by Lily Reynard
She could not simply stand by and watch Thornsby slaughter Kit as he'd slaughtered Chelmsford. She snatched up Kit's sword from where it had fallen.
Picking up her skirts with her other hand, she raced to join the fight, weapon brandished. The sword, though lighter than she expected, felt awkward in her grip.
But before she reached them, she saw Kit duck under a wild swing from Thornsby's sword. Then he pirouetted like a dancer, his booted foot lashing out in a spinning kick that caught Thornsby in his midsection.
Thornsby folded over with a loud groan.
Kit followed up almost instantly with another kick. It caught Thornsby under his chin, snapping back his head.
With incredulous joy, Antonia saw Thornsby topple backwards, arms outflung. His head hit a mooring post.
Kit flung himself forward onto his knees, trying to catch Thornsby before he rolled into the water. Antonia came to his side, and together, they hauled Thornsby up on the dock.
He lay there, blinking up at them, his once-handsome face disfigured with bloody welts, his eyes dazed. Antonia gripped Kit's sword, fighting the urge to hack Thornsby into stew-meat.
"You there! Halt in the king's name!"
Antonia whirled around, and saw a detachment of the king's guards marching along the waterfront in the direction of the fire.
They had apparently been on their way to fight the fire. Instead of muskets and pikes, they were carrying axes and the long-handled hooks used to pull down buildings to create fire breaks.
The crowd parted, and in the lead, Antonia saw the apprentice lad, grinning triumphantly from ear to ear.
Then she felt Kit take the sword from her. Using both hands, the blade trembling as if holding it required supreme effort, Kit put the point to the base of Thornsby's throat.
"Have you any final words, Julian?" he asked coldly.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
"Farewell, too little, and too lately known,
Whom I began to think and call my own..."
—John Dryden, "To the Memory of Mr. Oldham," (1684)
"Kit, don't!" Antonia caught his wrist.
He inhaled sharply as she jarred his shoulder. "You wish me to spare him? After all he's done?"
"He's your brother!"
Kit slanted her a cold blue look.
"Didn't you hear, my lady?" he asked sarcastically. "He renounced our kinship in front of the king. And God only knows what he would have done to you and to Margaret. I won't let him escape punishment for that."
"He'll not go free." Antonia indicated the approaching soldiers. "There will be more than enough evidence to convict him of murder."
"Do you really think the nobility would condemn one of its own?" Kit pressed down, and a gasp escaped Thornsby's bloodied mouth. "He'll spend a few nights in the Tower, then return to Court with the king's blessing."
"Kit—no!" Antonia pulled on his wrist with all her strength, and Kit's face lost all color. He grunted with pain. She continued, "He won't go free! Not if the Duke of Selborough and my lord Cranbourne have their way. There will be a public trial—and a public execution."
Kit stared down at Thornsby, his expression implacable. "I say kill him now and make certain of the matter."
Thornsby's eyes widened, and he whimpered a little from the pressure of the sword against his throat. Blood welled up around the schiavona's tip, now embedded in the skin just under Thornsby's Adam's apple.
"Would you rob a father of the opportunity to avenge his son?" Antonia asked urgently, playing her last card. "Give Selborough the satisfaction of watching him hang."
Kit considered Antonia's words for a long moment.
He wanted to kill Julian for laying hands on Margaret and Antonia. He wanted to avenge his pupil Chelmsford. And, driven by the relentless throbbing of his shoulder, he wanted to yield to the fury in his blood and extinguish his brother's smirk forever.
But Antonia was right. If he finished pushing the blade through Julian's throat, it would be not self-defense but murder.
Kit expelled a long breath, and relented, stepping back a little, but still holding his weapon at the ready. With disgust, he noticed that his hands were shaking. He glanced over at Antonia to see if she had noticed. But her face was filled only with gratitude and relief.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Then the sergeant of the guards marched up to them, and the opportunity for further private conversation was lost.
"By God, what have we here?" demanded the sergeant, a short, deeply tanned man.
"A murderer and his accomplice," said Antonia. "And a third fled into the crowd."
"And who might you be, ma'am? The boy said there was a lady in trouble."
Kit saw Antonia compose herself, assuming regality like a fine cloak. "I am the Dowager Countess of Cranbourne, and this is the Earl of Thornsby—" She indicated Julian with her foot. "—who, in league with Sir George Purbeck, murdered the Marquess of Chelmsford scarcely an hour ago, then abducted me."
The sergeant frowned down at Julian's bloodied face. "Does he yet live?"
"Alas, yes." Kit tried to sheathe his sword, but he couldn't lift his arm high enough.
His left sleeve was wet and heavy with blood over the hot pain of the wound in his bicep, and his right shoulder was frozen and throbbing with burning pain.
Antonia matter-of-factly took the schiavona from him, wiped it clean on Julian's discarded cloak, then slid the sword into its accustomed place at Kit's hip.
Her hand rested on the small of his back, and the intimacy of it was enough to ease the pain from his wounds.
As the sergeant briskly ordered his men to arrest Julian and to carry away Purbeck's body, Kit drew Antonia close, his left arm around her waist.
He leaned gratefully on her for support, the scent of her orange-blossom perfume like a balm on his wounds, and looked around for his daughter.
"Papa! You're bleeding!" Margaret came running up to them, arriving at the same time as a lad clad in an apprentice's smock.
Antonia smiled broadly at the youth. "You have saved us all!"
"You're too kind, milady." The apprentice blushed, but he accepted his promised reward from her without demur.
With the help of handkerchiefs given by onlookers, Antonia bound up Kit's left arm as the soldiers finished their tasks.
Then they were free to go, and both of them had the same thought—to return to Penny Lane.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Rather the worse for wear, the three of them slowly retraced their path from the riverside to Kit's home.
Antonia's thoughts were disordered, skittering from worry to worry. Just how badly was Kit injured? Had Mall fled the fire, or was she still waiting for them?
Kit had mentioned that Chelmsford had still been alive when he left to rescue her—would they return in time? And had she made a mistake in pleading for Thornsby's life?
As they neared Penny Lane, Antonia noticed that the entire neighborhood had poured out of their houses and into the street.
The wind had shifted, blowing the fire westward toward St. Paul's, and everyone was packing to flee the flames.
There was no sign of Mall or Chelmsford anywhere on Milk Street nor in Penny Lane itself, and worry stabbed Antonia. Where had they gone? And how would she find them in the rush of frenzied activity that surrounded them?
Kit's arm around her waist provided the only spot of comfort.
To her relief, he quickly spotted a neighbor busily piling coverlets and bed-linens on top of chairs in front of her house.
Upon inquiring, he was told, in a rather distracted fashion, that Chelmsford had been moved into the Philpots' home, and that the chirurgeon had been summoned to attend the young lord.
"Oh, and one more thing, Mr. Fitzgeorge—Peggy, the bird!" she shouted.
A little girl about Margaret's age emerged from the house, and to Antonia's joyful surprise, she carried a wooden rabbit hutch, which Sweetheart's black beak was busy demolishing.
Cradling the hutch gingerly in his injured left arm, his right arm hanging uselessly at his side, Kit rejoined her. With a quirk of his mouth, he handed her the hutch.
Antonia fumbled with the latch and Sweetheart emerged, looking irritable but uninjured.
Kit said, "Mrs. Ashton must be worried about the fire. Not a word about the reward, when but an hour ago, her thoughts were consumed by the notion that I might claim it all for myself."
"Reward?" Antonia asked.
Sweetheart climbed to her shoulder, and she looped the end of his leash around her wrist.
"I suppose that if the king can offer twenty shillings for the return of his lost spaniel, then a parrot must be worth at last that much," Kit said, ruefully.
Smiling, Antonia dug in her pouch. "Mrs. Ashton! I believe I owe you my thanks..."
She gave the woman a gold guinea.
Then she, Kit, and Margaret hurried on to the Philpot's house, next to Kit's lodgings.
There, they found Mrs. Philpot also frantically packing up her household goods. She stopped long enough to direct Kit and Antonia to the bedroom where Chelmsford lay. Then she excused herself, and went to berate the housemaid for attempting to pile books in a crate already packed with glassware.
Antonia entered the bedroom, and saw Mall sitting in a chair next to a large tester bed. She was reading from a Bible spread in her lap, one hand clasping Chelmsford's limp fingers.
"Milady!" Mall stood up, and rushed over to Antonia. "Oh, milady! You're here! You're safe!" She began to sob.
Antonia patted her back. "I'm glad you're safe, too, Mall."
After a few moments, Mall collected herself, and stepped back, wiping at her eyes.
Kit gallantly offered her one of the handkerchiefs that had not been used as a bandage, and she gratefully took it and blew her nose.
"The chirurgeon came, and tried to help Lord Chelmsford. He did all kinds of things—" Mall shuddered. "And then he left, telling me he could do no more, and to pray for my lord Chelmsford's soul, for he won't live to see the sunset."
"He's still alive?" Antonia handed Sweetheart to Mall, and hurried over to the bed.
Chelmsford lay unconscious on top of the wool coverlet. His shirt was open, and she saw that the chirurgeon must have tried to cauterize the wound, for the room was filled with the smell of charred flesh. The young man's lips were bluish, his chin speckled with droplets of fresh blood, and his skin already looked waxy and gray.
Antonia touched his cheek, then settled herself gingerly on the edge of the mattress, and took his cold hand between hers.
"Thank you for trying to save us," she whispered, pressing her lips against his clammy fingers.
Kit came to stand by the bedside, putting his left hand on Antonia's shoulder, and she rested her cheek against it.
If only Chelmsford hadn't offered to accompany her! If only all of them had stayed safely at Cranbourne House, and she had sent a messenger to Kit!
She sighed, and Kit squeezed her shoulder.
"Don't blame yourself," he said, reading her thoughts. "The responsibility for this belongs to my brother alone."
"And what about those men? His fellows?" Mall, who was holding Margaret's hand, peered nervously over her shoulder.
"One fled, one dead, and Lord Thornsby on his way to the Tower in the company of the king's men," Kit reported, with a crooked smile. Then he turned serious. "We should send a message to the Duke of Selborough. He will want to see his son to say farewell."
"Already done." Mall, composed once more, tried vainly to tuck her wayward red hair back under her cap. "And I sent a runner to the Earl of Cranbourne, as well."
* * *
The Duke of Selborough arrived shortly thereafter, which sent Mrs. Philpot into an absolute tizzy.
The duke was a tall, gray-haired man, with his son's slender build, and large, long-lashed eyes. Without a word to anyone, he rushed into Chelmsford's bedroom.
Kit leaned against a nearby wall, holding a subdued Sweetheart on his wrist, watching as Antonia proceeded to soothe the flustered grocer's wife with her usual combination of kindness and brisk, sensible advice.
Kit's wounds were beginning to stiffen, and he felt a hundred years old. But he was alive. And victorious.
The cook had gone home hours ago, so Mall offered to make dinner. She took Margaret to the kitchen with her.
"But I've never met so much as a 'Sir Someone' before," said Mrs. Philpot, looking flustered. "And now I've got countesses and marquesses and dukes in every room, my house about to burn around my ears, and not even wine and biscuits to offer my betters!"
"All the more reason for you to pardon our intrusion, and pay us no mind," Antonia said, spreading her hands in protest. "No need for you to distract yourself from your duties to order refreshments—if, indeed, such a thing can even be had today!"
"But won't the duke think—"
"I don't imagine the duke will notice," Antonia said, soberly.
Mrs. Philpot's shoulders slumped. "Aye. I know how he must feel—it's been five years since my own little Crispin went to his heavenly reward." She looked up at Antonia, her eyes shiny with sudden tears. "You're right. The wine won't help."
And with that, she turned and went, slowly, back to the crate she had been packing when they arrived.
Kit and Antonia lingered, trying to stay out of Mrs. Philpot's way. They found a cushioned oaken settle in a room that also contained bookshelves and a set of virginals, and sank down on it, waiting.
Neither of them wanted to depart while Chelmsford still lived.
Kit took her hand between both of his, and she clung to it. He longed to kiss her—truth be known, he longed to do more than that—but he made no move to do so, not with Chelmsford dying in the next room.
So, they simply sat, taking comfort from each other's presence. Sweetheart tucked his head under his wing and napped while the shafts of orange sunlight filtering through the thick windowpanes lengthened and deepened to a bloody shade.
* * *
The duke emerged from the bedroom some time later. He stood straight and proud, but tears shone on his face. Antonia was speechless under the weight of her own grief.
What could she say to Chelmsford's father, when she had felt partly responsible for his son's death?
To her immense gratitude, Kit stepped in. Bowing, he told the duke, "My lord, your son was one of the bravest men it was ever my honor to meet. He died trying to save both this lady and my daughter Margaret, and I offer you my most profound condolences."
"My condolences, also," Antonia managed to stammer. "I had—I had a great affection for him. He was kind to me—to all of us." She slipped Chelmsford's gold-and-ruby ring from her finger, and held it out to the duke. "This is a family heirloom, I believe. I was honored to wear it."
The duke inclined his head gravely as he accepted the ring.
Turning back to Kit, Selborough said, "I am most grateful to you, Mr. Fitzgeorge, for bringing Lord Thornsby to justice. I hope to be able to repay this debt in the future."
"You're very kind, my lord duke, but—" Kit began to say, but just then, the Earl of Cranbourne arrived.
Her nephew by marriage was as earnest as ever, and seemingly unruffled by the day's momentous events.
With wonderful calmness, he inquired about the conditions of Antonia, Margaret, and Kit, promised that his own physician would attend Kit when they returned to Cranbourne house, and offered his condolences to the duke.
* * *
Another hour or two passed, as the duke's men arrived and bore Chelmsford's body away. The duke followed them with halting steps, waving away Cranbourne's efforts to assist him.
When they were gone, Mrs. Philpot wept a few tears for the "poor young lord."
Then, with a Londoner's practicality, she went into the bedroom to strip the sheets and pillows, and set her manservant to dismantling the bedstead so it could be packed.
Cranbourne left Mrs. Philpot with a g
enerous sum for her pains.
"You live nearby, do you not?" inquired Cranbourne of Kit once they were outside.
When Kit nodded, Cranbourne said, "There is room for your belongings, should you wish to remove your valuables from the path of the approaching flames. My man will assist you."
"Thank you, my lord."
Kit fell into step next to Antonia.
Of its own accord, his hand sought and found hers. It was cold in his.
They did not speak until they had reached the earl's coach. She permitted him to draw her a short distance away, so that they might speak privately.
"My lady—Antonia—I never had the opportunity to beg your forgiveness for deceiving you." He bowed his head.
"But why did you agree to kidnap me in the first place?" She sounded exhausted.
Kit told her the truth, difficult as it was. His words emerged slowly, his voice low and halting. "I was penniless, Margaret was ill, and I had no family to turn to, nor any prospects—for who would hire a crippled soldier? Julian promised to help me...to help Margaret if I would do this thing for him."
She closed her eyes, and sighed. But she did not turn away from him.
"Antonia?" he asked, his heart in his mouth. "Does that mean you forgive me? Dare I hope that—?"
"Kit, please," she interrupted, with a haunted expression. "I forgive you, but I need time" She studied their joined hands. "Poor Chelmsford. I wish—"
Kit did not have the opportunity to hear what it was she wished, for Cranbourne's footman appeared, politely clearing his throat.
"Begging your pardon, milady, Mr. Fitzgeorge, but we must hasten if you wish to pack your goods. The fire approaches."
"Of course," said Antonia. She released Kit's hand, and fled into the coach.
I am an impatient fool, thought Kit, leading Cranbourne's footman back to his lodgings. Poor Chelmsford isn't even cold yet.
* * *
The enormity of the fire's devastation prevented Kit from calling upon Antonia until the following week.
The city burned for four days, the dense pall of smoke casting the suburbs and surrounding villages into perpetual twilight.
Shortly after Kit and Margaret departed the city, the inferno spread westward, destroying nearly all the city within the old walls, including Kit's rented house in Penny Lane, and spreading as far west as the Temple. St. Paul's lead roof melted and ran down into the crypt like water.
