Reunited at the King's Court Read online

  Kept apart by duty...

  Reunited by love?

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

  Along with everyone else, Arlette laughed and waved as the parade, which seemed never ending, passed by.

  Her gaze was drawn to one gentleman in particular, a gentleman whose face was partly shielded by the brim of his wide hat.

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

  Author Note

  When I start a new story, I always begin with the research. The English Civil Wars and the Restoration I have always found to be the most interesting. It was

  a time of great upheaval between King Charles I and Parliament, which resulted in the execution of the king. The story of his son King Charles II is one of enduring fascination. Becoming king at the age of eighteen, defeated at the Battle of Worcester, his escape followed by years of poverty and humiliation during his years in exile, his valiant attempt and success to regain his throne was the beginning of a new and golden age in England—it was also the beginning of a new lusty and licentious age under the Merry Monarch.

  This story is set in 1660 against the vibrant backdrop of the Restoration of Charles II. It follows the lives of William Latham and Arlette Dryden. They become acquainted when William escapes the Battle of Worcester and, on the request of her dying father, takes eleven-year-old Arlette to her sister in London before escaping to the Continent. They next meet nine years later when the king enters London amid great rejoicing. It is the story of William and Arlette’s passionate search for love and happiness with many pitfalls along the way.

  Helen Dickson

  Reunited at the

  King’s Court

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

  Books by Helen Dickson

  Harlequin Historical

  When Marrying a Duke...

  The Devil Claims a Wife

  The Master of Stonegrave Hall

  Mishap Marriage

  A Traitor’s Touch

  Caught in Scandal’s Storm

  Lucy Lane and the Lieutenant

  Lord Lansbury’s Christmas Wedding

  Royalist on the Run

  The Foundling Bride

  Carrying the Gentleman’s Secret

  A Vow for an Heiress

  The Governess’s Scandalous Marriage

  Reunited at the King’s Court

  Castonbury Park

  The Housemaid’s Scandalous Secret

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Inconvenient Elmswood Marriage by Marguerite Kaye

  Prologue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘I know. We fought together.’

  ‘I remember Thomas speaking of you.’

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

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

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

  ‘Don’t you have a horse?’

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

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

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

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

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘That is correct.’

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

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

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

  ‘Yes—yes, he was.’

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

  ‘The battle was doomed before it began.’

  ‘My son—Thomas...?’

  ‘Was taken prisoner.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘And young Charles Stuart? Where is he?’

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

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