My Lady Gloriana

by Sylvia Halliday

  “Gloriana,” he said with fervor. “Don’t ever leave me again.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Gloriana stirred in Thorne’s arms and leaned up on one elbow to look down at him. His eyes were closed, his beautiful mouth slack with spent desire. She felt her heart tearing into little pieces, scattering like the sparks from the forge. She hated him. She loved him. “A pox on you,” she muttered, “for making me want you.”

  He opened his clear, gray eyes. “Was there not more between us than simple desire, my sweet?”

  She couldn’t let go of her bitterness and hatred so easily. “Yes. There was dishonesty, deception. I can never forgive it. You treated me like common dirt, lower than your lowliest scullery maid. A whore, you called me, and think it so. Just someone you can boast about to your friends.”

  He sat up in his turn. “Let me make it up to you. Let me—”

  “No! ’Tis over between us. No matter what you say. I will always see the contempt in your eyes.” She sighed and pulled her thoughts together. This was madness, to quarrel about feelings at a time like this. At any moment, Royster might come back. She rose from the bed and grabbed for her clothes. “Quickly, now. We must leave. I may still hate you, but I don’t wish you dead. And Royster will kill you even after the ransom is paid. I know the man.” She jerked her head toward the table, where Royster had placed Thorne’s sword. “Fetch your weapon.”

  As Thorne replaced his sword in its sheath, she hurriedly dressed—shift, petticoat, skirt, and stays. “Will we head for the river?” he asked.

  “Aye. If we’re lucky, we’ll find a waterman willing to take you home.” She finished tying her garters, then slipped into her shoes. She glanced around the small room. She knew with a certainty that she could never come back here. Had she forgotten anything? A warm jacket—the nights were growing cold. And money! She pulled a small sack of coins from a box under the bed. “These can pay for the waterman. And see me safely out of London and Royster’s grasp.”

  Thorne put his arm around her. “You’ll come with me, of course.”

  She shook her head. “No. As long as I can’t forgive you, I can’t stay with you.” She turned to the bed. “Oh! My keepsake.” She fished under the pillow and pulled out the handkerchief that held Billy’s curl.

  Thorne leaned in close. “You guarded that every moment when we were in Whitby. May I see it at last?”

  She hesitated, then unwrapped the handkerchief and showed him the tiny red curl, like spun copper, tied up with a blue ribbon. “’Tis my son’s,” she said, her voice catching.

  “Yes, of course. Sir Charles’ child. Will you return to the family?”

  “No,” she said softly. “He’s better off without me.” It broke her heart to speak the words.

  “But to give up your child, never to see him again…” He put a tender hand on her arm.

  She sighed and shook off his fingers. “Then we have both lost something in this game.” She reached for his hand. “Now come. No time to waste.”

  She guided him hurriedly through the few narrow streets that led to the banks of the Thames. The only light on the narrow cobblestoned way came from a nearby dilapidated inn, its lamp-lit windows casting glowing oblongs onto the pavement.

  Gloriana scanned the dark waters of the river, seeking a torch that might indicate a nearby waterman. “Bloody hell,” she muttered.

  “Perhaps if we go back to the Strand,” Thorne said. “A busy street, even at this time of night. We might find a sedan chair or—”

  He was interrupted by the soft click of a pistol being cocked, just behind them. He and Gloriana whirled about to stare into the barrel of Royster’s gun. The villain smiled. “I knew I couldn’t trust you, wench. The carriage will wait until I’ve dispatched His Grace and dealt with your betrayal.”

  Gloriana swallowed her dismay and thought quickly. “Don’t be a fool, Jem. The noise of your pistol will raise a hue and cry.” She gave a helpless, apologetic laugh. “’Twas only a moment’s weakness, pet. I thought to enjoy the gentleman’s favors before you returned. And then I didn’t want to see him dead. Let’s go back to our old plan. The ransom will be enough. We needn’t have blood on our hands besides. Certainly not the blood of this weak, scurvy dog, who couldn’t lift a finger to help himself.” She looked at Thorne, praying he would understand her words.

  Thorne nodded, seeming to read her thoughts. “Indeed, sir,” he said in a pleading voice, so unlike him. “Collect your ransom, allow me to go safely home. And I won’t press charges. I swear it.” He held up his hands in surrender, slowly stepping closer to Royster. “I am your prisoner.”

  The pistol wavered in Royster’s hand. “Well…”

  At that moment, Thorne leaped forward and knocked the weapon from Royster’s fingers, sending it spinning toward the river bank. Royster swung at Thorne and they grappled for a long minute; then Thorne reared back and landed a heavy blow on Royster’s chin, driving the man to the pavement. He took a second to grin at Gloriana. “My strong left arm, thanks to you.” He unsheathed his sword and handed it to her. “Watch him while I retrieve his pistol.”

  She nodded and took the weapon, admiring Thorne’s bravery and quick mind, and remembering absurdly at that moment how he had rescued the seamen at Whitby. A fine man, in spite of the ugly wager. Perhaps she could forgive him after all. She smiled at his bent back as he stooped to the pistol at the water’s edge.

  She turned toward Royster, but not soon enough to catch him as he reached behind his collar and pulled out a dagger. “John!” she screamed. But it was too late. The dagger flew through the air and caught Thorne between his shoulder blades. He gasped and turned, eyes wide in shock, then fell backward and tumbled into the river. Gloriana screamed again.

  The door to the inn opened and a small crowd rushed into the street, gaping at the scene before them. But Gloriana’s thoughts were only on the monster who still lay on the pavement before her. As though she were holding her gladiator’s sword, she lifted Thorne’s weapon with two hands above her head and plunged it into Royster’s black heart. He gurgled for a moment, then was still.

  A bystander called out. “Murder most foul! Send for the Watch!”

  Gloriana rushed to the river bank and pointed. “Bring torches! There’s a man…” She choked on her words. He couldn’t be dead. Her heart would never survive the loss.

  More and more people had poured into the street, alerted by the shouts and cries. Though others joined Gloriana in scanning the dark waters, there was no movement, no sound from the blackness except the soft lapping of the waves against the pilings. Gloriana sank to her knees, weeping bitterly.

  She was roused at last by a firm hand on her shoulder. She glanced up, tears still streaming from her eyes. She recognized the man by his badge of office. A constable.

  “Get up, girl,” he growled. “You be comin’ wi’ me.”

  “But you must search the river,” she said in panic. “There’s a man—”

  “Ain’t no one there, leastwise as I can tell.” He nodded toward Royster’s corpse, still impaled with Thorne’s sword. “But you be comin’ to Newgate wi’ me. To be tried for murder. And hanged for it, God willin’.” He hauled her to her feet and passed her on to two of his men. “What be your name?”

  About to answer him, she stopped. She could tell him she was the Lady Gloriana Baniard. Notify the Ridleys. Grey and Allegra would surely see that she had the best lawyer to plead her case before the courts. Even bribe someone, if it was necessary.

  No! To add to Billy’s shame as he grew, knowing that his mother was a murderess? She wasn’t worthy to take her place among their kind. She never had been. Stupid, uncultured, ignorant. ’Twould be better to be hanged at Tyburn than disgrace the family further. And with Thorne dead, what did she have to live for? She stared the constable full in the face. “My name is Molly Sharpe,” she lied.

  • • •

  The next few weeks were filled with numbness, as though she
had already been condemned and put to death. She still had enough of her wits left to remember that she had her purse, filled with a goodly number of coins, tucked into her bodice. She was able to pay for her own dirty little apartment in the press-room in Newgate prison, away from the general population. A few more coins bought her a shifty lawyer, a stout man with shrewd, pig-like eyes.

  He listened carefully to her account of that night, truthful as far as she wished to go. She had met the gentleman on the street, she said. They had arranged an assignation. Then Royster had appeared and attacked them.

  After hearing her story, her lawyer had returned to the inn near the river and found several of the patrons who had seen her kill Royster. With a handsome bribe, they had gone with her and her lawyer before the magistrate at the Old Bailey, and sworn an oath that they had seen Royster kill the gentleman, and that Gloriana’s attack had only been an attempt to protect herself from further harm.

  To her lawyer’s satisfaction, the court had accepted her plea of self-defense, without the need of a jury trial. It was a reprieve, of course, not a pardon. A man was still dead on her account. But instead of prison or the gallows, she was offered the option of being transported to America.

  She ignored her lawyer’s apology for not getting a full acquittal, and shook her head. “’Tis no matter,” she said. “’Twill be a new life for me, a new beginning in America.” Once in the Colonies, she could pay her way out of bond servitude and try to build a new life. Resigned to whatever the future might hold, she settled into her dingy little room in the prison, until she should be transported. Gnawed by guilt over her part in Thorne’s sad fate, she was willing to accept a lonely life of exile from England—all she deserved.

  Overcome with despair, she sank onto her small cot. What did any of it matter? Thorne was dead. And so was she.

  • • •

  Wrapping his morning gown more tightly around his chest, Thorne stepped outside onto the terrace of his country house in Surrey and glanced up at the November sky. Sunny and clear, with a few white clouds drifting across the vivid blue horizon. And still mild enough so a few roses lingered on the bushes of the formal garden. He breathed deeply of the sweet air—as deeply as his still-healing lung would allow—and walked slowly and carefully along the gravel path toward the glasshouse.

  Nearly a month since that fateful night in London. His doctors said he was healing well, and he was getting stronger every day. It still seemed unreal, like a misty, terrifying dream only half-remembered. The fight with Royster. The feel of the cold water on his flesh as he tumbled into the river. He remembered the pain in his back, the water filling his nose, his desperate gasps for air. The rest was a blur. Dobson had told him that he had managed to make it to shore, where he was found at dawn by a dustman, but he recalled nothing of that. They said he’d even contrived to whisper his name before he collapsed completely.

  He understood why his mother had quickly arranged for him to be transported out of London to Thorneleigh Hall, near Mayfield, almost in secret, like a highwayman on the run. The damage to his reputation, to his family name, would have created a scandal. A great nobleman, friend to the Duke of Arundel, no less, found gravely injured in a disreputable part of the city. There would have been questions he was not prepared to answer.

  The glasshouse was warm, sheltering seedlings and plants that would have long-since withered outside. There would be oranges for Christmastide, he noted, admiring the healthy trees. He nodded to Purdy, the head gardener, then bent to a box of small plants nestled in fragrant loam, and frowned. “These seedlings are too close together. And the box is too shallow. No room for the carrots to grow.”

  Purdy touched his forehead in salute and crossed to Thorne’s side, frowning in his turn. “You be a gardener now, Your Grace?” he asked, clearly struggling to keep a civil tone in the face of his master’s intrusion into his domain.

  “I’ve had a bit of experience,” he said, a sharp edge to his voice. He was the Lord of the Manor, after all. What right did this man have to question him? With an impatient sweep of his fingers, he indicated a cluster of plants in one corner of the box. “Look there. Scarcely room to breathe and spread. And when the carrots begin to grow down, where can they go?”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, milord, but when they gets bigger, they gets a bigger box.” Purdy’s tone was that of an exasperated parent explaining things to a difficult child.

  Thorne smiled ruefully, aware that he must have sounded like an arrogant prig. “A point well taken, my good man. But if I may, I’d like to help you replant them when they’re ready. I’d welcome the feel of dirt under my nails again.”

  Purdy raised a questioning eyebrow, then nodded. “Aye, milord. If you wish it. I’ll leave you to your tour around the glasshouse now. Them tulips in the corner be needin’ my care.” He saluted once again, his wrinkled face relaxing into a grin. “Truth be told, Your Grace, ’tis grand to see you up and about at last.”

  The gardener moved away and left Thorne to his examination of the various shrubs and plants. He found the strong scent of the greenery and the rich earth almost painful, reminding him once again of his garden at Whitby, the unexpected joy he’d found in being useful.

  And, of course, thoughts of Whitby always reminded him of Gloriana. He wanted her. He needed her. Dear God, he loved her. It no longer mattered that she’d been a whore, that she might betray him some day. Why should he feel jealousy, that she’d had other lovers? Even that villain, Royster. He himself had scarcely been faithful to a woman for any length of time.

  The past was dead and buried. He only knew that his future was meaningless without her by his side. She was a free spirit who had brought joy to his constrained life. And his days were empty unless he could find her again.

  But where was she? As soon as he’d recovered his senses, he’d sent Rogers to London to search for her, to enquire of the lowest denizens of the city and scour the meanest streets. He’d even had Rogers ask about Jeremy Royster, with little success. The man had disappeared, though some rumors had it that he had been killed in a fight.

  And with each fresh report, his heart sank and a dreadful notion added to his despair: She didn’t want him to find her. Why should she, after the terrible things he’d said and done? He suspected that Dobson guessed the truth about his feelings for Gloriana, and had probably shared the Whitby adventure with his mother. Her tenderness in the past few weeks had seemed to go far beyond her concern for his health.

  “Merciful heaven! What are you doing out—and in your condition?” Thorne turned at the sound of Lady Penelope Crawford’s voice. Her face was a mask of concern.

  “’Tis not as though I had asked for a horse to ride!” he snapped, feeling like a child caught snatching a forbidden sweet. The injured look on her delicate face, the soft blue eyes filling with tears, made him instantly regret his harsh reply. He gave her an apologetic smile. “Forgive me. That was cruel.”

  She crossed the glasshouse floor and placed a tender hand on his arm. “Dearest Thorne. To see you out of your sickbed, after we nearly lost you, is reason enough to rejoice. I can forgive your impatience with your slow recovery.”

  “Too slow,” he grumbled. “I shall go mad with boredom.”

  “Would you like me to read to you? I mark that my voice brought you comfort in the early days.”

  That was certainly true enough. As soon as news of his mysterious illness had spread in his London circles, Penelope had appeared in Surrey, settling herself into his household and declaring that she would be his nurse. In some perverse way, it pleased him that his mother had been supplanted as his caretaker.

  And Penelope had shown a sweet side to her nature that he had never suspected. She had sat by his bedside for hours, mopping his fevered brow and directing his diet of milk-pottage and weak tea as he slowly recovered.

  He smiled at her and shook his head. “No. I’m too restless to concentrate on a book.”

  “Cards? Though I vow you
allow me to win, you scoundrel.” Penelope pursed her lips in a mock pout and wagged her finger at him.

  He shrugged ruefully. She was right, of course. But she always looked so crestfallen when she lost, and so filled with girlish joy when she won, that he hadn’t the heart to best her very often. “Cards it is. And I promise to challenge you severely.”

  She slipped her arm through his. “Come into the house now. I’m sure all this walking and standing is not good for your recovery.” She guided him into a small parlor, helped him into a chair in front of the card table, and fetched a footstool to put under his feet.

  “Thank you, Penelope. It’s been many years since I’ve been so pampered.” If he admitted it to himself, he rather enjoyed being cosseted. He had rebuffed his mother’s attempts to indulge his needs for so long that she had simply given up trying.

  Penelope sat opposite him and took his hands in hers. “I wish I could do more,” she said softly. “Your eyes are filled with pain. And not from your wound, I think. Will you tell me, at last, what happened in London?”

  He wasn’t about to tell the whole sordid tale to anyone, and certainly not to this fragile creature. He repeated the story he’d told to Dobson. “There’s little to tell. I left the theatre and was confronted by a ruffian. I should never have turned my back on him.”

  “That’s all? I would have expected anger from you. A desire to see justice done. Not the sadness that you’ve seemed to carry around like a heavy burden.”

  He fidgeted in his chair, uneasy with the direction of their conversation, and determined to change the subject. He pasted a bright smile on his face. “Why, then,” he said, “you must bring me cheer.”

  She guided one of his hands to her mouth, turned it palm-upward, and planted a soft kiss on his flesh. Then she looked away, seeming embarrassed. “As to that… when you have quite recovered your strength, there is much more than cheer that I should like to offer you.”