by Lily Reynard
It was a great sin to lie with a man outside the sacred bond of marriage. But at this moment, it seemed a greater sin to deny her feelings—and his.
"I wish—I want to—but—" She was stumbling in her speech as badly as Chelmsford.
"Shush, my beloved. I understand." He wove his fingers though hers, and pulled her gently back to the bench. "Bide with me a while."
They sat side-by-side for a long time, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her waist, as her fevered pulse slowly returned to normal, until only the empty ache of unsatisfied desire remained.
"I have never wanted to be a prince or a duke 'til this moment," Kit murmured, at last. "So that I could pay court to you in full honor, rather than stealing kisses in corners."
She had been firm in her determination to live as a chaste widow, but that determination was being sorely tested.
Could her feelings for Kit survive the loss of her reputation? And the loss of her own self-respect, if she tossed aside all of the moral precepts she had been taught, and tried to live by?
And can I ever marry Kit?
He loved her, that much she felt was true—but he was penniless, and almost a commoner.
The king would be angry if she married secretly and to a man he did not approve of. She would be ostracized from her circle of friends. Even the common folk would revile her for taking her bodyguard as a husband.
Perhaps she could improve Kit's rank. But how would he react if she purchased a knighthood for him?
Plus, the king might oppose her in this, and then what would she do?
And what of the people and properties under her care?
If she married Kit, he would instantly become the master of all that was now hers, to manage or dissolve as he wished.
She thought she knew him well enough to predict he would thoughtfully and carefully govern her properties. But if she were wrong, then she would condemn her tenants and all her servants to a harsh or wasteful regime.
She loved him. But she had known him for less than two months, and as always, her head and heart battled.
So, like a coward, she did not reply to his sentiment, but said only, "Let us return to the house now. I'm certain Mall is frantic that I've escaped for so long."
* * *
Although determined to have his revenge on Kit—and to remove him from Cranbourne House—Julian was forced to hoard his nuggets of information and delay his intended plan of action through the waning days of June.
The king had much on his mind, and had temporarily abandoned his usual habit of conversing with his Gentlemen of the Bedchamber in favor of perusing stacks of reports and other correspondence.
If Charles spoke to anyone, it was to his brother James, the Duke of York and Lord High Admiral.
Following on the recent shameful English defeat at sea, word came from one of the king's spies in Calais that 6000 French soldiers stood ready to board Dutch ships and sail for Dover.
Julian practiced patience during the invasion crisis, though he chafed both at the thought that Kit was sharing Lady Cranbourne's bed, and at his creditors' increasingly insistent demands.
As his frustration mounted, he wondered whether he could inveigle Polly into a second round of amour—her struggles had been very satisfying.
But he did not see her again. Only that sour-faced redhead Mall accompanied Lady Cranbourne to Court these days.
He thought about approaching Lady Castlemaine about the scandalous situation in the Dowager Countess of Cranbourne's household, but Castlemaine had never shown any warmth towards him.
Also, she was currently in an uncertain temper, her position as the king's chief mistress endangered by her own arrogance. King Charles had overheard her being insolent to the queen, and to everyone's surprise, had dismissed her from Court.
Fortunately for Castlemaine, the separation had been a brief one and she had quickly been reconciled to the king. In the aftermath, she was as wary as a cat walking over pavement littered with glass shards, and Julian did not think her inclined to carry unpleasant news to His Majesty.
It was nearly July before the crisis subsided. In the end, rumors of an invasion had proved precisely that—mere rumors—and the Court settled quickly back into its dissolute ways.
Julian finally had his opportunity to broach the subject of Lady Cranbourne and Kit when he and several other gentlemen of the Court accompanied Charles during one of his vigorous daily walks through St. James Park.
Surrounded by panting spaniels, most of the courtiers quickly fell behind, unable to keep up with the tall king's long and rapid stride.
Julian was one of the few fit and young enough to keep pace, and soon found himself at the king's side, with the others straggling far behind.
As the two men strode up a shaded gravel path, Julian found himself breathing hard and sweating under layers of linen and brocade in the mild morning air. Charles—damn his eyes!—seemed as cool as when he'd left the palace.
Julian was concentrating on not panting, and nearly missed the king's question:
"So, my lord Thornsby, how goes your pursuit of the famously chaste Lady Cranbourne? Have you succeeded in running your fox to ground yet?"
"I fear I am doomed to have my expectations disappointed, Sire," Julian puffed, glad the opportunity had come at last, but wishing that he could think faster while maintaining this infernal pace. "My lady Cranbourne's affections lie in a different, and I dare say, lower direction."
"Indeed?" The king's dark brown eyes twinkled. "'Twas not so very long ago, Julian, that I would have put gold on the fact that you might have any woman you wished, in decorous matrimony or merely with her skirts up about her ears. Who is this rival that outshines even your title and splendid locks?"
Julian flushed. "I fear it is my lady's attendant, Mr. Fitzgeorge. Her servants report that they have seen Fitzgeorge and my lady Cranbourne behaving indecorously. Together. In fact—" Julian had to pause for breath, and the king's dark brows rose in inquiry.
"I've also heard rumor that the countess is secretly betrothed to him," Julian continued, spinning out his carefully-concocted tale, "and that she has been deceived by his spurious claim to noble blood."
His lie was a carefully calculated risk, but it paid off. With the mention of a betrothal, the king ceased to look amused.
"This Fitzgeorge," said the king. "Is he not the same fellow who dueled Chelmsford several weeks ago?"
"Yes, sire," said Julian.
"And did you not then publicly acknowledge him as your kinsman, Lord Thornsby?"
God's eyes! Julian should have known that the king had received a detailed report of the affair! He thought furiously, trying to come up with a plausible denial.
"I spoke in jest, Your Majesty, as my companions can attest," he said, quickly. "Strong drink made it seem amusing at the time." Julian shrugged, putting on the air of a man recalling a drunken exploit.
The king strode along silently for a few yards, a thunderous expression on his saturnine features.
Julian added after a few moments of heavy silence, "I mention this only because of my concern that so virtuous a woman as my lady Cranbourne may be sadly deceived by a common rogue."
The king's expression turned cynical. "I find your concern for Lady Cranbourne's reputation quite touching."
Julian had no reply for this. Things were not going as he had planned.
They became worse a few moments later, when the king commented, "I also find it interesting that you should deny a connection to Mr. Fitzgeorge, Lord Thornsby. For I have heard a rumor that he is in fact your half-brother."
Julian swallowed a draught of air made bitter by the memory of Kit's betrayal, and said coldly, "My only brother is dead, Your Majesty. And my father never acknowledged any bastard children."
"Are you quite certain, my lord Thornsby?"
"I am," said Julian, vehemently. "In fact, Your Majesty, I am outraged at Mr. Fitzgeorge's claims!"
"Is that so?" The king
smiled, and Julian wondered if he had gone too far.
The king's next words, however, sent a sweet rush of victory through Julian's chest.
"In any case, we cannot tolerate commoners attacking noblemen." Charles rubbed his fingertip along the pencil-thin line of his dark moustache, apparently pondering the matter. He did not break stride nor slow down.
Julian, satisfied, did his best to keep up, devoutly hoping that his plan had succeeded.
Chapter Nineteen
For among my people are found wicked men: they lay wait, as he that setteth snares; they set a trap, they catch men. — Jeremiah 5:26-27
"My lady...might I beg a word with you?" Chelmsford asked, urgently.
The queen's ladies-in-waiting had been taking the air in the Privy Garden. It had rained overnight, freshening the air and reviving the plants in the low flowerbeds.
Several of Antonia's companions, turned at Chelmsford's approach.
He touched Antonia's arm, and drew her gently away as Lady Castlemaine, who stood some distance away, surrounded by her coterie, remarked, "Oh, here is a sweet messenger boy, come to give Lady Cranbourne some interesting news!"
Chelmsford chivalrously guided Antonia around a puddle, and led her to the relative privacy of an archway leading from the garden.
Castlemaine and her particular friends were now glancing over at them with giggles and low-voiced exclamations. Antonia felt a chill of apprehension at their behavior. They only carried on like this when there was fresh scandal to dine upon.
"Mr. Fitzgeorge has been arrested for dueling!" Chelmsford blurted. "He's been carried away to Newgate!"
Antonia felt as if the ground had abruptly fallen away beneath her feet.
She swayed, and Chelmsford, looking alarmed, put a firm hand under her elbow. "Lady Cranbourne, would you like to sit?"
"No thank you," she whispered, overcome by the idea of Kit languishing in a filthy prison cell, even dying of jail-fever, and all because he had fought for her. "But why? No one was killed in the duel...and surely you and my lord Thornsby and my lord Cranbourne aren't to be arrested, also?"
"I don't think so," Chelmsford said, uncertainly. "I mean, His Majesty has given no indication...oh!"
He stopped suddenly, and took both her hands in his. He gazed earnestly into her eyes. "My lady, I give you my word that I had nothing do with this!"
Antonia blinked.
"I did not think you had, my lord," she said, still dazed. "I was merely concerned for you."
"Thank you, milady." Chelmsford's pale skin stained scarlet, revealing a faint pattern of stubble along throat and jaw. "I've overhead some of the others talking. They said the king discovered that Mr. Fitzgeorge isn't a gentleman at all, and that's why he's been arrested for dueling a nobleman."
"Then the king has received a false report, for Mr. Fitzgeorge is every inch a gentleman." Antonia was glad of her sudden surge of anger, for it dissipated a little of the awful helplessness she felt. "And being acquainted with Lady Anne Edmonton, I can attest that she and Mr. Fitzgeorge bear a close resemblance." She caught her lip between her teeth, and bit it hard, trying to focus.
Who should I ask for Kit's release? Must I offer a bribe of some kind?
Chelmsford waited patiently as she swiftly made and discarded a number of plans. He still held her hands, and his touch was comforting.
Finally, she said, "My lord Chelmsford, I beg your advice. Who at court is best suited to help me?"
He bowed awkwardly. "His Majesty. For it was by his command that Mr. Fitzgeorge was arrested."
"Oh." Antonia felt sick with nerves at the thought of having to beg a favor of King Charles.
But she had no choice. If he agreed, she knew there would be a price to pay.
"And how can I gain an audience with His Majesty?"
"The king holds a levee in the mornings. If you arrive at an early hour tomorrow, my lady, I will ensure that you get to see His Majesty privately." Chelmsford paused for a second. "If you can, weep when you present your petition. The king has a soft heart when it comes to a woman's tears. That's how Castlemaine found forgiveness when the king bade her depart."
Relieved, Antonia clasped Chelmsford's hand between hers. "My lord Chelmsford, I am in your debt!"
His face flamed again, but his fingers tightened around hers. "I do it gladly, my lady, especially since I'm likely to lose the best fencing master I've ever had, otherwise."
* * *
Antonia found the queen, and pleading a sudden illness, asked for permission to return home.
Catherine nodded regally, then gave her a little smile.
"I wish you good fortune in freeing your servant, Lady Cranbourne," she whispered in her heavily accented English.
Antonia's face grew hot, and she started to stammer an apology, but the queen made a shooing gesture. "Go, go, anyone can see that you are—what is the phrase?—pale as a sheet."
Antonia curtsied deeply, and backed out of the room as quickly as she dared.
Mall was waiting for her just outside the tall doors of the queen's apartments. Together, the two of them hurried through Whitehall's seemingly endless corridors to the boat stairs.
Mall hailed a waterman, and they were soon riding the swift current down the Thames.
Buildings, wharves, and gardens glided by swiftly on the banks, but Antonia scarcely noticed them today. She stared down into the swirling brown water, making lists in her head of what to send Kit.
A change of clothing...bedding...money with which to pay the jailer's fees. Food.
Yesterday had been bread-baking day, so there should be plenty of loaves in the pantry. She could ask Cook to bake some meat pasties.
What else? A round of cheese, slices of ham, and some sausages. A large bottle of ale. I saw some baskets of fresh apricots and cherries arrive this morning from the Long Cranbourne orchards...
"Cranbourne House!" the waterman announced, vigorously plying his oar to bring them alongside the wide stairs descending into the water.
They paid and disembarked.
As they approached the house, Reeves emerged, panting a little as he propelled his stout frame down the path.
"My lady! Thank God you've come! Mr. Fitzgeorge's been arrested!"
He skidded to a stop, and Antonia saw beads of perspiration matting his sandy hair.
"I heard," she said quietly. "How did this happen? Did the constable enter my home?"
"No, my lady. No one came here," Reeves puffed. "Mr. Fitzgeorge left to run an errand this morning, and the constable and his men arrested him in Ludgate Hill. One of the maids saw them carry Mr. Fitzgeorge away, and heard them tell of Newgate; otherwise we'd not know what had happened."
"Which maid?" asked Antonia. "Bid her come."
"'Twas Betty, milady." Reeves bowed, and prepared to dash away again.
Beyond him, Antonia saw the faces of her staff clustered at the windows along the ground floor and first story. Many of them looked frightened, though some were giggling and staring down with avid curiosity.
"Wait," said Antonia, and Reeves halted. "How does young Margaret? Does she know her father was taken away?"
Reeves nodded. "I told her myself. She's a brave little poppet—not a tear out of her, only asking whether she might visit her papa in jail. But she's been very quiet since."
"Bring her to me directly after I've spoken with Betty."
Antonia lifted the hem of her gown, and stepped over the threshold.
Upstairs, in her rooms, she changed out of her Court gown—she had worn dark green silk today, with an emerald pendant and heavy emerald earrings. She pulled them off and rubbed her aching earlobes as Mall unpinned her elaborate ringlets and brushed out the glaze of egg white that had kept the curls in place.
Betty tapped timidly on the door, then entered, her eyes downcast.
"Betty," Antonia said. "Reeves tells me that you saw Mr. Fitzgeorge arrested. Can you tell me what happened?"
Stammering, and with
frequent pauses, Betty told essentially the same story that Reeves had related.
Leaving Cranbourne House to buy a packet of needles and a skein of silk floss for the housekeeper, the maid had seen the local constable approach Kit, show him a paper, and then order his men to escort Kit away.
There had been no violence, and Kit had offered no resistance.
Betty had not been close enough to hear the reason for the arrest, but one of the shopkeepers had told her afterwards that the constable had accused Kit of breaking His Majesty's edict against dueling.
"I see," Antonia said, when Betty's last few sentences had died into an awkward silence. "Thank you, Betty. You may go."
There was a sharp rap at the door, and Mall's brother Jemmy entered.
Betty bobbed a curtsey and fled.
With an effort, she turned her attention to the young red-haired footman. He looked fully-recovered from his injuries, and was unaccustomedly grave. "Milady, I heard what happened."
"News travels fast," Antonia said, dryly. "Would you be willing to go to Newgate Prison and deliver Mr. Fitzgeorge some food and clothing?"
"Yes, milady!" Jemmy stood up very straight.
"Thank you." Antonia turned to Mall. "Fetch me a pen and paper, Mall. And my purse."
Jemmy waited patiently as Antonia wrote out a list of items for Reeves and Mrs. Clements to pack for Kit. She also wrote a brief note to Kit:
Mr. Fitzgeorge: You are not Alone, nor forgotten. All in this house are praying for your well-being and your swift Release, and I am doing everything in my power to aid you.
A.
She sealed the note, and gave it and the list to Jemmy, along with a couple of shillings for his trouble. He refused the gratuity with a vigorous shake of his head.
"Milady, I owe Mr. Fitzgeorge my life. I'll not take coin for performing my Christian duty and visiting him in prison."
Mall gave her brother a fond smile before he left at a swift trot.
* * *
Margaret was tearless, as Reeve had reported, and unnaturally subdued.
The appearance of iced almond biscuits did little to cheer her, though Sweetheart managed to win a brief smile by eagerly accepting one from her fingers.