by Lily Reynard
"That's true enough," Lady Castlemaine replied. This time, her smile was unabashedly wicked.
"I wish to present a petition to His Majesty. Being unacquainted with the ways of the Court, I was hoping for your advice how best to plead my case."
"Only advice? Let me wager a guess as to this petition." Lady Castlemaine gave him a cynical lift of her brows, spun the bracelet around her wrist, and leaned forward with an intent stare. "You wish to better your rank. Purchase a knighthood, perhaps? All to make yourself more appealing to your countess?"
Kit flushed despite himself, and she laughed.
"She's a fool if she actually agrees to break her betrothal for you. If I was in her place, I'd marry that young fool Chelmsford in hopes of becoming a duchess someday, and keep you to hand until I tired of you."
Lady Castlemaine's gown, by either accident or clever design, slipped off her shoulder, revealing most of her softly curved, milk-white breast.
Kit was a man, so he looked, but found that Lady Castlemaine's bold charms fell short in comparison to Antonia's.
"My lady Cranbourne is not a fool. And neither of us wish to become adulterers," Kit said through clenched teeth. "And my petition has nothing do with the Cranbournes…or at least not directly."
"How astonishing." Lady Castlemaine sat back in her chair and studied him. "I had a wager riding on the subject of your petition. I was certain that you wished to better your position in society."
"I regret the loss of your wager," Kit gritted.
She might be the king's favorite mistress, but how dare she mock him by making bets on his business!
"If you cannot advise me..." Kit shoved back his chair and rose. He barely remembered to bow. "I thank you for your time and your gracious reception."
Swift as a swooping falcon, her soft white hand darted to encircle his wrist, preventing his departure. "I did not say I was unable to aid you, Mr. Fitzgeorge. In fact, I am most curious to hear exactly what you think I can do for you."
"It concerns Lord Thornsby," said Kit. "My half-brother."
He had the pleasure of seeing Lady Castlemaine struck momentarily speechless. She clearly had been expecting something to do with Antonia.
To her credit, she recovered quickly.
"How very interesting," she purred. "Can you prove the relationship?"
Kit let out a breath of relief, and nodded. "My lord Cranbourne has been most helpful. I shall shortly obtain what I require."
"Mr. Fitzgeorge," said Lady Castlemaine, with a surprisingly hearty laugh, "is there no end to the amusement you can provide me and this court? His Majesty will be furious if you can prove that Lord Thornsby lied to him."
"But only if I can present my petition without Lord Thornsby knowing about it beforehand," Kit said.
"I will do what I can," promised Lady Castlemaine. "If for no other reason than to discommode that young peacock."
Kit bowed again, his anger replaced by relief that the most powerful woman in England had just agreed to aid him.
When she rose smoothly from her chair, he assumed that their audience was at an end.
But she was not quite finished with him. Taking him by surprise, she stepped close, snaked an arm around his waist, and kissed him.
Fortunately, Kit had the presence of mind not to yield to his first impulse to push her away.
He went rigid under the gentle assault of her mouth and, dear God, her tongue. He realized he was in great danger—from Lady Castlemaine if he resisted, and from the king if he yielded.
She pressed every voluptuous curve against him, drowning him in the scent of jasmine. It sickened him. He could only hope that she grew bored with his non-response before his patience ran out and he shoved her away.
Willing or not, Lady Castlemaine seemed determined to have him. Her hand pressed against his groin, boldly cupping him through the fabric of his breeches. He recoiled.
To his immense relief, she released him and stepped back. He saw a moue of disappointment on that beautiful mouth.
"So, you find me unattractive, Mr. Fitzgeorge?"
Her question was a silken noose. He tried to gather his wits. He couldn't afford to offend her, but neither did he want to offer her the slightest encouragement.
His nose was filled with the heavy, cloying scent of jasmine and he feared he stank of it.
"Quite the opposite, my lady. You are—" He flicked his glance upward at the painting of Bacchus and Ariadne, "—a goddess among women. I fear you would leave me but a burnt husk if I experienced the full force of your beauty."
She laughed, and drew a finger down his cheek. "Smooth-tongued as Odysseus! Very well, remain a faithful dog to Lady Cranbourne. I care not."
She half-turned from him, her expression going as smooth and cold as painted marble.
Have I ruined my chance with her? Did I put myself in debt for nothing? He swallowed hard and forced down his pride. "Will you still help me, my lady?"
Reminding her of the power she held over him apparently mollified the sting of his rejection.
"Not to worry. I can arrange to have Lord Thornsby sent away on an errand before your audience with the king, but that may take a little work. Do not despair if a fortnight or so passes before you hear from me."
Kit bowed and kissed her soft, perfumed hand with genuine gratitude. "Thank you, my lady. I will count the days."
* * *
One week later
She had to talk to Thomas.
With nowhere else to go, and hoping to catch him the next time he was sent out on an errand, Polly stationed herself in the street opposite Cranbourne House's Tudor gatehouse. There she waited all morning and half the afternoon, while her stomach growled in protest at missing dinner.
Finally, she saw him emerge from the gatehouse's dark passage.
"Thomas!" She ran toward him.
Being a kind-hearted fellow, he stopped and waited for her. His russet Cranbourne livery reminded her of all she had lost, but she forced herself to smile at him.
"Polly, how d'ye do?" he asked, his brow creased in concern.
She smoothed her skirts nervously, knowing she was still dressed decently enough, though she'd already had to pawn most of her petticoats and her winter shawl to pay for a shabby room near the river.
"I went home, Thomas, and Mama—" She had intended to keep her tone light and flirtatious to win him back, but at his solicitous expression, she began to weep. "Mama ordered me to leave when she heard about the babe!"
He refused to meet her gaze. "What will ye do now?"
She sobbed harder, and to her relief, he drew her close.
She rested her forehead against his shoulder, glad of the shelter he offered from the curious stares of passers-by.
"I don't know! I'm not a harlot! I never—I didn't want to—but he forced me!"
"There, there, Polly," he said, patting her shoulder awkwardly and trying to move away. "I know how it is when a nobleman wants something. You couldn't refuse him, could you?" His tone was bitter.
"No." Polly gulped, and tried to wipe her face with her sleeve.
"You should have known better—" Thomas's shoulders slumped, and he suddenly refused to meet her pleading gaze, "—than to allow him to trap you like that."
"I want to find another position, but I'll be dismissed as soon as my belly swells...unless I'm respectably married by then." She fell to her knees on the bumpy cobblestones. "Thomas, please, please marry me! I'll be a good wife to you. I swear it!"
"I'm sorry, truly I am," He retreated, looking nervous but determined. "But I'll not raise another man's child, especially not a nobleman's leavings."
Polly doubled over, as if he had hit her in the midsection. "But what will I do?"
"What you must," Thomas said, looking down at her. "Can you find a midwife who might—might induce your courses with a potion or such?"
Polly recoiled. "I—I couldn't. Not even if I had the coin to pay a midwife."
"Then you must find
your seducer, and petition him for maintenance. It's a gamble, but many noblemen do pay, especially if they are already wealthy."
"No," Polly whispered. She struggled to her feet.
Thomas looked nearly as miserable as she. "You have nothing to lose by it."
"I can't."
Thomas looked away. "Good luck to you, Polly. I wish—I wish things had turned out differently."
"Me, too," she whispered, but he was already striding away.
* * *
It took another few days of steadily dwindling resources for Polly to admit that she had no choice but to try and see Lord Thornsby.
With only a few shillings remaining, her only other option was to begin prostituting herself for rent money.
So, she brushed off her gown, left her lodgings in Southwark and hired a waterman to take her across the river to Whitehall.
The guard at the water-stairs charged her fourpence for admitting her to the palace, and for another copper, he directed a young page to guide her to Lord Thornsby's lodgings.
They walked for some time through courtyards and corridors, some of which Polly remembered from her stint as Lady Cranbourne's maid, then entered one of the older buildings. The people here were dressed more richly than the others they had passed, and the page whispered that they were now in His Majesty's lodgings.
Despite herself, she craned her head and tried to spy the King. The page, who was perhaps seven or eight years old, grinned mockingly at her. Then he led her up a dark, narrow staircase, and rapped on one of the plain doors at the top of the stairs.
As they waited, Polly noticed that the ceiling-plaster was stained and crumbling, and wondered that the King's roof was in poorer shape than Lady Cranbourne's.
A tall, thin man opened the door. "Yes?" He caught sight of Polly, and raised a supercilious eyebrow.
"A Mrs. Polly Simpson to see my lord Thornsby," said the page, and turned expectantly to her.
With real regret, she handed him the farthing that would have paid for her breakfast roll.
The lad scowled at the paltry amount in his palm before he ran back down the stairs, leaving her alone with Thornsby's servant.
He sniffed. "Wait here. I'll inform his lordship."
Polly folded her hands meekly and obeyed.
She felt conspicuous on the landing, but no-one paid her the slightest heed.
Time crawled by, and she shifted from foot to aching foot, watching the shafts of sunlight at the base of the stairs grow longer and longer. Finally, after what felt like hours, the door reopened and the tall servant peered out.
"Oh, so you're still here? My lord will see you now."
She followed him in, and was surprised to see that Lord Thornsby's lodgings consisted of only two rooms, a sitting-room and a bedroom beyond that. Both of them were scarcely larger than Mrs. Clements' rooms at Cranbourne House.
The ceiling plaster was water-stained in here as well, and everything smelled faintly mildewed. Only the gold leaf adorning the chairs and picture-frames reminded her that she was in a palace.
"Well, what do you want?" Thornsby snapped, without looking up at her.
He sat at a writing-table in one corner of the room, quill in hand. He was dressed in a loose robe over shirt and breeches, and he had tied back his long curling locks with a simple ribbon. "Do you come to tattle another tale on your mistress?"
Polly's stomach roiled at the sight of him.
"No, my lord." Her voice emerged scarcely louder than a whisper.
"Well, then what?" He still had not spared her even the briefest glance, all of his attention on the paper before him.
"My lord, I am with child."
Now he did look at her, and his eyes were cold as gemstones. "And?"
"It is yours."
He smiled. "Is that so, Polly? How can you be certain? What other men have you allowed to do as they pleased for a guinea?"
"I never—" she began, angrily. Remembering her circumstances, she forced herself to continue meekly. "My lord, you are mistaken. I was a virgin when you had your way with me, and I have lain with no man since."
"So you say. But I think you are a deceitful slut and would say anything to a man of rank." He dipped his quill in a glass inkpot and began to write. "If that is all, you may go."
"But—" Polly clutched her skirts. He couldn't refuse her! "What if I tell Lady Cranbourne what you did? She's already dismissed me—I have nothing to lose."
He leaned back in his chair, and chuckled coldly. "Lady Cranbourne already knows that I am no friend to her. Not that it matters, since she is to wed my lord Chelmsford. Now, get out."
Desperately, she cast about for any lifeline. "My lord, if the babe is born without a father, the parish authorities will demand I name one. You'll have a Bond of Bastardy imputed to you, and you'll be sued for support of the child."
"And how will you prove it?" Thornsby sneered.
"Didn't you say that there's a whole taproom of witnesses that saw us go into the back room of the Royal Oak, my lord?"
He did not immediately reply, but she felt a stab of fear at the cold rage in his eyes. Hastily, she added, "Perhaps we can come to an arrangement beforehand."
"An arrangement?" Thornsby drew a deep breath, and seemed to collect himself. "Very well. I am presently without a mistress. "
Polly blinked. Reflexively, the muscles in her lower belly clenched at the memory of the pain he had inflicted on her at their previous meeting.
He saw her hesitate, and smiled cruelly. "Come now, Polly. You know you can't refuse. You're pretty enough, and I shall teach you to please me."
He was right. There was no help for it.
Better to be one man's whore than to have to walk the streets, she thought with resignation, bowing her head. "And when the babe comes...?"
He waved negligently. "All will be taken care of. No need to bother the parish authorities with details."
"Very well, my lord," Polly murmured, and then, because he was looking at her expectantly, forced herself to add, "Thank you, my lord."
He rose, and beckoned to her. "Come here. On your knees."
She obeyed as he instructed her in what he expected of her. She felt as if she were drowning in the stink of mildew and his sandalwood perfume.
At long last, he was done with her.
"Leave now," he said. "Come back in three days. I'll have arranged for your lodging and maintenance by then."
"Yes, my lord," she whispered, and fled the apartment, stumbling down the stairs in her haste to depart.
When she finally reached her room in Southwark again, she would wet a cloth, and scrub, and scrub, and scrub...
How can I return here in three days, to face the same attentions? As his mistress, I will have to obey his every whim…
But at least my babe won't starve, Polly told herself, as she emerged from the earl's lodgings and crossed a courtyard.
The afternoon had passed while she was in Thornsby's lodgings, and now the sky was dark red and gray.
She took several wrong turns on her way to the Whitehall Stairs, and it was soon full dark.
With profound unease, she noticed that there were no servants to be seen in this part of the palace, and only a few torches lit. She fancied she heard footsteps following her, and quickened her step, praying this passage would lead her to the river, and that she could quickly hail a passing waterman.
Ahead of her, she saw the faint shimmer of torchlight on water, and exhaled with relief.
But she had barely stepped out onto the wooden stairs when she was seized from behind. A rough hand covered her mouth, cutting off a scream.
She smelled mildew and sandalwood, and knew it was him.
"How dare you try to extort me!" he whispered, harshly, just before she felt his blade against the side of her neck.
A bright, hot line of pain crossed her throat.
He shoved her, hard, sending her over the side of the stairs and into the river.
Polly
flailed her arms and tried to scream, but gagged by the salty iron of her own blood, no sound emerged as she sank beneath the cold water.
Chapter Twenty-Five
"Thy rage shall burn thee up,
and thou shalt turn to ashes."
— Shakespeare, King John, Act 3, Sc. i
In the fortnight that followed his visit to Lady Castlemaine, Kit tried to distract himself with his work.
It was difficult, though, as August slowly expired without word from her.
And each day that passed brought with it an increased chance that Julian would take further vengeance on Kit. He began to wake in the middle of the night, Newgate's stench choking his dreams.
Kit did not see Antonia again, but it was impossible to put her out of his mind.
To add to his misery, Chelmsford continued his lessons with Kit. The young man was clearly besotted, and he made frequent references to outings with Antonia to the theater, pleasure-gardens, and concerts.
Kit gritted his teeth and nodded politely, and did not, ever, speak her name. It was too painful.
In his lonely new life in Penny Lane, he found himself fiercely missing the small intimacies of their weeks together. How many evenings had they passed with discussions of favorite books over supper?
Margaret frequently asked Kit when they would be visiting Lady Cranbourne, and when she might see Sweetheart again.
Kit made vague promises that perhaps they might call upon Lady Cranbourne in the future, when things had settled themselves.
After a while, Margaret stopped pestering him. But Kit saw the longing looks his daughter cast at the mothers and daughters they passed in the street, and his heart ached for her.
* * *
Monday, September 3
Kit and Anna race frantically around their rented rooms in the darkness and choking smoke, tossing armfuls of clothes and bedding out the window of their third-story lodgings, hoping to save some of their possessions.
Outside, alarm bells are clanging, and Kit hears shouts for a bucket brigade from the street below.
"Take Margaret and let's leave now!" Anna shouts, thrusting the crying girl into his arms.
Kit goes first, Anna following close behind.
