by Lily Reynard
She blinked, and gave him a tentative, gap-toothed smile. He closed his eyes as the vanilla scent of the sun-warmed oak planking engulfed him in memory.
Margaret had been born in a house like this. With Kit's troop employed by a minor German prince engaged in a year-long stalemate with a neighboring ruler, Kit and Anna had rented a cottage.
Kit remembered long warm afternoons spent polishing his weapons and mending various bits of gear while his hugely pregnant wife knitted contentedly next to him. He had been so happy that year, with no idea of the disasters that lay ahead...
"Very good of you, Mr. Fitzgeorge," said his new landlady, breaking into his reminiscence. "I knew you were a gentleman when I saw you, and with such a good reference from Mrs. Jenkins, she that works for the Countess of Cranbourne! The rent will be six pounds a year, with ten shillings paid in advance."
Kit handed her the sum, and looked around at the space once more.
Margaret will like it, he thought, but without Antonia to share it, it could never be a real home to him.
He had failed his lady, just as he had failed his wife that smoke-filled night two years ago.
* * *
A fortnight later, Antonia had scarcely returned to Cranbourne House after a morning spent in attendance upon the queen when a visitor was announced.
She was expecting Kit, for he normally came on Wednesday afternoons to report on the progress of his fencing-academy. Instead, Jemmy announced that Lord Thornsby wished the honor of speaking with her.
In the Blue Parlor, Thornsby, looking considerably more serious than she remembered, made his bows and settled himself on her brocade sofa.
Antonia served tea and studied her visitor as they made polite conversation about the hot weather and the terrible state of the roads.
Lord Thornsby seemed tense, restless...What does he want?
"I have not yet offered you my congratulations on your betrothal to the Marquess of Chelmsford, Lady Cranbourne," Thornsby said at last, leaning forward, looking like a lion about to pounce.
"Thank you, my lord," Antonia said, continuing to pour tea.
"He's a bit young, but he stands to inherit the title of Duke of Selborough. You've done very well for yourself, Lady Cranbourne...given your origins."
His tone held that delicate, not-quite-concealed note of distaste she had come to loathe in the early years of her marriage, when people had openly speculated at balls and card-games how a mere cloth-merchant's daughter could possibly have managed to snare an earl.
"That's not why I agreed to marry him," Antonia snapped, letting irritation rule her for a fatal second. "His Majesty requested the match."
"In return for your lover's freedom?" Thornsby laughed nastily.
"How dare you!" Antonia said, after a moment of shocked speechlessness.
"Because I am devastated that you chose Chelmsford over me," Thornsby said smoothly. "You raised such hopes in my breast, and dashed them cruelly. Was it for the prospect of being the future Duchess of Selborough?"
Antonia took a deep breath. "That is none of your affair, my lord. Now, why are you here?"
She glanced pointedly at the gold-and-enamel clock sitting on the mantle. Kit should be arriving momentarily.
"My lady," Thornsby said, rather pompously. "I've come on two matters of business. Firstly, to warn you about a serpent in your bosom. I charitably took in a starving man and his brat, fed them, clothed them, and asked only one small favor in return—"
The parlor door opened, and the maidservant, Betty, ushered Kit in with a bob and a smile.
Kit stepped inside the parlor, saw her visitor, and froze. A look of horror crossed his face and Antonia felt a premonition rush down her spine like icy water.
She was certain she did not want to hear what Thornsby had to say, but it was too late.
"—and how am I repaid?" Thornsby continued. "I find my brother—my bastard brother—become your lapdog. How did you do it, Lady Cranbourne? What did you offer him that was better than the gold I promised him for abducting you?"
Antonia felt each of Thornsby's words strike her like stones flung at her heart. Kit still stood frozen near the door.
"So, you perjured yourself to the king?" she asked in a flat voice. "When you denied Mr. Fitzgeorge was your kinsman?"
Chelmsford had told her of Thornsby's betrayal only yesterday. He had heard it from the king himself, for it was not common knowledge.
Thornsby gaped at her. This was clearly not the response he had been expecting.
Antonia's fingers dug into the arms of her chair. "And why should I believe you, Lord Thornsby? I scarcely know you. But I do know Christopher Fitzgeorge and he is loyal and brave and would never—"
Her gaze flew to Kit, confident of his denial.
Instead, she saw that his face had gone chalky under his tan, except for two red patches kindled on his cheekbones like fever-blotches.
"No," Antonia whispered, feeling the malevolent brush of Thornsby's triumph. "Oh, no."
Kit drew a ragged breath and crossing the room, dropped to one knee before her. "I—I swear I never did you any harm, my lady. It's true I gained your acquaintance under false pretenses, but then, when I—when we—"
"You lied to me!" Antonia said in a choked whisper. She could barely force speech from the hollow space inside her. "It was all a sham!"
"No," Kit sounded as breathless as she. "No, I—"
Antonia forgot Thornsby's presence, forgot herself. Her slap snapped Kit's head back.
"All this time—everything you said—everything you did—and you were but this man's pimp-whisking!"
Kit bowed his head, and blood began to bead along his jaw where one of her rings had cut him. Her hand had gone numb, and she wished that her heart might do so, too.
"Leave my house," she ordered. "And do not ever return."
Kit rose stiffly to his feet. She did not want to look at him, but she could not help it. His eyes burned like dying stars in his colorless face.
"I would never harm you. Never!" he said, harshly, and then was gone.
The door of her parlor slammed shut behind him.
"Now," said Thornsby, smiling like a hungry lion, all white teeth and predatory, gleaming eyes, "as for the second matter of business: Let us discuss the matter of your betrothal to Lord Chelmsford, and whether you can make it worth my while not to make public a claim that we were pre-contracted to marry."
She was dying, bleeding from a dozen rapier thrusts to her heart.
"What new japery is this, Lord Thornsby? Has not the ruination of my friendship with Mr. Fitzgeorge sufficiently entertained you?"
"Entertained, indeed, my lady Cranbourne, but it was not the entirety of my business with you." Thornsby took a sip of tea, and leaned back in his seat with a lazy grace that belied the feline intensity of his expression. "It is common knowledge in certain circles that I was shortly to announce my betrothal to a certain widowed noblewoman. You have greatly inconvenienced me, and I intend to make you pay for it."
Anger gave her the strength to counter him. "Indeed, Lord Thornsby?"
"When your fellow Puritans rebelled against the late king, they took over the offices that rightfully belonged to our family, leaving us to struggle as best we could against the unjust fines levied upon us by that traitor Cromwell and his illegitimate government!"
Thornsby's cheeks were flushed, and Antonia thought that she was seeing genuine emotion for the first time his normally schooled face.
He continued, "Now, imagine how I've felt, humbling myself to woo you as you flaunt your ill-gotten title at Court! You owe me, Lady Cranbourne."
"And if I refuse to pay you so much as a single shilling?"
He had enjoyed seeing her learn the truth about Kit...let that pleasure cost him now! She would not let him win, even if it meant that she lost everything else.
"Then I not only will I speak with the king, but I will publish every sordid detail of your liaison with Kit, and the wor
ld—and Lord Chelmsford especially—will know your virtue for a hollow shell," Thornsby said, looking unbearably smug. "And then you will have to marry me, for no one else will have you."
Antonia leaned forward, her hands clenched in her skirt. She trembled with rage. "If I were a man, I would challenge you to a duel. As a mere woman, I can only ruin you."
"Ruin me?" He gave a disbelieving chuckle. "Wait until I tell the king that you promised to—"
She cut him off with a sharp gesture. "You wear a fine coat, my lord, but the inferior quality of your shoes and stockings tell another tale."
Thornsby's smirk faded as she continued, implacably. "If you contest my betrothal with these falsehoods, I swear I will destroy you with lawyers' fees. I shall have the extent of your resources investigated and made public. No merchant will ever extend you credit again. And when I tell the king how you lied when you denied that Kit was your half-brother—"
"My lady! Perhaps my words were ill-chosen," he interjected. "When I heard of your betrothal, my passions overcame my judgment. I could think of nothing else but that another man would have you, you whom I so fervently desired for my own! Can you forgive me?"
His lovelorn expression was nearly perfect, she thought, and he made use of those long-lashed eyes with an actor's art.
She said nothing, merely stared through him, willing him to go away. Her jaws clenched so tightly her jaws ached.
After a long, uncomfortable moment had passed, and her forgiveness was not forthcoming, his hopeful look faded and a more convincing expression of dislike took its place.
Thornsby rose to depart. "I still hope we can come to a settlement my lady, once your enmity toward me has cooled somewhat."
Then, with an insolent bow, he was finally gone, leaving Antonia to contemplate the ruin of her heart.
She collapsed into one of the brocaded chairs, and groped for a lukewarm cup of tea.
No one was left to witness her utter humiliation—not even Mall. She raised the cup to her lips, and noticed that her hand was trembling.
Nausea roiled her stomach, and in another moment, she might begin to weep.
But now, in the momentary space between the sword cut and the pain, she felt gratitude that her marriage to Chelmsford would not involve love. It hurt too much.
* * *
That evening in his new lodgings, Kit sat down with Margaret at the scarred wooden table, and they shared a supper of roast squab fetched from a nearby cookshop.
Margaret ate eagerly, punctuating her bites with the news of her day, which revolved around the excitement of Mr. Woolworth beating his apprentice Samuel in the street for stealing food.
Kit barely listened to her rambling tale. The food was dry and tasteless in his mouth, and over and over the afternoon's horrible events replayed themselves in his mind.
He was consumed by shame and regret.
Julian had been a liar and a bully all through their boyhood together. Why had he expected his brother to change after coming into the title?
If only Kit had confessed before Antonia rashly promised herself in marriage! If only he hadn't accepted that damned commission in the first place...
But it was too late.
Leave my house. And do not ever return, she had told him.
The cut on Kit's jaw seemed minor in comparison to the blow to his heart. He had lost everything that mattered to him—except his daughter.
At least she had a full belly and a roof over her head, albeit a much humbler roof than that of recent weeks. And he had Antonia to thank for that, unworthy as he was.
Trying to distract himself from the sickness in his heart, he read to Margaret from The Metamorphoses for a while, as the long summer twilight faded to orange.
Soon, he saw her struggling against sleep, her eyelids drooping. He scooped her up, helped her change into her nightgown, and tucked her into her new bed.
"Papa?" she asked.
"Yes?" He brushed her long blonde hair back from her forehead.
"When are we going to see Lady Cranbourne and her birdie again?"
"I don't know," Kit said, his throat tight. "Soon."
"I want her to be my step-mama." She closed her eyes.
"I did too," whispered Kit. "Say your prayers now, and sleep well, sweetheart."
He retired not long after, and said his own prayers for the living—Margaret and Antonia—and the dead—Anna and his mother.
Then he lay awake for a long while in the stuffy darkness, hearing the sounds from the street outside penetrate the wooden shutters. He wondered what Antonia was doing. Was she dancing at a ball somewhere with Chelmsford?
He turned on his side and curled up like a wounded man, touching her ring to his lips. It was cool and tight around his smallest finger, and the scent of her orange-blossom perfume came to him, unbidden.
He remembered following that scent out of the darkness of Newgate, like a lost soul following Orpheus from the Underworld to the land of the living.
Kit groaned softly. She had made her sacrifice and rescued him without knowing how truly unworthy he was.
Now, thanks to Julian's malice, she was ignorant no longer. And try as he might, Kit could not block out the memory of her expression when she realized how he'd betrayed her.
He had seen a similar expression on the battlefield, in the moment that a man realized he had received a mortal wound.
And Julian, damn him, had been watching them both, and gloating.
At that memory, Kit felt a cold prickle run down his skin despite the room's warmth.
His brother was a dangerous enemy, and as an unrecognized bastard, Kit would have very few rights and almost no defense should Julian decide to trump up another charge.
Kit stared into the darkness, all thoughts of sleep temporarily banished. If another stroke of ill-luck befell him, Margaret would be left utterly alone in the world.
What would become of his sweet daughter then?
Kit remembered the orange-girls at the theater, many no older than eleven or twelve, and all of them at the mercy of men like Julian.
Kit could think of only one solution—he must learn to play the game of courting power and influence at which his half-brother excelled, and he must learn to play it quickly. For this was one struggle where his proficiency with the sword could not help him...
Or can it? Still thinking, Kit fell asleep at last.
* * *
The next morning, the Earl of Cranbourne arrived promptly at Kit's salle d'armes for his lesson.
After the lesson ended, Kit put aside his pride, and approached the earl as Cranbourne was gathering up his things.
"My lord," said Kit. "May I ask a favor of you?"
Cranbourne paused in the act of settling his periwig on his close-shaved head. Though he was three or four years younger than Kit, the dark stubble of his hair was already liberally silvered.
"If this has to do with your quarrel with Aunt Antonia, I'm afraid I cannot intervene." Cranbourne gave Kit a sharp glance. "She has not divulged any details, but whatever passed between you seems to have wounded her deeply, Mr. Fitzgeorge."
Kit flushed and looked away.
"I regret it most sincerely, my lord," he said, studying a rack of wooden practice swords on the wall opposite the windows. "But my request is only indirectly connected to my lady Cranbourne."
"Truly?" At least he wasn't refusing Kit outright.
"I would very much appreciate the benefit of your advice on the handling of a delicate matter," Kit said. "Concerning Lord Thornsby."
"I see. Well, I shall strike a bargain with you, Mr. Fitzgeorge. As it is nearly noontime, I will hear you out on the condition that we do it over a meal." Cranbourne smiled, which lent a great deal of charm to his snub-nosed face.
"If you don't mind tavern fare, my lord," said Kit, relieved, "it would be my honor."
In short order, the two men were seated in a private parlor at the nearby Rose and Crown.
Cranbourne waited un
til the proprietor had delivered the last of the dishes. Then, slicing himself a portion of crisp, amber-skinned squab, he asked, "What of my lord Thornsby, then?"
Kit took a deep breath. "He is my half-brother, my lord."
Cranbourne paused, a bite of meat halfway to his mouth. "Rumor says that my lord Thornsby denied you to the king."
Kit nodded. "And as a result, I partook of His Majesty's hospitality at Newgate. If not for Lady Cranbourne's intervention..." He could not finish the sentence.
"Indeed." Cranbourne chewed slowly, looking thoughtful, then took a long sip of beer. "Perhaps you had better tell me the whole story."
"It's a simple enough tale, my lord. My mother was a maidservant at Thornsby Hall. My father, the sixth Earl of Thornsby, took a fancy to her, and—" Kit shrugged, and sawed off a portion of squab with his knife. "It was only a matter of time before she found she was with child. Knowing she would be dismissed from her position, she approached the earl, and asked him to acknowledge the babe."
"And he did not?" interjected Cranbourne.
Kit said, bitterly, "He told my mother, 'If I acknowledge one brat, then every lightskirt in the parish will be applying to me to support the fruits of their sins.' And so, she was fined and whipped for her sin, and I grew up as the village bastard."
He stabbed his knife deep into the flesh of the squab on his plate, trying to suppress all the bubbling shame and anger that still festered despite the passage of years. "We survived only because Lady Thornsby charitably granted my mother the right to sell her ale and beer to Thornsby Hall."
"I see." Cranbourne put down his knife and wiped his fingers on his napkin. His usual scholarly air was even more pronounced as he rubbed his chin. "There is precedent for proving disputed parentage, and you may be able to prove yours if you can produce certain pieces of evidence."
Kit leaned forward. This was better news than he had dared hope for! "My lord, thank you! I will—"
"Now, having said this, I must warn you," Cranbourne interrupted with a stern look, "if you think to improve your rank in order to court my aunt, then waste not your time in pursuing this matter. For she will not break her betrothal to Lord Chelmsford even if you suddenly become a duke."
