted to say, but she bit her tongue. Jack had come back to her once. She must trust he would return a second time.
‘I’ll take you to Fanny’s,’ he said. ‘The streets aren’t safe for a woman alone.’
Temperance gave a small laugh. ‘I’ve been a woman alone for years,’ she pointed out. ‘I’m a unremarkable tradeswoman. No one will bother me during the day.’
‘Very well, but be careful,’ Jack ordered. ‘Go to Bundle’s as soon as you can and don’t let anyone know you have that purse.’
‘I’m not a half-wit!’ Temperance said in exasperation. ‘Besides, although I thank you kindly, I can’t take any more of your money—’
‘Of course you can. The world is turned upside down. You don’t know when you’ll be able to reclaim your goods and set up shop again. For God’s sake, be practical!’
Temperance considered herself a very practical tradeswoman. Jack, for all his undoubted loyalty and generosity, was hardly a paragon of that particular virtue. Only a few days ago she’d been upbraiding him for the unnecessary extravagance of buying a periwig. But when he ordered her to be practical in that terse, worried voice, she felt a surge of tenderness towards him.
She leant forward and, more by luck than judgement, kissed his cheek. ‘Then I thank you very kindly and accept,’ she murmured. ‘I’d hate you to think I’m impractical,’ she added with a glimmer of amusement.
‘Good.’ He pulled her back into his arms and kissed her, his mouth fierce and demanding on hers. It was another small reassurance their earlier intimacy was not unimportant to him. Before she had a chance to respond, he lifted his head and stepped back. ‘I’ll return as soon as I can,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, be careful. And no matter how bad business is—don’t try selling muslin in taverns after dark again!’
Covent Garden, later that night
Even though it was the early hours of the morning, the coffeehouse buzzed with activity. Bundle was keeping a careful watch on the progress of the fire, but so far he hadn’t opted for flight.
‘Coffee or ale?’ he asked Jack laconically.
‘Coffee,’ Jack said, looking around the coffee room. ‘Is my cousin here?’
‘No one claiming to be your cousin is here.’ Bundle gestured to a serving boy. ‘We haven’t seen you since Sunday.’
Jack spared him a quick glance. ‘Were you worried?’
A grin flickered on Bundle’s face. ‘After only three days? Which cousin? What does he look like?’
‘Jakob Balston. Big. A couple of inches taller than me. Blond. Swedish.’
‘Ah, yes, I remember. No, he hasn’t come here.’
‘Diable!’ Jack had known it was a long chance. There was no reason for Jakob to suspect Jack had been staying in the coffeehouse. For the thousandth time he damned himself for not having received Jakob’s message in time. If Jakob died because he had delayed resuming his ducal responsibilities, Jack knew he’d never forgive himself.
‘If he comes here…’ He stared at the surface of his coffee as he tried to hold his grinding anxiety at bay. ‘Send him to St Martin’s Lane,’ he said.
‘St Martin’s Lane?’
Jack looked up. ‘Send him to Lord Swiftbourne,’ he said harshly.
Bundle’s eyes widened briefly. ‘As you wish.’
‘I don’t like it, but it’s close,’ said Jack. ‘If he goes there, Swiftbourne can send a message to me at Putney. I’m going back there now. He wasn’t there this morning, but they hadn’t moved the prisoners then—’
‘Prisoners?’
Jack quickly explained.
‘I’m proud to serve such a lively, gallant family,’ Bundle remarked.
‘You have an insolent gift for sarcasm,’ Jack said to the man who’d carried him as a three-year-old all the way from Sussex to France.
‘Since when has Jack Bow acquired a taste for tedious deference?’
‘After tonight, Jack Bow’s dead.’
‘What?’ Bundle sat up straighter.
‘That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’ Jack tossed off the last of his coffee. ‘Or did I misunderstand all your hints that I should adopt a more regular style of living? I’ll become a paragon of respectability—but first, please God, I must find Jakob.’ He stood up. ‘I need a horse.’

Chapter Five
Southwark, Wednesday morning, 5 September 1666
‘S t Paul’s burned last night!’ said George Pring.
Temperance huddled in the corner of Fanny Berridge’s kitchen, listening as Pring told his story of destruction. She’d waited until morning to make her way through Southwark. When she’d arrived she’d discovered that she and Agnes weren’t the only victims of the fire who’d sought temporary refuge with Fanny. Pring was a bookseller who, like Agnes, had believed his goods would be safe in the cathedral.
‘It started to burn yesterday evening,’ he said. ‘All my books—my whole stock—were in the crypt of St Faith. But the cathedral roof collapsed and broke through the floor and smashed the roof of the crypt and…the books are still burning.’
‘I heard explosions,’ said Temperance. ‘Was that St Paul’s?’
‘The stones exploded! Great lumps of rock hurtling through the churchyard like cannonballs. The lead from the roof melted. It ran in a great red, boiling tide down towards the Thames. It smelt like the fumes of hell. I’ve lost everything,’ Pring finished in a whisper.
Temperance looked at Agnes in concern. The old woman had lost just as much as the bookseller. Overnight she had been reduced from a tradeswoman in comfortable circumstances to a pauper. Worse than that. She’d rented her shop and, under the terms of her lease, she would still be expected to pay her rent, even though she’d lost her business.
Agnes locked her hands together in front of her chest. Her papery skin was pulled tight over the bones of her face. Temperance saw Fanny exchange a glance with her husband. He looked resigned rather than truly accepting, but he nodded. Fanny sat down beside her aunt and began to speak softly to her.
Putney, 5 September 1666
Jack left Bundle’s horse on the north side of the Thames and crossed the river in a lighter. As he drew closer to the house his swift stride slowed as his anxiety intensified.
‘Your Grace! You’re back!’ Henderson, his steward, greeted him. ‘Colonel Balston—’
‘Is he here?’
‘Yes, your Grace, the green bedchamber—’
‘In bed, by God!’
‘Your Grace, wait!’ Henderson followed breathlessly behind. ‘Colonel Balston is not in the green bedchamber. He was to sleep outside the door—’
‘Nonsense!’ Jack wasn’t interested in anything the steward had to say, especially when he could see for himself there was no sign of his cousin in the gallery.
He reached the chamber and flung open the door. It slammed against the wall, shattering the early morning quiet. He cast one raking glance around the room before his attention focussed on the bed.
‘Diable! Are you hurt?’
‘No,’ Jakob replied calmly.
Jack stared at his cousin as the tension drained from his body. Jakob hadn’t been burned alive. The crisis was over. At last he took the time to glance at the woman sitting beside Jakob. To his utter shock he recognised her.
Lady Desire Godwin.
Six years ago he’d come close to marrying the lady, but he’d grievously insulted her and provoked her outraged father into trying to force a duel upon him. The duel had never taken place but, from the expression in Lady Desire’s eyes, her hostility towards him hadn’t abated. What the devil was she doing under his roof, sharing a bed with his cousin?
Temperance slipped unnoticed out of the kitchen. The street wasn’t a pleasant place for quiet reflection, but at least she could avoid banging elbows at every turn with distraught friends and neighbours. As she glanced around, her eye was caught by a dishevelled figure stumbling towards her. It took her a moment to recognise her apprentice.
‘Isaac!’ She seized his shoulders, shocked by his appearance. One side of his face was bruised and crusted with dried blood. His nose and lips were swollen and he breathed heavily through his mouth.
‘Mistress?’
‘Isaac.’ She ran her hands gently up and down his arms. She didn’t know what other injuries he’d suffered and she was afraid she’d hurt him if she touched him too firmly. ‘What happened?’
He stared at her, his eyes filling with tears.
‘Come inside.’ She put her arm around his shoulders. ‘You’re safe now. I’ll tend your wounds and—’
‘I failed you!’ he cried out, his words slurred but his anguish agonisingly clear.
‘Failed me?’ Temperance’s immediate instinct was to take care of Isaac’s injuries, but she felt a chill of foreboding. ‘Failed me how?’
‘I lost…I lost the cart!’ His confession emerged in gulping gasps. ‘Someone offered the carter more. I couldn’t stop him. They threw out all your goods. I tried…I tried to collect it all up. P-protect as much as I could. But I c-couldn’t…everything was trampled or st-stolen. I’m s-sorry…’ Wrenching distress overcame him. He couldn’t talk any more, only stand sobbing beside Temperance.
‘Everything’s gone?’ She breathed. A few minutes ago she’d been contemplating a destitute future for Agnes. Now the same thing had happened to her.
‘I’m s-sorry…I’m sorry.’
Temperance put her arms around her distraught apprentice. She was several inches taller than the lad and she ended up with his head on her shoulder as he wept out his accumulated shame and fear.
‘I know. It’s not your fault. Don’t cry. You’ll make yourself feel worse.’
Isaac was fourteen, but he was neither naturally robust nor confident. She knew he’d done his best, but he wasn’t equipped to deal with the disaster that had befallen him. If she’d been there…
She cut off that train of thought before she gave way to anger and grief as uncontrollable as Isaac’s bitter sense of failure.
‘Stop this now!’ she ordered. ‘You’ll make yourself sick if you cry any more. Did you go to Bundle’s?’ she asked when he was calmer.
‘Where?’ He looked at her blearily.
‘Bundle’s Coffeehouse. That’s where you were supposed to take the cart.’
‘Oh. I—I forgot,’ he confessed. ‘When I woke up…I just wanted to find you. I didn’t know where to go at first. Then I remembered Mistress Agnes’s niece lives in Southwark…’
‘What do you mean, when you woke up?’
‘I don’t…I don’t know. I woke up. I was lying on the street, next to the wall of a house. I didn’t know where I was!’ His voice was sharp with remembered panic.
‘You’re safe with me now,’ said Temperance, resorting to the brisk tones she’d often used in the shop, though she’d seldom felt less safe in her life.
‘Yes.’ His shoulders slumped with relief. He even managed a slight smile. ‘That’s it. I found you. What will we do now?’
Kingston upon Thames, Wednesday 5 September 1666
Jack stepped over the threshold of Lady Desire’s Kingston house and into pandemonium. When the fire had threatened her home in the Strand she’d sent her most valuable belongings here, and boxes, furniture and paintings were piled everywhere he looked.
He paused, assessing the situation. He’d brought eight of his own men from Putney. He’d sent two to guard the river entrance, two to guard the street entrance and four were at his back.
‘You!’ He pointed to the nearest startled servant. ‘Where is Arscott?’
‘Ar-Arscott?’
‘Her ladyship’s steward,’ Jack said impatiently.
‘Not… He’s not here, my lord.’
‘Who’s in charge?’
‘You devil! What have you done with her?’ A man barrelled out of an open door towards Jack.
Jack spun to face his assailant, reaching for his sword hilt. Then he saw the man was unarmed, his face filled with raw fear.
‘What have you done with her?’ The man seized Jack’s coat front and tried to shake him.
‘If you are referring to Lady Desire, I haven’t done anything with her,’ Jack said coldly. ‘She is under the protection of Colonel Balston, who will guard her with his life. When I last saw them they were on their way back to London.’
‘What are you talking about?’ The man gave Jack another frustrated shake.
Under any other circumstances Jack wouldn’t have tolerated the impertinence, but he could see the panic in the other man’s eyes. It reminded him of Nellie Carpenter’s fear for her lost daughter.
‘Lady Desire is perfectly safe,’ Jack repeated, taking the man’s wrists and compelling him to release his grip, but making no other retaliation. ‘Who are you?’
‘Benjamin Finch, her ladyship’s Gentleman of the Horse.’ Finch remembered his dignity and took a step back from Jack. ‘And I know you, your Grace. You have no business uninvited here, in her ladyship’s house.’
‘I am invited,’ Jack replied, concealing his discomfort beneath an aloof tone. ‘I am here at Lady Desire’s request.’ It was stretching the truth somewhat. He’d actually come at Jakob’s request and the pressing of his own conscience to make amends for his former lack of gallantry to Lady Desire, but saw no need to share that with Finch.
‘Why?’
‘Where is Arscott?’
‘He went back to London in search of Lady Desire. When we left the Strand yesterday he came by river, I came by road. We both thought she was with the other, but then it turned out she wasn’t anywhere.’
‘She didn’t want to leave her home,’ said Jack, gentling his tone in response to the other man’s distress. ‘But she came to no harm. Colonel Balston took her to…a place of safety,’ he said, judging it would make Finch more suspicious if he realised Lady Desire had spent the night under Jack’s roof.
‘Who the devil is Colonel Balston? We don’t know any Colonel Balston. It’s your doing, isn’t it, you—’
‘Where is Lady Desire’s treasure chest?’
‘What?’ Finch stared in horror. ‘You thief! I’ll not let you have it!’
‘Pour l’amour de Dieu! I’ve come to protect it—not steal it! An attempt was made to abduct your mistress on Saturday. The man who ordered the abduction wants her fortune. I’m here to make sure he doesn’t take the fortune, even though he missed the lady. And before you make the accusation, I am not the guilty party.’ Jack took a deep breath and continued more calmly. ‘Since you recognise me, you will also allow I owe your mistress some recompense. So…I will guard her treasure until this matter is resolved. Which I trust will not take long. Now, show me where it is.’
Within a few minutes Jack had assured himself the treasure chest had not been tampered with and Benjamin Finch was rushing to London to find Lady Desire.
Jack sighed and sat down, propping his feet on the troublesome treasure chest. He had a similar chest of his own at Kilverdale Hall, which at times could contain as much as six or seven thousand pounds. Lady Desire’s income was almost as large as Jack’s and, since she lived retired, her expenses were smaller. Jack suspected there could be as much as nine or ten thousand pounds beneath his feet.

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