by Lily Reynard
"That is not my intent, my lord," Kit said.
He had dreamed of it, though. Recognized as the Earl of Thornsby's brother. Eligible for Antonia's hand! Regret, sharp as the thrust of a sword, made him catch his breath. Too late, now.
"I only wish to secure my daughter's future, and as my lord Thornsby bears me a grudge, it seems prudent to forestall another misunderstanding as to our true relationship."
"Very well," said Cranbourne. "Let me think.... Did your mother every publicly state that she believed old Lord Thornsby to be your father? Can you provide copies of a parish register that imputes him?" He stopped to think. "Perhaps some of the Thornsby family portraits...though, admittedly, you and Lord Thornsby bear each other very little resemblance."
"He takes after his mother, my lord," Kit said. "Lady Anne and I look very much like old Lord Thornsby."
Cranbourne nodded. "So much the better, if you can obtain a portrait of the sixth earl. Is there any other proof you can provide, such as a bastardy bond? Or a midwife's attestation?"
"No bastardy bond, my lord, but my mother's imputation of Lord Thornsby is part of the parish record," Kit answered. He strove to keep his tone calm. Cranbourne is going to help me! "And there are many at Thornsby Hall who still remember George and Julian—the seventh and eighth Lords Thornsby—calling me 'brother' in our boyhoods."
"So, everyone knew, even the earl's legitimate children?" Cranbourne looked astonished.
"The old earl's miserly refusal to acknowledge any of his by-blows caused a lot of resentment in our parish, my lord," Kit said. "Even though Lady Thornsby found a way to provide for all the mothers so that they weren't burdens on the public charity."
"That may help your cause, for His Majesty is generally known to frown upon men who neither acknowledge nor support their illegitimate children. As you may know, he himself has fathered several children by Lady Castlemaine and others."
"We are to present this evidence to the king?" asked Kit, startled.
He had thought that this matter would be handled by some official, perhaps the clerks of the Chancery.
"Yes. Once you have the proof you need, then your next step must be to petition His Majesty for a redress of the injury done you through false imprisonment." Cranbourne took another sip from his tankard. "If you are acknowledged, you do understand that you will not be in the line of inheritance to the Thornsby estates, nor will you be otherwise materially enriched, save what the present Lord Thornsby may choose to grant you?"
Kit inclined his head. "My lord, I seek only to clear my name and expose Lord Thornsby's malicious falsehood."
"There may be an impediment, however," said Cranbourne.
Kit's appetite suddenly vanished. He minced his squab into a mess of slivers.
"With Lord Thornsby controlling access to the king, you must find another way to present your petition, or it may never come to His Majesty's notice. Unfortunately, I do not have the connections to bypass the Gentlemen of the King's Bedchamber. Perhaps Aunt Antonia could help you in this matter, given that she's one of the queen's attendants?"
Kit's heart sank. "I fear that is impossible, my lord."
The earl looked at him expectantly, but Kit preferred to return to Newgate than speak of what had happened between him and Antonia.
Who else amongst his acquaintances did he trust?
"I have several courtiers among my students," he said, finally, "But I dare not ask any of them lest they inform Julian of my intent. Even Lord Chelmsford cannot be trusted in this regard."
After a few awkward moments in which Kit began to wonder whether it would be simpler to leave London and try to establish himself elsewhere, Cranbourne said, "Have you considered approaching Lady Castlemaine? She's known to refer petitions to the king, and she can bypass the Gentlemen of the King's Bedchamber. But it'll cost you dearly."
"How much?" asked Kit, with a sinking heart.
Even if he took on more students, he could not afford the outrageous bribes required by courtiers with access to the king. He doubted that Castlemaine's help could be obtained for a lower price.
"And would she really consent to receive me, my lord?"
"Your notoriety may work to your advantage, and pique her interest even without a bribe." Cranbourne gave a dry smile. "I have only a passing acquaintance with the lady, but my seal on a letter of introduction should at least entice her to open it."
"Then I must hope that she finds me intriguing enough to invite to Whitehall, my lord," Kit said.
His appearance in the palace might stir up scandal again, and he wished he could spare Antonia this attention. But for Margaret's sake he must do whatever it took.
"Indeed. Now I must take my leave of you, Mr. Fitzgeorge, until our next lesson."
"Thank you, Lord Cranbourne." Kit stood and bowed deeply as the earl rose from the table.
After Cranbourne departed, Kit settled the bill, then headed back to his rented rooms.
As he walked, he began to compose his letter to the vicar of Thornsby-on-Stowre.
Chapter Twenty-Three
"Those Vertues that in women merit praise
Are sober shows without, chaste thoughts within
True Faith and due obedience to their mate,
And of their children honest care to take."
—Hic Mulier: Or, the Man-Woman (1620)
As summer crept by, Antonia moved through her days and duties, racked by almost unbearable anguish. Kit's betrayal had left a raw and bleeding wound in her heart.
She tried to keep herself busy during the long hours of summer daylight by immersing herself in the activities at Court and the affairs of her estate. Her ledgers were kept with exacting detail, and she directed a steady stream of correspondence to her estate manager at Long Cranbourne.
But at night, she was a long time falling asleep as her mind replayed that terrible scene in the parlor over and over again.
Matters came to a head one Sunday in early August. They had returned from a morning spent in church and Antonia was dining alone in her rooms, unable to face the prospect of Chelmsford—Edward—at her table downstairs.
She picked listlessly at a plate of poached fish, the delicate flesh tasteless and gummy in her mouth.
"Oh, and you'll never believe what happened yesterday, milady," Mall was saying. "That girl Polly is with child, and Thomas the footman is claiming the babe cannot be his as they've never lain together."
Antonia put down her fork. "How was she discovered?"
"One of the other maids tattled on her, so Mrs. Clements questioned her. When Polly confessed to having missed two of her courses, she was dismissed on the spot, and you never heard such crying and carrying-on."
Antonia sighed. Her own courses had come precisely on schedule a fortnight ago, the blood both a profound relief and sorrowful reminder of her barren state. "What will she do now?"
"I don't know, and good riddance to her," Mall said, with gleeful satisfaction. "I know it's unchristian of me to say it, but she was a troublemaker, always giving herself airs and speaking against Mr. Fitzgeorge at the maids' table."
Antonia's expression must have betrayed her agony, for Mall stopped short, and her face fell. "Oh, milady, I'm sorry to have mentioned his name."
"I thought I knew him, Mall," Antonia said, speaking out loud the words that had been in her head for days. "And even now, I cannot believe I could have been so mistaken. It's killing me."
Mall sighed. "Try to put him out of your mind, milady. He—"
Jemmy tapped on the door, and stuck his head in. "Forgive the interruption, milady, but the elders have come to see you."
Mall and her brother exchanged nervous looks over Antonia's head, and Antonia felt suddenly ill. The church elders did not pay idle social calls.
"Put them in the Blue Parlor and offer them refreshment, Jemmy," she said, disguising her unease with crispness. "I will come as soon as I've changed my gown."
When she descended, she was dressed
in a sober dark blue gown and a plain cap. Sweaty-palmed, she was determined to look as respectable as possible.
She could guess why the elders had come to see her, but she would not make it easy for them to criticize her.
When she entered the parlor, the situation was worse than she expected. All six of the elders from the local congregation were present, including her minister, Mr. Swetnoun.
They rose and bowed politely as she entered, but their expressions were grim. She seated herself across from them, her hands folded in her lap.
"To what do I owe the honor of this visit?" she asked, motioning for them to reseat themselves.
Each looked at the other, clearly uncomfortable at being the first to speak. Finally, Mr. Swetnoun, his jowly face reddening, said, "We are here out of concern for you, Lady Cranbourne. You have been lately a model of virtuous widowhood—modest, chaste, devoted to the duties of your estate and to the memory of your late husband, God rest him."
Her face burning, Antonia cast down her gaze. They know!
Her first impulse was to confess her sin and throw herself upon their mercy. But a perverse spark of stubbornness made her resist.
"Only lately?" she murmured. "Has something changed? Other than my betrothal to Lord Chelmsford?"
Swetnoun threw her a panicked look. He was eloquent in the pulpit, but otherwise a gentle, soft-spoken man. Clearly, this interview was as difficult for him as it was for her.
"W-we have heard, milady," he stammered, "that this house has become a residence of bad report, and that after nine weeks at court, you are become a courtesan, wanton and free."
"Who reports this?" she asked, sharply.
"The people bandy about your name as a common strumpet," said Mr. Petty.
He was the youngest of the elders, a prosperous goldsmith in his forties. He wore no gloves, and his fingers were thickened with layers of white and pink burn scars.
"And there are broadsheets," added Mr. Swetnoun.
"Rumor and broadsheets," repeated Antonia, meeting their gazes, each in turn.
Why am I fighting so hard? I ought to be desperate to seek forgiveness for my lewd acts with Kit. "What else?"
"Do you need else? Are you not ashamed that your name is become a byword for false virtue?" Mr. Petty said, angrily.
"I am concerned that my reputation has suffered at the hands of malicious men." She drew a deep breath and pressed her palms flat against the fabric of her skirts. "Have my servants testified against me? Have any of my supposed lovers stepped forward?"
"N-no," said Mr. Swetnoun. "But your actions...the, ah, prison. Mr. Fitzgeorge..."
"Who was in my employ as my bodyguard. I was obliged to protect him from being punished on false report. Is that not the duty of a prudent mistress?"
To her surprise, Swetnoun gave her an appeasing smile. "Milady, of course you should take tender care of your dependents. We were but concerned for you—"
So far, none of them had mentioned the fact she had bedded Kit. Was it possible that disapproving Mall had kept her counsel?
"I am deeply saddened that having lived under obedience to my husband and God for so long, I should be so quickly judged and condemned a sinner on so scanty a testimony," Antonia said, adding, after a moment, "And that those of you who have known me since childhood are so quick to believe those slanders and libels against me."
She fixed Mr. Swetnoun with a stern look.
In God's eyes, she might be a sinner for loving Kit, but she was innocent of all the other charges laid against her by her enemies!
Mr. Swetnoun looked abashed.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Mr. Petty spoke first: "And yet, the reports of your wanton conduct are so widespread, you cannot fault us for wishing to investigate."
The rest of the men nodded, solemnly.
"At the very least," Petty added, "we hope that you will stand up in church next Sunday, and apologize for the shameful attention you have drawn to yourself while at Court, and for being the occasion of lewd verse that disparages our faith and our fellowship in God."
Antonia drew an outraged breath, then reminded herself that she had sinned.
Surely, this humiliation would serve instead of the fining and whipping meted out to lesser women for fornication.
But the injustice of it still stung, that she should have to apologize for the actions of others.
"Very well." She bowed her head in apparent meekness. "And I pray you will hear no further reports of me. Especially since I will soon be living under obedience to a husband once more."
This seemed to satisfy them. They rose, with murmured thanks for her time, and departed.
In the aftermath, Antonia paced in the parlor.
Had the elders confronted her with a true report of her actions, she would have gone on her knees and begged forgiveness.
But to hear that even her fellow Puritans leaped to condemn her on the basis of idle tales and scurrilous verse—that kindled deep anger.
Because even if she'd never made love to Kit, these men would still have ordered her to apologize for the wickedness of her enemies. It was unfair!
All her life she had lived under obedience to father and husband, and yet, it had taken so little to ruin her. Just a few lying verses...
And yet, if she had not been ruined, would she have found the courage to lie with Kit? Or to defy the judgment of the elders?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Let not the foot of pride come against me, and let not the hand of the wicked remove me. — Psalms, 36:11
The Earl of Cranbourne kept his word and wrote a letter to Lady Castlemaine.
A fortnight after his conversation with the earl, Kit put on his best suit of clothes and went to Whitehall Palace. He did not know whether Lady Castlemaine would consent to see him, but he was hopeful.
He gave his name to Castlemaine's steward, and was pleasantly surprised when the man returned shortly and ushered him into her antechamber, which overlooked the large, statue-dotted expanse of the Privy Garden.
Her apartments were decorated in a style that defined excess.
Every conceivable inch of furniture had been carved, inlaid, polished, and gilded. The walls were covered in blue silk, thick Turkish rugs muffled footfalls, and there were several huge canvases depicting the king and Castlemaine as scantily-clad Greek deities in mythological scenes.
At least His Majesty got to maintain his royal dignity by being clad in a large leopard-skin, thought Kit, as he studied the Bacchus and Ariadne hanging on one wall.
Lady Castlemaine, on the other hand, had been painted wearing little more than a magnificent set of pearl jewelry and a wisp of translucent drapery that wound over one breast and around her generous hips, barely concealing her private parts.
Then the lady herself entered, and Kit bowed deeply.
She swept into the antechamber without acknowledging him, then draped herself on a brocaded sofa, gorgeously en déshabille in a silk gown the color of the predawn sky.
The painter had not had to flatter her over-much, thought Kit.
She had a flawless complexion, auburn hair like a fox's pelt, and she exuded an air of confident sexuality that might have appealed to him in his younger years.
"Why, it's Lady Cranbourne's fencing-master! What a surprise!" she purred. "Please, sit. I'll order Frederick to bring us something."
She waved a languid hand at her servant, and indicated a nearby armchair.
Kit took a seat. Lady Castlemaine leaned forward with a practiced laugh, and wound a glossy curl around her finger.
"Fancy that—the most notorious man in London paying a call on me! The Court will chew on this gossip-fodder for days." She gave a throaty laugh. "And to think I called your countess a little Puritan when first we met. How you have both proved us all wrong!"
"What do you mean, my lady?" Kit asked, dismayed. Had he ruined Antonia's reputation, after all?
Lady Castlemaine feigned astonishment, her eyes wide. "Never t
ell me you haven't heard that poor Chelmsford's wedding will be overflowing because folk are simply dying to catch a glimpse of you and your...patroness!"
Kit gave her a wry smile, recognizing it would be a mistake to let this woman know that she'd gotten under his skin. She was a breathtaking predator, with a reputation for being merciless to the weak. "It must be a quiet summer, my lady, for a simple fencing-master makes a poor amusement for a crowd."
He curled his fingers around the small package in his hand, waiting for the perfect opportunity to present it to her.
"Why, people are still talking about how she traded her hand for your freedom, and it's been weeks!" She cocked her head and looked at him. "And you fought a duel on her behalf. How gallant!"
"God save me from having to fight another such," Kit said.
He shrugged, as if he fought duels regularly, and felt the familiar jolt of pain through his shoulder.
"At least you're not purely ornamental," observed Castlemaine, with a sly look. "Poor Chelmsford will have a hard time evicting your shade from his marriage-bed."
Kit fought the urge to growl at the reminder that Antonia would soon be wed to another.
Mercifully, the wine arrived, and there was a pause in the conversation while Lady Castlemaine's servant poured for them both.
When the servant had departed once more, Kit took the opportunity to present his package to her. "A small token of my respect for you, my lady."
Lady Castlemaine opened the small box, and raised her eyebrows.
Inside the box, a gold bracelet set with pearls and polished rubies nestled in the folds of a silk handkerchief. She picked it up and slipped it onto her wrist, holding up her arm to examine the craftsmanship.
She would find no deficiencies in either the materials or the work, thought Kit.
One of his neighbors, who had been a Court jeweler before the Civil War, had made it. Kit had purchased it on account, and would be paying for at least two years.
"So, Mr. Fitzgeorge," Lady Castlemaine let her bejeweled arm drop. She looked amused again, like a large cat considering a mouse. "How do you think I can help you?"
"You know the king better than anyone, my lady," Kit began.
