Guarding the Countess

by Lily Reynard

  Julian gave a short laugh at Anne's all-too-apt description, then made a dismissive gesture.

  "None of which are requirements in a wife. I can always find a mistress with good taste." He drummed his fingers against the painted wood of the armoire. "So, what does she enjoy? Surely she has some vices?"

  Anne shrank a little in her chair. "I don't know yet. But what about Kit? Can't you ask him? She told me he rescued her from highwaymen."

  "Oh, I have a use in mind for Kit." Julian smiled. "But what I need from you, sister mine, are the secrets that one woman tells another. So, you must become her friend, her confidant, her gossip. Now, about young Chelmsford: you seem to have caught his eye."

  "I think so." Anne tucked one of her blonde ringlets behind her ear, happy to be back on safe ground. "He asked me to dance twice at Lady Morfall's ball..."

  * * *

  A week passed quickly as Antonia settled into her new routine.

  Her days began at dawn, leading her household staff in morning prayers, followed by breakfast.

  Then it was time to respond to the daily letter from her bailiff, reporting on the progress of the wheat and barley, and asking for her authorization on various matters. The remainder of time before the queen's levee was occupied with updating her account books with the previous day's expenditures, and talking to the housekeeper and the cook about provisioning the household.

  Finally, she would allow herself the luxury of sharing a pot of tea with Kit before he escorted her to Whitehall.

  After Kit took the opportunity one morning to mention he had noticed several unauthorized gates cut in the wall separating the neighboring houses from Antonia's garden, she asked him to oversee whatever improvements he saw fit to increase the security of her home. This gave him something to do while she was at Court, and his progress reports provided an acceptable excuse to enjoy his company when she returned.

  She enjoyed conversing with him, but refused to admit to herself that she was a little lonely.

  Several of her girlhood friends, now the wives of merchants and artisans, came to call on her in the days following her visit to Mother. Hemmed in by the social barriers that divided citizen from noblewoman, the visits were brief and the conversation consisted of stiffly-uttered observations on the weather and questions about the fashions worn at Court.

  Wistfully, Antonia remembered the easy camaraderie she had found among the wives and daughters of her country neighbors in Long Cranbourne, and the first pangs of homesickness began to assail her.

  At Court, most of the queen's attendants were polite but distant, etiquette a thin veneer over the distaste they were not quite able to conceal for the widow of a prominent Puritan nobleman.

  Only Lady Anne Edmonton made friendly overtures, and Antonia found herself feeling more comfortable with the girl as the days passed, welcoming a companion to sit with at mealtimes and with whom to play cards. It made the snobbery and outright scorn of Lady Castlemaine's clique easier to bear.

  The male courtiers were friendlier. Much friendlier.

  To her bemusement, Antonia was showered with gifts from hopeful suitors.

  During her hours in the Queen's Withdrawing Room, a parade of servants delivered a steady stream of scented gloves, jewelry, perfume—and a single red rose every day from Lord Thornsby.

  When Lady Anne introduced them, Antonia recognized him from her first day at Court.

  Thornsby gave her a slow smile that made her stomach feel hot and tight, and bowed his departure with an admiring gaze.

  Antonia watched him stride out of the Withdrawing Room with an odd flutter in her chest.

  "My brother's quite taken with you," said Lady Anne, giggling. "And Lady Elizabeth looks ready to scratch out your eyes for it."

  "I'm sure your brother is just being gallant to me. Lady Elizabeth is much prettier than I am." But secretly, Antonia hoped that Thornsby wasn't just another fortune hunter.

  Lady Anne's next words provided little hope, however.

  "Oh, but Lady Elizabeth hasn't two shillings to rub together," she said with a dismissive roll of her eyes. "Why, she can't even visit her parents because of the creditors laying siege in their parlor!"

  She giggled again, a little nervously this time, and with good cause, Antonia thought. If the gossip she had overheard was true, the Edmonton family was in scarcely better straits. Of course, the same could be said of nearly every courtier.

  That evening, Antonia returned home to find a letter from Mall, who reported that Jemmy was recovering from his wound with only a slight fever.

  Antonia was relieved by the promising news, and looked forward to the day when she might enjoy her maid's tart-tongued company again.

  Polly tried very hard to live up to her new duties, but she vacillated between suffering from nerves and putting on airs with the rest of the servants.

  * * *

  On the following Tuesday, Lady Cranbourne returned from Court directly after the midday meal.

  When her summons arrived at Cranbourne House, Kit welcomed the interruption to his efforts to compose a note to Julian updating his progress—or lack of it—in abducting the countess.

  He hastily splashed water in his basin and tried to scrub the worst of the ink stains from his fingers, then changed his shirt and put on his best coat and his sword.

  Wondering what had happened to disrupt her routine, he arrived at the Whitehall steps to find Lady Cranbourne and a pretty blonde girl, dressed in a mourning gown, chatting under the interested gaze of a middle-aged palace guard.

  He relaxed his wariness a trifle when he noticed that neither of the women seemed upset. Reaching the top of the stairs, he bowed to both ladies.

  Lady Cranbourne greeted him, and said, a little breathlessly, "Kit, we're going to the theater! Her Majesty wishes to attend Secret Love, or the Maiden Queen at three o'clock in Drury Lane."

  The blonde girl was studying him. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, and said, a little nervously, "Is this the fellow who saved you from the highwaymen, Lady Cranbourne?"

  "Indeed. Lady Anne Edmonton, may I introduce Mr. Fitzgeorge? I believe he is a cousin of yours."

  Edmonton? Kit bowed hastily, suddenly noting the girl's resemblance to his late father. Which meant that she also resembled Kit a great deal.

  Worried, he wondered if Lady Cranbourne had noticed.

  "So I hear." Lady Anne gave him a searching look, but did not extend her hand. "We have not been introduced."

  She immediately turned back to Lady Cranbourne and asked what she intended to wear to the theater.

  Lady Cranbourne shot her companion an irritated glance that seemed to go utterly unnoticed, then took up the conversation smoothly.

  Kit swallowed his pride and stood silently until the two women finished speaking and parted with a kiss on the cheek.

  As he helped the countess into the waiting boat, Kit reminded himself that he should accustom himself to being treated as a servant more often than a gentleman, even by his relations.

  But it still rankled.

  * * *

  When they arrived back at Cranbourne House, Lady Cranbourne vanished upstairs to change out of her Court dress into a more comfortable but still elegant gown, and to remove the makeup from her face and neck. It was customary for ladies to wear a mask to the theater—not that it kept anyone from recognizing them—and Kit was secretly glad when she reappeared a short while later in a shimmering lavender gown, her face rosy from scrubbing.

  The thick mask of white lead and rouge minimized the scarring that the smallpox had left behind, but it also concealed her subtle expressions, and the charming line between her brows that appeared whenever she was deep in thought.

  Scarred as it was, Kit preferred the face that nature and Fate had given Lady Cranbourne.

  When they arrived at the Theater Royal at half-past two, it was already packed with commoners who had arrived at noon to claim the cheap seats in the upper gallery. The air was heavy with
the sharp scent of the oranges being sold in the pit by the young, provocatively dressed orange-girls.

  The bright afternoon light poured through the glass panes set in the cupola high above, augmenting the branches of candles set around the stage.

  The more prosperous Londoners were crowded in the tiered benches of the middle gallery, and the boxes were beginning to fill with the various members of the aristocracy.

  As Kit and the ever-present Polly followed Lady Cranbourne to the boxes, he saw jewels sparkling on fingers, ears, buttons, and hairpins. The nobles in attendance craned to watch the masked prostitutes displaying themselves in the pit, gossiped in apparent obliviousness to the commoners gawking at them from the upper galleries, or sent orange-girls scurrying from one box to another, bearing messages from gallants to their lady-loves.

  They had no sooner found their seats near the Royal box when Lady Anne appeared, Julian in tow, his wealth of dark golden curls quite eclipsing Lady Anne's pale ringlets.

  Neither of the two spared Kit—sitting well in back of Lady Cranbourne—more than the briefest glance as he rose and bowed to them.

  Julian kissed Lady Cranbourne's hand with languid grace, and proffered a long-stemmed red rose. "Pray you will accept this humble token from your equally humble admirer."

  Lady Cranbourne took the rose. "You're very gallant, Lord Thornsby." She raised it to her nose. "It smells sweet, but not half as sweet as your kindness to me."

  She was masked, but Kit saw a telltale blush on the back of her neck, and found himself gritting his teeth in annoyance.

  But why should I care? he reminded himself. Didn't I promise to secure Lady Cranbourne as Julian's bride?

  More alarmingly, he was also seized by the sudden desire to lean forward and kiss Lady Cranbourne's nape where it showed between her shining curls.

  Just the gentlest brush of his lips, Kit thought, to discover how soft her skin might be.

  He was glad of the distraction when another richly dressed man appeared in the box.

  Julian quirked a smile at Lady Cranbourne, and withdrew—but not before pressing a lingering kiss to her cheek that made Kit's hackles rise.

  "I will yield the field to my noble competitors," he joked. "But allow me to bring you some oranges, Lady Cranbourne."

  Lady Cranbourne inclined her head. "Thank you. And pray sit with us when you return. Lady Anne, here—" Kit rose on cue and slid one of the vacant chairs forward. "This box has an excellent view of the stage. I would be honored if you would join me."

  Lady Anne, smiling, took the proffered chair, as the next gentlemen entered with a bow and a box of sweetmeats.

  And so it went for the next half-hour, as a steady stream of visitors, both male and female, came to the box to pay their respects to the Dowager Countess of Cranbourne.

  Kit rose and bowed, rose and bowed, but all the while kept an eye on Julian. He was not pleased with what he saw.

  At length, his half-brother returned, his hands filled with ripe oranges.

  He was accompanied by a tall, stutteringly shy boy of perhaps seventeen years. The newcomer was introduced as Lord Chelmsford, and Kit felt a moment of pity for the youth, struggling red-faced through several obviously-rehearsed pleasantries.

  But everyone had to learn how to pay court sooner or later, and Lady Cranbourne was kind enough not to mock.

  Finally, the play began, but Kit was able to make little sense of the plot—something involving a queen in danger, and a maid of honor disguised as a boy—because the conversations in the box continued unabated.

  Julian in particular paid little attention to the stage, preferring to point out this lord and that lady, and relate witty anecdotes regarding each.

  Finally the play ended, and they left the theater, pausing frequently to exchange curtsies, bows, and words with a dizzying array of wigged and scented personages.

  Polly's eyes bulged as she strove to drink it all in, and Kit was obliged to take her elbow and steer her through the crowd in Lady Cranbourne's wake.

  Once inside the Cranbourne carriage, the three of them discussed the play.

  "And what is your opinion of Lord Thornsby?" Lady Cranbourne asked, a shade too lightly.

  "Not nearly good enough for you," Kit said, surprising himself.

  Lady Cranbourne's eyes widened. "But he's titled. The king favors him. And he is charming and well-mannered."

  Kit thought fast. "Towards you, perhaps. I'll grant that Lord Thornsby's manners are exquisite to his peers, but I've always found the true measure of a man in how he treats his inferiors."

  "What do you mean?" Lady Cranbourne was frowning now.

  "I watched him go to the pit to buy your oranges, and he was...rough with the seller." Kit had seen Julian hand the girl a coin. Some sort of disagreement had ensued, and he had grabbed her cruelly by the arm and shoved her into one of the slender pillars that supported the roof of the theater.

  Lady Cranbourne had removed her mask in the privacy of the carriage, and Kit saw her shocked expression at his words.

  "When you marry again, my lady, you'll be your husband's inferior in law," Kit added, slowly, aware that he was deep in uncharted waters. "And so, you must pick someone worthy."

  "But I'm not getting married again. I was just enjoying having an admirer," Lady Cranbourne said, a little plaintively. She rested a meaningful glance on him.

  "I spoke out of turn. My apologies," Kit said, uncomfortably aware that he had betrayed his growing feelings for her—at least in part.

  * * *

  That night, Kit lay awake a long time in his lonely bed, tormented by the memory of the countess's orange-blossom perfume and the thought that she lay asleep so deliciously near.

  I must not desire her. It was too late to tell himself not to like her, and too late to resist her charm, her wit, her kindness.

  But to form an infatuation for the woman he must soon betray...that was madness.

  But all the logic in the world couldn't stop him from wondering whether he could find a chance to kiss her while she still looked upon him as a friend and as a gentleman.

  Chapter Eleven

  Can pleasing sight misfortune ever bring?

  Can firm desire a painful torment try?

  Can winning eyes prove to the heart a sting?

  Or can sweet lips in treason hidden lie?

  —Lady Mary Wroth, "Pamphilia to Amphilanthus" (1621)

  Summer was arriving early this year.

  It was a warm afternoon for May, and the air in the Cranbourne House gardens was scented with late violets and the first roses, underlaid with the faintly rotten smell of the Thames.

  Kit mopped sweat from his temples and neck with his sleeve. His shoulder was aching abominably after an hour spent instructing Lady Cranbourne's footmen in basic sword-fighting techniques, but it gave him satisfaction to see how steadily they improved.

  "That's all for today, lads," he called. "Good work!"

  The gaggle of ten or so youths gathered up their discarded coats and the long staves they had been using to learn the essential stances. They returned to the house, laughing and jeering at the slow learners in the group.

  Like young men everywhere, they were thrilled about the possibility of being able to wield a real sword, and were already challenging each other to duels with their sticks.

  It made Kit feel old to remember that he had been the same way once. That was before he had learned that no amount of proficiency with the sword would make him a gentleman.

  The noblemen who employed him might admire the ease with which he killed, but at the end of the day, he was still merely a hireling to be used—and expended—in skirmishes quickly fought and even more quickly forgotten.

  The footmen's voices retreated and then vanished as they entered the house, but Kit lingered in the garden.

  He had received an anxious note from Julian, praising Kit's cleverness at insinuating himself in Lady Cranbourne's household, but wanting to know when to expect her
arrival at Thornsby Hall.

  Kit had been mulling over his reply all morning. The lessons provided a pleasant distraction from his thoughts, but he knew he must write Julian back, and soon. Kit had allowed himself to be lulled by the pleasant weeks in this household. Now, he had been reminded of his real purpose. But when?

  As soon as he asked himself the question, the answer came: next week, at the Earl of Cranbourne's ball.

  It would be easy enough to suborn a boatman to carry two passengers far from the city before dawn broke. Lady Cranbourne's struggles would not be noticed amidst all the music and trysting couples, nor would her staff at Cranbourne House expect her home before dawn.

  He felt sudden revulsion at the thought of abducting her, but clamped down on his unease.

  His decision had been made weeks ago, and if he had allowed himself to develop tender feelings for his prey in the meanwhile, the more fool he.

  Buckling on determination like a sword belt, Kit stooped and picked up his jacket where it lay on the closely-scythed grass.

  As he walked past the herb garden, he noticed it was laundry day—damp bed linens, tablecloths, and towels had been draped over the long banks of rosemary hedges to bleach in the sun.

  Beyond the herb garden, the laundresses and maidservants, supervised by Mrs. Clements, were using long staves, like the ones that Kit had employed for his sword-fighting lessons, to agitate the next batch of linens in a large tub filled with a mixture of boiling lye and water.

  The very domesticity of the sight gave him a pang. It had been a long time since he had felt so much at home anywhere, and shortly he would be betraying everyone who trusted him.

  Not quite everyone. For it was Margaret's welfare he was serving now, and as much as he might regret his deeds, his daughter came first.

  As was his custom on the days that Lady Cranbourne stayed home from Court, Kit strode though the house to her dark-paneled study, ready to give his report on the day's activities.

  The door was ajar, but she was not alone.