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Chapter One

"...marriage entitles [the husband] to your person, and to all you bring with it of worldly goods, and he can do with it what he pleases without your consent."--John Evelyn, 1620-1706

Long Cranbourne, Kent, April, 1666:

Antonia lay rigid in the great bed, her eyes straining to pierce the deep gloom produced by the enclosing bed curtains.

It was very late--or very early. The only sounds she could hear were the drumming of her heart and her maid Mall's gentle snores on the other side of the bed.

But something had awakened her. Had it been her bedroom window opening to admit an intruder?

Long seconds passed. Antonia closed her eyes. Perhaps it was nothing more than her overwrought nerves, strained from another day of fending off persistent suitors while struggling to maintain the dignity befitting the youngest Dowager Countess in Cranbourne's history.

Now that she was a widow, and a wealthy one, every fortune-hunter in England seemed determined to marry her, thereby reducing her from independent Countess to subjugated wife.

But she resolved to outwit them all, for she would not allow--There! Was that a floorboard creaking under the weight of a stealthy foot?

Antonia's heart started pounding again, as she stared at the shadowy tracery of embroidered flowers and vines decorating the bed curtains.

She started violently at a sudden clatter followed by an outraged squawk from her parrot.

"Clumsy wench!" Sweetheart shrieked from his cage, in the exact tones of Reeves, the household steward. "Damn you!"

Someone was in her bedroom!

Antonia reached over and shook Mall, hard. "Wake up!"

Sweetheart shrieked again.

The bed hangings billowed and shook, followed by the rapid scrape of the curtain rings against their rod. Antonia and Mall sat bolt upright in the bed. As the last length of curtain was jerked aside, moonlight spilled onto the rumpled coverlet and was almost immediately eclipsed.

The intruder threw himself onto the bed, pinning Antonia's legs. Startled out of their temporary paralysis, Mall and Antonia screamed in unison for the footman:

"JEMMY!"

Then Mall hit the intruder with one of the two oaken cudgels concealed between the ornately carved headboard and the pillows. Antonia followed a second later with the other cudgel.

"Ow!" The intruder raised a shadowy arm to shield himself.

Mall and Antonia, working in outraged unison, rained blows on him. Grunting, he rolled back and forth on the bed, trying to escape their attack.

Then he lunged and caught Antonia's forearm, wresting the cudgel away from her.

"Jemmy!" Antonia screamed again. Where the devil was he? Mall's seventeen-year-old brother, Jeremiah Jenkins, was supposed to be guarding her bedroom door. Even if Jemmy had fallen asleep, this commotion could wake the dead.

The intruder, still holding her arm, was pulling her forward, trying to yank her from the bed, despite the fact that he lay across the coverlet covering her legs.

Antonia thrust her free hand under her pillow, scrabbling for the dagger she always kept there. Finding it, she thrust with left-handed awkwardness into the only part of her attacker she could see in the dark--the white of his shirtsleeve. The impact jarred her hand, and the blade, unexpectedly, stuck fast.

The man shrieked, inciting Sweetheart to add his contribution to the cacophony.

The doors to Antonia's bedchamber banged open--finally!--and the moonlight was evicted by the golden glow of candles. Young Jemmy burst in, clad only in breeches and a billowing shirt. His short red hair stuck up in tufts all over his head.

"My lady!" he called, blinking as he peered around.

It seemed an eternity since she started awake, but it had likely been only a minute or two.

"Get-him-off-me!" Antonia shouted. Jemmy hastily banged the candelabra down on her dressing table.

She had lost her dagger somewhere, and trapped as she was by the weight of the intruder, she could do little more than push him frantically away.

Mall was still trying to defend Antonia, and some of her blows were landing painfully on Antonia's legs, where the thin coverlet did little to shield them.

"Oi, get off milady and m'sister, you!" Jemmy hauled the intruder off the bed, wrestled him to the floor, and immobilized him by the simple expedient of sitting on his back.

Antonia sat for a second, panting. Drawing the coverlet virtuously high around her neck, she leaned over the edge of the bed and looked down. She could see little but limp gray-streaked hair and a bloodstained sleeve.

"Who is he?" she asked, her voice breaking in an undignified squeak.

Reaching for the candelabra, she raised it as Jemmy rolled the intruder over. Antonia inhaled sharply as she recognized the neighbor whose suit she had politely rejected last week. Her fear vanished, and anger took its place.

"Sir Nicholas Finch! Shame on you!"

His face a pasty white and beaded with sweat, Finch made no reply, but his gaze flinched away from her pockmarked face, naked of its usual concealing silk mask or any cosmetics.

Antonia reflexively began to raise her hands to hide her cheeks, then resolutely dropped them. What did it matter if Finch found her repulsive?

"Summon the magistrate," she ordered Jemmy. Finch was going to regret trying to compromise her, oh yes. She noticed that her dagger was still embedded in Finch's forearm. "Best fetch the chirurgeon, too."

Still clutching the coverlet to her chest, she glared at Finch. "And don't you dare bleed on my Turkey carpets, Sir Nicholas."

* * *

An hour later, properly gowned in her widow's weeds, Antonia descended the grand staircase to the ground-floor hall.

Her Steward of the House, Harry Reeves, met her at the base of the stairs. He was a short man, a little stout, with sandy hair and bad teeth. Antonia noticed that his shirt was unevenly tucked into his breeches, further evidence of the early morning disruption.

"My lady," he said, puffing a little. "Sir Ralph Bellamy has arrived. Terrible, what happened--what if we'd been murdered in our beds?" he added.

"It was rather a shocking way to greet the day," Antonia agreed, dryly. "Where did you put Sir Ralph?"

"In the library, my lady," answered Harry, nodding to a closed door to the left of the entrance hall. "And Sir Nicholas in the Green Parlor, with young Jenkins to keep him from any further mischief."

"Very good, Harry, thank you," said Antonia, turning towards the library. The heavy black silk of her skirts swished against the polished red flagstones of the hall. She was pleased that Reeves had had the foresight to keep her two visitors separated. She was tempted to order Sir Nicholas trussed like recalcitrant livestock, but it would not do to treat a member of the gentry so, even if he had been trespassing.

Antonia sighed, and smoothed her veil over her hastily arranged hair as Reeves opened the library door for her.

"The Right Honorable Dowager Countess of Cranbourne," he announced.

"Lady Cranbourne." Sir Ralph Bellamy, tall and silver-haired, rose from his seat. A Puritan like herself, he wore a sober dark wool doublet and matching narrow breeches that had been fashionable twenty years ago, and no wig. A wide square lace collar lay stiffly starched over his shoulders.

As the local justice of the peace, Sir Ralph had duties ranging from administering oaths and fining absentees from church to ordering the imprisonment of vagabonds and trespassers. He was also one of the Elders in the congregation that Antonia belonged to.

"Sir Ralph," Antonia said, warmly, giving him her hand. He bowed over it with courtly grace, his fingers still cold from his dawn ride to Cranbourne House. "I hope Lady Bellamy is well? And your daughters, the Misses Bellamy?"

"Indeed, they are. And I thank you for asking," he replied, releasing Antonia's hand. "How may I be of service to you, my lady? Your messenger said it was urgent...?"

Antonia felt her anger, banked during the ritual of dressing and toilette, spark to new life as she recounted the morning's events as briefly as she could.

As she spoke, she scrutinized Bellamy's expression for any sign of where his sympathies--or alliances--might lie. She could not recall whether Bellamy and Finch were friends or not. Would that affect how he viewed her version of events? But she saw only concern and dismay on Bellamy's face.

"He's not been the same since his wife died of the plague last summer," Bellamy said, when she had finished. He expelled a gusty sigh. "Where is he now?"

* * *

Reeves opened the doors to the Green Parlor, which was presently hung with black cloth in mourning, and announced Antonia and Sir Ralph.

Sir Nicholas Finch sat, half-slumped, in one of the heirloom chairs with carved dragons that poked painfully into the spines of the unwary.

He was jacketless, and his formerly fine linen shirt was grimy and torn, with great reddish-brown blotches of dried blood staining one sleeve and smeared down his right side. He looked up blearily as Antonia and Bellamy entered, then recoiled.

"You!" he said hoarsely. "How dare you hold me captive! I'll--" He caught sight of Bellamy, and straightened. "Don't trust her, Sir Ralph--she's a deceiving Eve. Invited me here, she did, and look what she did! Like a wild beast, she was--"

From the doorway, Jemmy made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl, but he might have simply been clearing his throat. He entered the room and stood behind Finch.

"I never heard such a lie--" Antonia began indignantly. How dare he try to besmirch her reputation!

Bellamy interrupted her. "You stand accused of trespassing, Sir Nicholas, and quite possibly assault." He looked down his long nose at his disheveled neighbor, and Finch's gaze slid uneasily away. He slumped again, then hastily straightened up as the carved dragons exacted their revenge.

"Lady Cranbourne," said Bellamy, formally. "I understand that you have a complaint to make against this man?"

"I do indeed, Sir Ralph," Antonia said, heatedly.

When she had finished recounting her version of events once more, Bellamy turned to Finch. "And you, Sir Nicholas, what have you to say to this?"

After his initial rebuff by Bellamy, Finch had evidently rethought his strategy. Now he addressed the justice in a falsely hearty tone. "Sir Ralph, I do admit to gaining entrance to Lady Cranbourne's bedroom, but as I did but desire to offer her honorable marriage, I understand not why I was attacked, and am now treated so poorly."

"The accepted way of honorable courtship, Sir Nicholas," Antonia said, seating herself opposite Finch, "is to call upon the lady during daylight hours. In her parlor."

"My lady." Bellamy cleared his throat. "Sir Nicholas mentioned his suit for your hand. Had he perhaps reason to believe he might be welcome here, at, um, so an unusual hour?"

"He most certainly did not!" Antonia said, firmly. "Sir Ralph, you have before you the lowest sort of man, who would rape a lady in her own bed." As Finch flushed guiltily, she struggled to keep her tone even. "I am a woman wronged both in deed and in word. Sir Nicholas clearly hoped to deprive me of my good name by wicked subterfuge, trespass, and assault!"

Bellamy nodded, fixing Finch with a censorious gaze. "Sir Nicholas, I have daughters of marriageable age with dowries. I cannot think but how I should feel if a suitor tried to compromise them into marriage as you have attempted to with Lady Cranbourne this morning."

Finch blinked. "But--but she's a widow, Sir Ralph! Everyone knows that widows are lusty--"

"Enough!" Bellamy interrupted as Antonia choked on bile. "A lady who sleeps chaperoned by her maid clearly does not welcome your sort of rough wooing. As you've already suffered a wound for your impertinence," Antonia saw Bellamy's mouth twitch as he glanced at Finch's bandaged forearm, "I shall not have you flogged, but instead fine you fifty pounds for trespass."

"That is an outrage, sir!" Sir Nicholas rose, pointing dramatically at Antonia. "Look at her--hiding her poxy face with paint! She ought to be grateful for an honest offer of marriage!"

"That is quite enough, Sir Nicholas." Bellamy's voice now matched the hardness of his expression. "I could still imprison you for assault and disturbing the peace. In addition to the fine, you will also write Lady Cranbourne a letter of apology, and read it aloud in church next Sunday before the assembled congregation."

Finch sputtered and subsided into a sulky silence.

Antonia folded her hands in her lap, her cheeks hot with anger and humiliation. Without looking at him, she said, "You may leave now, Sir Nicholas. Do not set foot in this house again."

As Jemmy stepped forward, Finch pushed himself awkwardly up out of the chair. He strode out, stiff-legged and clutching his bandaged arm, followed closely by the broad-shouldered young footman.

Antonia took a deep breath to compose herself. "Tea, Sir Ralph? Or would you prefer something stronger?"

"I would welcome a cup of tea," Bellamy said, taking a seat.

Antonia rang for a maidservant, and set herself to making conversation about the price of wool, and the results of last month's lambing, and whether this year's barley crop would be better than last year's. It was comforting to discuss these things with Bellamy--they reminded her that the Cranbourne estates offered her a life where she felt useful and valued for attributes other than her face and fortune.

After Antonia had poured them each a cup of her precious Chinese tea, still a novelty out here in the country, she said, "Thank you again, Sir Ralph, for your assistance this morning."

He cleared his throat. "Your servant, my lady."

"I was afraid you might believe him," Antonia said, with a sigh. "I'm still in mourning. Why can't Finch--and the others--leave me in peace?"

Bellamy took a long sip from his cup. "Your fidelity to the memory of your late husband is admirable, most admirable, my lady. But, if I might be so bold, your present state does give you a certain vulnerability, without a male protector."

He leaned forward, the picture of fatherly concern, and Antonia felt alarm at his intense gaze. "Finch was a thorough scoundrel, no doubt about it," Bellamy continued. "But a year has passed since the earl's death, and I fear that unwelcome suitors will only become more frequent."

"That is what I fear, as well," Antonia said.

"So if you were to give some thought to remarrying--"

"No."

Bellamy refused to be deterred. "My dear Lady Cranbourne, you are too young to remain in perpetual mourning. Let not one loutish suitor deter you from assaying--"

"No," Antonia said, again, a little louder.

Bellamy winced a little, but forged ahead with the desperation of a man who knows he is making a mistake but who has no other choice. "There are good men, honorable men in the world, my lady. Take, for instance, my wife's nephew, a respectable young man with good connections--very good connections--to the Duke of Buckingham."

Antonia felt a chilly sense of foreboding. Lady Bellamy was the parish's most active matchmaker, and if she had decided to take an interest in affairs...

Antonia sat, rigid, her hands locked in her lap, and let Bellamy blunder on. He was scarlet now to his hairline.

"Well, my wife--I meant, we, hoped that you might consent to receive young Richard when he comes down from Oxford next month." His duty discharged, Bellamy leaned back and took a restorative gulp of tea, adding, "He's not titled, of course, but he's a good lad and he comes from a respectable family. Unlike some I might mention, he has no debts, nor does he squander his allowance in dissolute living."

"Sir Ralph," Antonia said. "As I told you--"

"No--no, my lady, do not feel compelled to give me a reply now. Recent upsetting events, and all." Bellamy rose, and bowed to Antonia. "I must take my leave. I bid you good morning, and hope that you will think upon our conversation."

"I will think upon it," Antonia said, neutrally.

After Bellamy had left, she sat in her parlor for a long time, watching the sunlight slant through the tender green leaves of the chestnut trees outside.

At this time last year, she had been utterly alone in the house, having sent away the servants so that they might be spared infection. It had been a sunny spring day like this one, as she sat at her husband's bedside, desperately sponging his hideously afflicted body, trying to bring down his fever.

The earl had died that night, and having caught the smallpox herself, she had been too ill to attend his funeral. Antonia sighed, pulled back from her melancholy contemplation and forced herself to consider her current circumstances.

No wonder Bellamy had been so willing to carry out justice on her behalf, with his wife's nephew waiting in the wings!

For all his clumsy maneuvering, he had spoken true when he warned her that the onslaught of unwelcome suitors was only just beginning.

* * *

"I'm right sorry I didn't break his head, the scoundrel," Mall declared a short while later, as she unlaced Antonia's heavy black formal gown. "Frightening poor helpless women half to death in the middle of the night!"

Antonia smiled at her maid. "You were hardly helpless, my brave Mall--I swear I owe my virtue to your strong right arm."

Mall's pale, freckled face lit with an answering smile. The strings to her cap had become untied, revealing tousled red curls.

Sweetheart began screaming. "Come here! Come here! Come here!"

Mall left off the unlacing and hurried over to the large cage that stood beneath the bedroom windows.

The gray-and-white parrot inside the cage crouched low on his perch, his tail feathers peevishly fanned out. "Want porridge!"

"My poor Sweetheart, we forgot about his breakfast!" Antonia exclaimed.

"No wonder he's upset!" Mall left the room at a trot, heading for the kitchen.

Antonia drew up a padded footstool and seated herself in front of Sweetheart's cage, speaking soothingly to him.

At first he refused to quiet down, but as Antonia continued to murmur, his rigid, defensive posture began to soften. He blinked, and stopped crouching. Then his short tail feathers relaxed and folded closed. As she continued to soothe him, keeping her tone and expression calm and reassuring, she felt her own anger begin to drain away.

Finally, Sweetheart straightened up, a swift fluffing of his feathers and quick shake of his tail announcing that all was right with the world once more.

"Don't you dare bleed on my Turkey carpets, Sir Nicholas," he announced, sounding uncannily like Antonia.

Antonia laughed, opened the cage, and reached in. "Come out, Sweetheart."

The bird stepped onto her hand, climbed up her forearm in his deliberate way, and sat contentedly on her shoulder, preening the ends of her hair.

"I brought something to break your fast, as well," Mall said as she re-entered the bedroom.

She bore a tray loaded with a mug of ale, freshly-baked bread, a plate of cold sliced meats and cheeses, and a bowl of porridge for Sweetheart.

Sweetheart spied the bowl. "Porridge!"

He clambered down Antonia's arm, walked over to the bowl, and happily began to eat, tossing his head to occasionally fling bits of porridge around the room.

When she had finished with her own breakfast, Antonia rose, pulling up her half-laced gown. With Sweetheart back on her shoulder, she went to inspect the mullioned window that Sir Nicholas had pried open.

She opened it, releasing the heavy velvet curtain caught in the latch. Leaning out into the cool morning air, she peered down. "Hmmm, yes, I thought so."

"Thought what, milady?" asked Mall.

"Sir Nicholas did climb up the ivy, the fool! He might have broken his neck!"

"Pity he didn't," Mall said, tartly, and Antonia laughed.

"At least he won't dare come back." She touched her fingertips to her cheek, where the layers of rouge and white lead had been removed as soon as Sir Ralph departed.

It was always a shock to encounter the roughness of her disfigurement, as if she expected that her face might somehow have become smooth again, and she beautiful once more.

But she was fated to be ugly for the rest of her days. Only her fortune would attract men now.

Mall saw the gesture, and her lips compressed to a thin line. She had served Antonia since her marriage, and she, more than anyone, knew what Antonia had lost. To her credit, Mall had never evinced anything but conviction that Antonia might still pass for beautiful with the aid of cosmetics and a few patches.

Mall unpinned Antonia's hair from its hastily-made knot, and began to comb it out. Antonia sighed, allowing the steady rhythm to soothe her.

Widowhood had brought many changes to Antonia's life. The loss of her beauty was balanced by the freedom to act as she pleased for the first time in her life. But there were disadvantages...

"Oh, Mall," Antonia sighed. "Why can't these suitors understand that I will never marry a fortune-hunter?"

"That's the rub, my lady," Mall said. "There are many men who like a challenge. Instead of being discouraged, they just try to find underhanded ways of winning the game. The problem with being rusticated here in Cranbourne is that you're a big fish in a little pond. And you're young yet, and--dare I say it?--still handsome enough, especially with your beautiful chestnut hair."

"Handsome?" Antonia's lip curled. "Only by the grace of my houses and lands."

"Not all men court just for money, milady," Mall protested. "Once you've had more time to grow accustomed to the idea, you'll see that there are also honorable men--"

"--who seek rich wives," Antonia interrupted. "Leave be, Mall. You are well-intentioned, I know, but I can see the truth."

She raised an eyebrow at her reflection, and the ugly, pockmarked young woman in the mirror returned her ironic glance.

Mall's hands stilled, and her reflection looked stricken. Antonia reached up to pat her hand.

"But I think you are right in one thing," Antonia said, gently. "I might do better away from the country. Perhaps we should spend the summer in London."

Mall's distress vanished. "Milady! It would be lovely to see my family again. And you being a city girl, too..."

"I received a letter yesterday from the queen's secretary, bidding me to come serve Her Majesty as a lady-in-waiting."

Mall's eyes went wide. "We--the servants, I mean--were wondering mightily when the messenger arrived. He spoke to none, just took a cup of ale and mounted up again. Oh, my!"

"All those eligible noblewomen vying for a position of a lady-in-waiting, and I'm only a merchant's daughter, after all. And a Puritan." Antonia could guess why the invitation had been issued. There were many penniless noblemen at Court, and some had the favor of Their Majesties.

But one did not refuse the queen, even if it meant having to give up the retired life of a virtuous widow, and live cheek-by-jowl with the debauched lords and ladies of the Court.

"You're the Dowager Countess, milady, not just a merchant's daughter," Mall reminded her.

"Which will make them despise me all the more. Many of them suffered at the hands of Cromwell and his men, and--" Antonia broke off when she saw Mall's dismayed expression. She continued in a different tone, trying to convince herself. "In any case, I'm sure no one will pay me the slightest heed at Court, where I will be a mere gray goose among richer and prettier swans."

Chapter Two

"If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant; if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome."

--Anne Bradstreet, Meditations Divine and Moral (1664)

Dover, April, 1666

"Papa, I'm hungry," Margaret said, softly.

Kit Fitzgeorge looked down at his six-year-old daughter, standing patiently on the dirty stones of the quay, and thought despairingly of how few shillings remained in his purse. He had always imagined himself returning home a hero. Instead, here he stood, back on England's shore at last, and nearly penniless.

"We'll have dinner soon, sweetheart." He gave her his most encouraging smile. "And sooner yet if you can spot us a cookshop."

There must be one nearby, for he smelled the mouthwatering scent of baking pastry and spiced meat. He could not afford to buy them a proper supper at an inn, not if he wished his few coins to last them until London, but a penny would buy a large meat-and-vegetable pie.

Kit shifted his knapsack, feeling his injured shoulder protest at the weight.

When they had first set out from the mercenary camp in Hungary, Margaret had been inordinately proud of being permitted to carry her own change of linens, water flask, and blanket. And Kit, his right shoulder still troubling him a year after it had been injured, had been glad of any assistance.

Intent now on scanning the crowded docks, Margaret did not protest as he lifted her knapsack from her slight shoulders.

"There, sweetheart, can you smell them?" Kit called as he strode forward. He reached back so that Margaret could slip her hand in his, and encountered only air. Kit whirled around and saw her small form crumpled among fish scales and broken shells. "Margaret!" He threw himself to his knees beside her.

Her eyelids fluttered as he touched her cheek. No fever, thanks be to God!

"Is she well?" someone asked. Kit glanced up, and saw that a group of people had gathered around them.

"What's wrong?" asked someone else. "Is it the plague?" At that, the crowd shuffled nervously backwards. Kit scooped Margaret into his arms and stood, scowling. The onlookers began to melt away. Kit imagined how he must look: dirty, ragged...and armed. His sword was a comforting weight at his hip.

"Mama?" murmured Margaret, turning her face into his shirt. Her words sent a pang through Kit's heart.

"Hush, sweetheart. Supper and bed soon." Kit forced himself to speak calmly as he strode away from the harbor, down a twisting cobbled lane. It was getting late--the sun had nearly vanished behind the half-timbered houses leaning over the street.

He stopped the next person he encountered, a cobbler dressed in the long pleated apron of his trade, and asked for the nearest reputable inn.

"The White Dolphin," the cobbler said, courteously. "Mrs. Davies sets a good table, and her beds are clean. You'll not do better than that."

Kit listened carefully to the man's directions, then thanked him and continued walking. Not too far, then.

Margaret wound her arms sleepily around his neck, then coughed. All thoughts of rationing his remaining shillings vanished from Kit's mind.

A short while later, he saw a sign painted with a beast that resembled a large white herring.

He shouldered his way past a pair of men loitering at the inn's gate and crossed the muddy, straw-strewn yard with great strides, parting a flock of chickens and sending them darting towards the ramshackle stables that lined the right side of the courtyard. Straight ahead stood a large thatch-roofed building. The scent of roasting meat drifting out of the open door set Kit's stomach growling.

A lad emerged from the stables and trotted over to Kit. He stared, wide-eyed, at Margaret cradled in Kit's arms.

"Your horse, Master?" asked the boy, politely enough, but Kit felt an assessing gaze take in his badly scuffed boots, his oft-patched hose and breeches, and the dusty wool coat with linen cuffs and collar nearly as grimy as the lad's shirt.

"I have none," Kit said curtly, his face hot. "But I wish supper and lodging for myself and my daughter."

"Mam has rooms available for threepence, an' another fourpence for the meals." The boy bit his lip. "In advance."

"Of course," Kit agreed, reining in his temper at the implied insult. He could not fault the innkeeper for wishing a surety; it was well-known that soldiers and tinkers drank lustily and paid poorly.

He followed the boy into the dark, low-ceilinged main room of the inn, his shoulder aching fiercely from carrying Margaret, slight as she was.

"Wait here," the stable lad said, and left.

There were several guests already seated and eating at the long trestle table and benches. A large stone fireplace set in one wall held brightly burning logs, and the dancing firelight gleamed on rows of polished pewter plates and tankards.

When the innkeeper appeared a few moments later, Kit saw she was a stout woman with heavily freckled skin, dressed in a plain brown wool gown and a spotless blue cap.

"Welcome to the White Dolphin," she said, giving Kit the same assessing glance as the stableboy had. "I am Mrs. Davies. Will you be needing beds as well as supper?"

"Yes," Kit replied. "I am Kit Fitzgeorge. My daughter and I are lately arrived from France, and she is sore wearied."

"Hmmm, a risky journey, with the Dutch war and all," said Mrs. Davies. "Your little girl looks ill to me. You're certain she hasn't the plague or the smallpox?"

Kit shook his head, hoping desperately that Mrs. Davies would not turn them away. "She had the smallpox as a babe. And it's not the plague, or she'd have black boils on her throat." He tipped Margaret's head back, exposing her smooth neck. "See?"

"Well enough." Mrs. Davies's expression was shrewd but not unkind. "I have a room for you, Mr. Fitzgeorge. It's small, and under the eaves, but away from the other guests, mind, so the little maid will have some quiet." She paused. "That'll be threepence for you, and tuppence for her."

"That will suit us well, Mrs. Davies," Kit said, shifting Margaret to his left arm. Her eyes fluttered open briefly as Kit awkwardly loosened his purse strings with his free hand.

"Papa?"

"We're at an inn, sweetheart. And this kind lady has supper for us, too." He drew out one of his precious silver shillings and a silver half-groat and handed them to Mrs. Davies, who was still studying Margaret. Kit devoutly hoped she wouldn't cough--he was sure Mrs. Davies would turn them away. "We may bide here for a few days, Mistress."

Kit briefly rolled his aching shoulder to loosen it before settling Margaret back against his chest. She sighed, turned her face into his neck, and relaxed back into sleep.

"And most welcome you'll be, sir." The sight of his silver had thawed the innkeeper. "Let me fetch some clean sheets and I'll show you up straightaway." Mrs. Davies tucked the coins away, and left. She returned shortly, folded linen piled high in her arms, and ushered Kit up to his room.

The chamber at the top of the stairs was small but very clean, holding two narrow beds, a table with a candlestick, and a low stool. Kit shrugged off the two knapsacks and let them fall to the clean-swept floor with a sigh of relief while Mrs. Davies produced flint and steel and lit the candle. Then he lowered himself onto the stool, Margaret on his lap.

Mrs. Davies swiftly stripped the first bed's straw-stuffed mattress and remade it with the clean sheets. Kit laid Margaret down on it and pulled off her wooden-soled shoes while Mrs. Davies busied herself with making up the room's other bed. Then he opened Margaret's knapsack and took out Prospero, her carved and gaily-painted wooden parrot, and stood him upright on the table next to the candlestick.

It had become a ritual between them since Anna's death. No matter where they spent the night--inn, tent, or under the stars--Prospero stood watch against nightmares.

"You're traveling alone with your daughter? What of her mother?" asked Mrs. Davies, bundling up the old sheets.

"Dead these two years past, God rest her soul," Kit replied.

Mrs. Davies sighed. "My own good man as well," she said. "And I still expect to see him coming in from the stables, and me scolding him because he's gotten his shirt smeared with muck again."

"Yes," said Kit, grateful that Mrs. Davies understood. "That's the way of it." He swallowed past the sudden thickness in his throat and busied himself with tucking the edges of the coverlet around Margaret's thin shoulders. His daughter's mouth curved briefly in a smile as he ducked to kiss her cheek.

"I'll return presently," Mrs. Davies called over her shoulder as she left the room. "And I'll bring your little maid some beef broth. And for you, perhaps some roast pork and ale? I've bread baked fresh this morn, and custard tarts, too."

Kit smiled gratefully at her. "Mistress, you save a poor soldier's life."

* * *

Later, when he had devoured Mrs. Davies's excellent meal, Kit woke Margaret long enough to feed her some of the broth and bread, and a bit of the tart. Margaret ate dutifully, but without the appetite he expected.

Alarmed, he touched her forehead and found it warmer than before. "You should sleep now, sweetheart."

"Tell me a story, Papa," Margaret said, hoarsely, and coughed.

Kit offered her a cup of broth and rummaged in his pack for his only frivolous possession: a copy of Ovid's Metamorphosis, Englished, Mythologized, and Represented in Figures.

The calfskin cover was scratched and stained, the stamped gilt design nearly worn away. He had held back the book when selling off his tent and most of his other possessions, remembering the afternoons and evenings spent reading the verse stories out loud to Anna and Margaret.

"Ah, well," he said, opening the book. "Which story would you like to hear?'

Margaret surprised him. "Pirates. A story about pirates."

One of the sailors on the Channel crossing must have talked to her. Poor old Ovid would not be of assistance here. Kit smiled, and closed the book again. But what did he know about pirates? He cleared his throat and hitched his shoulder, vainly trying to work the stiffness out of it while he strove to recall a story he had heard as a boy.

"A long time ago, in Italy, there was a very rich man named Landolfo, who owned many ships," he began. "But ill-luck dwindled his fortune, until Landolfo had only one ship remaining. This ship was a small one, but very swift. It was named Sparrowhawk, and in it Landolfo saw his salvation from the poorhouse. He would become a pirate, and regain his fortune by attacking ships that belonged to the Turks. He sold his house and all of his belongings, and fitted out the Sparrowhawk in every way necessary for a pirate ship, and Fortune was kind to him..."

Margaret's eyelids drooped, and her breathing deepened and slowed. Watching her, Kit softened his voice, letting his daughter drift to sleep on the fragile vessel of the tale. "...towards evening, a gale began to blow. The sea rose in waves higher than a church spire, and the force of the wind was so great that the Sparrowhawk, with poor Landolfo on board, was driven onto the rocks near the island of Crete..."

Once he was sure Margaret was asleep, Kit wearily removed his coat, boots, and baggy breeches and knelt by the side of the bed to say his prayers. He was safely back on England's green shore at last, so he dutifully thanked God for that, and added a fervent request for his daughter's welfare. For himself, he prayed only for the strength to be a good father, and for the chance to earn his daily bread as a man ought.

Then he sat on the bed, bare-legged in his shirt, and fished up Anna's wedding band, which hung around his neck on a thin gilt chain and rested always near his heart. He lifted the small circlet, and the gold gleamed in the candlelight.

"Anna, dear heart," he whispered into the darkness that hovered like sheltering wings above the candle flame. "Forgive me for being such a poor father. I have tried my best to keep our daughter safe, but look what's become of it!" Kit paused, then continued with the same words he had spoken every night since Anna's death: "Oh, love, I do miss you with all my soul."

* * *

Margaret's illness turned out to be a catarrh compounded by fatigue and nothing worse, God be thanked.

Along with a certain natural sympathy for his widower state, Kit's prompt payment for food and lodging had endeared him to Mrs. Davies. She also provided--at a price, of course--a supply of cherry-bark tea and other simples to ease Margaret's sore throat and coughing.

Still, it was almost a week before Margaret was ready to travel again. By that time, Kit had given Mrs. Davies his last coin.

He spent several days unloading cargo from newly-arrived ships, risking capture by one of the Navy press-gangs for a wage of five pence a day. The work, grueling as it was, kept him out of debt to Mrs. Davies. But it was not enough to get Margaret and himself from Dover to Kit's old home near Canterbury, where he hoped to leave Margaret with her grandmother before continuing on to London to seek employment.

Determined to leave Dover on the morrow, Kit ate the last bite of his supper in the main room of the White Dolphin, then stared into the fire and mulled over his options.

It was twenty-five miles or so to Canterbury--to save coach fare, he and Margaret could possibly walk there in four days. From there, Kit could continue the remaining seventy miles to London. But once he arrived in the capital, he would still need money to pay for lodgings and food until he found employment.

A new arrival came in. Kit noticed the water droplets clinging to hat and coat, and groaned inwardly as he contemplated plodding through the mud, chilled and soaking, his poor little Margaret struggling along gamely at his side as she had all the way through France. No. He could not.

But what else could they do? He had little money, and no prospects, and his luck with the press-gangs could not hold forever if they stayed in Dover. One unlucky moment, and he'd find himself forcibly enlisted in His Majesty's Navy, leaving his daughter abandoned on the docks.

The more he thought upon his initial plan to return to his childhood home, the better it seemed to him. Margaret had never met her grandmother; surely a month or two in the country air would do his daughter good.

But first, he needed money. Money for coach fare. Money for an inn when he arrived in London. But how to honestly--and quickly--come by the sum he needed?

He now owned only two things of any value--his sword and Anna's wedding ring.

Kit reached for his ale, and drank deeply of the thick, bitter brew. It tore at him to contemplate parting with the last relic of his marriage, but it must be done. He would have to sell Anna's wedding ring. His sword was of fine Spanish manufacture and while it would fetch a higher price, he would need it to find employment.

* * *

"I wish you good luck in London, Mr. Fitzgeorge," Mrs. Davies said the next morning, giving Kit a hearty buss on the cheek. She patted Margaret on the head, and handed him a package of food, for which Kit paid tuppence. "I'll pray for you both," she promised, and stood at the entrance to the inn, waving, until they had crossed the yard and gone out the gate.

Kit's first stop was a shop located on Dover's main street, the sign with its three red balls swinging gently in the fresh sea breeze.

Margaret's hand clasped firmly in his, Kit entered the pawnshop with a heavy heart.

* * *

Later, he and Margaret stood in the yard of a larger inn, eating bread, cheese and pickles while they waited for the noonday coach to Canterbury.

The pawnbroker had only given him one pound, six shillings and eightpence for Anna's ring despite vigorous protest on Kit's part that the ring was worth at least two pounds.

His relief at having money in his purse again did not last long. At a rate of one shilling every five miles, the fare for the two of them to Canterbury cost half a pound. And Kit would still have to travel from Canterbury to London...

When they had finished eating, the coach arrived and the passengers who had boarded earlier spilled out to refresh themselves and eat dinner in the inn's taproom.

Kit and Margaret waited patiently near the coach until the driver blew the boarding call on his trumpet. Then Kit lifted Margaret up into the coach and climbed after her, settling himself as best he could against the hard seats.

The other passengers took their places, a fresh team of horses was hitched, and they were on their way, the coach rattling and swaying like a ship on rough seas.

As they passed from city to country, Kit pushed aside the heavy leather curtain covering the window and let the fresh spring breeze bring him the delicate perfume of grass and plum blossoms. He drank in the sight of the verdant Kentish countryside, dotted with white and pink flowering fruit trees, and luxuriated in the feeling of being in England again after all these years.

He wondered whether Thornsby-on-Stowre had changed at all, and whether his mother still baked gingerbread every week. Margaret would like that.

* * *

The coach took eleven hours to cover the distance between Dover to Canterbury, for the rain turned the highway into a quagmire. Exhausted and battered from the jolting, swaying coach, Kit and Margaret finally arrived at their destination just after midnight, and found a room in an inn.

Half a pound gone, and it would have been faster to walk from Dover, Kit thought bitterly, as he tucked Margaret into bed.

The next day was Market Day, and Kit had the good fortune to encounter William Plower, one of the farmers from Haverbrook, near Thornsby-on-Stowre. Plower remembered Kit from boyhood, and offered them a ride.

"It's on my way home from market, and I'll be pleased with some company, young Kit," Plower said. "I imagine you've got some stories of France and Italy?"

"Germany and Hungary, too. And of the Turks," Kit replied, hitching his shoulder. It was just past noon, and Plower was packing up what remained of his produce.

Plower shook his head, chuckling. "Never been further than Canterbury, myself." He put the last of his baskets in the wagon-bed, folded up the blanket they'd been laid out on, and said, "There's some space for your little Mag to take a nap."

Kit thanked him profusely and helped Margaret up into the bed of the wagon, cushioned by layers of sacking and wilted cabbage leaves.

Excited at first by the novelty of the coach, she had gradually become quiet and withdrawn as the endless lurching hours passed. Now, despite a night's sound sleep at the inn, she unrolled her blanket from where it was tied to her knapsack, and moving slowly, like an old woman, she laid herself down in the wagon and fell almost instantly asleep.

Guilt rose like bile in his throat as Kit climbed up on the hard bench seat next to the farmer. Soon. We are nearly home.

Kit, spying one familiar landmark after another as they neared Thornsby-on-Stowre, entertained Plower as best he could with tales about his years on the Continent, fighting for whoever had the gold to hire him, but it was difficult. His losses--wife, friends, and profession--were wounds barely healed.

Far easier to point out Mr. Johnson's carp pond, where he and his half-brother Julian had gone fishing one afternoon with chunks of stale bread to lure the greedy fish, and been soundly whipped for it, Julian more than Kit, for old Lord Thornsby had been a harsh man to all, but particularly his sons.

It had not pleased Kit to be let off lightly for his misdeed, not when it meant he was just another lad to Thornsby, rather than his bastard son. Back then, Kit would have given anything to experience a real father's passionate anger at his misdeeds!

They arrived at last in the rambling cluster of half-timbered houses that comprised Thornsby-on-Stowre, and Plower halted his wagon in front of a familiar cottage.

"Thank you again," Kit said, as he clambered down. He smelled baking bread, and his mouth watered. He had grown up in this house, and his memories were laced with the smell of warm bread and the earthy scents of brewer's yeast and malted barley fermenting in the mash-tubs.

Plower made a dismissive gesture. "'Twas a pleasure to have a bit of company. And I bid you a good welcome home, young Kit."

Kit lifted his knapsacks and Margaret out of the wagon, Plower clucked at his horse, and the wagon lurched slowly away.

Kit watched him leave, encouraged by the kindness that had been lacking among the local people--understandably enough--wherever his mercenary company camped on the Continent. And it was good to speak English again instead of German or French.

They walked up the short path to the cottage door. Kit saw that his mother had planted a large kitchen garden this year, sprouts poking tender green stems through the moist earth.

Kit had always hoped to return home as a dashing and worldly man, laden with rich prizes from his campaigns. For years he had imagined striding up this path, his beautiful wife at his side, and present his mother with ropes of pearls and gold chains. Now he was home at last, but a broken and defeated beggar. Yet, he knew that her joy at seeing him would not be one whit diminished.

Before knocking on the cottage door, he bent quickly to tuck a straggling lock of Margaret's blonde hair under her cap, and retied the strings under her chin, regretting the travel-dirt darkening Anna's hand-tatted lace border.

To his surprise, a stranger answered at the door. She was young, and pretty, with dark hair and rosy cheeks. Clad in the plain gown and linen cap of a countrywoman, she was far advanced in her pregnancy. Kit gaped at her. Had his mother hired a maid?

"Good day to you," the woman said, polite but puzzled.

"Good day," Kit replied. "Is Mrs. Simmons at home?"

The woman looked startled, then peered at Kit closely. "Bless me, if it isn't Kit Fitzgeorge!" She stepped back, and opened her door wide, inviting him in. Her expression turned pitying. "I'm so sorry, but your mother--"

Kit's heart gave a sick lurch. "No. Oh, no. When?"

"Last summer. The plague took her," the woman said, soberly. "I am sorry to be the bearer of such ill news, Kit. Did you not get the letter, then? The vicar wrote it and posted it to you in Germany."

"I was in Hungary by then," Kit started to say, fighting to keep his emotions under control. He had not seen his mother since he had left home at seventeen. Over the years, he had sent letters when he could, but paper and ink were cold comfort against the memory of her soft embrace.

He was helpless against the pain that smote him like the blow from a broadsword. He hunched over like a man with a belly-wound, and for the first time since Anna's death, he wept, shuddering with violent sobs.

"Papa! Papa! Please don't cry!" Margaret clung to his breeches, her face screwing up as she prepared to begin bawling herself.

He had to be strong for her. Still bent double and sick with grief, Kit gulped great drafts of air, scrubbing at his wet face with the scratchy wool of his jacket sleeve.

"I'm sorry for your loss, truly I am," said the young woman who now lived in his mother's cottage. She patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.

With a herculean effort, Kit straightened up, still breathing harshly. At least the tears had stopped, he thought, dully. He must be frightening the poor woman.

He found a handkerchief in his sleeve, and finished wiping his face. "I'm--I'm sorry," he said, hoarsely. "To make such a scene...you must be wondering why I--"

Her hand was still on his shoulder, and she gave a comforting squeeze. "Do you not remember me, then, Kit? I'm Bess--Bessie Thornton then, Mrs. Robertson now." She smiled wanly at them both. "You look like you've had a long journey, the both of you. Please, do come in for some milk and a bite of cake."

Kit followed her inside, his thoughts in turmoil. How could his mother be dead?

He had spent his boyhood Sundays in church, squirming in humiliation at the sermons' frequent references to him as "a fruit of sin," and to his mother as a fallen woman. He had spent years trying to be a good lad so that someday his father would recognize him. But his mother had been ever mild and loving, proud of his accomplishments, and she had always shrugged off the scorn of the Puritan elders.

At seventeen, he had left Thornsby-on-Stowre, finally realizing that the old man would never bend, no matter how hard Kit tried to be worthy of him. His mother had cried when he told her that he intended to seek his fortune as a soldier, but she had sent him forth with her blessing and a second-hand sword that had cost her what little savings she had.

She had been a skilled brewster, her beers and ales easily a match for any that Kit had tasted on the Continent, and Kit had longed to tell her so, for he knew that the praise would please her immensely, even as she blushed and laughingly denied it.

Through slices of Bessie Thornton's currant cake and the obligatory relating of news and his adventures, Kit's mind kept working. What was he going to do now? All his hopes had hinged on his mother's help. He had only little money left, no immediate family to fall back on, and a daughter still recovering from illness.

But there was really only one thing he could do, unpalatable as the prospect was. But he had no choice. He had returned to England with no savings, no livelihood, and no connections. And so, he must humble himself, and ask for charity from his father's family.

He wondered what reception they would give him. His kinship to them had been an open secret all throughout his childhood. He spent most of his adolescence and early manhood striving to prove that he did not need their connections to succeed in the world.

To return to Thornsby Hall now a supplicant was a bitter draught. It meant admitting he had failed in all things.

Not quite all, thought Kit, looking at his daughter. For I will prove myself a better father than ever the old man was.

For Margaret's sake, he would get down on his knees before the Earl of Thornsby. For Margaret's sake, he would do anything.

A short while later they took leave of Bess. Margaret's hand in his, Kit trudged through the village and headed to Thornsby Hall.

Chapter Three

"Marriage is the only evil that men pray for."--Greek proverb

9 April 1666:

To The Right Honorable Lord Thornsby, Thornsby Hall, Thornsby-on-Stowre, Kent

My Lord,

You asked me some time hence that if a rich widow happen to fall in the mean time, I should keep her in syrup for you.

I have news of Lady Cranbourne, the relict of the old earl, who is possessed of goodly Estate and who presently resides in the village of Long Cranbourne, near Ashford. Lady Cranbourne is Rumoured to have been greatly disfigured by the Smallpox, and indeed she is said never to leave her House but that her face is concealed by a Vizard. But her steward says she hath two Houses, one in the country and the other in London, and is worth 15000 Pounds per year, and so her charms are greatly Increased despite a ruined Complexion.

She is but lately come out of Mourning, and yet hath shown no favor to any suitor, but I advise you hasten your wooing for the King hath set his Eye upon her and invited her to Court, where she is intended to make a Match with one of His Majesty's favorites.

Yr. Ob't Svt,

Geo. Purbeck, Esq.

* * *

Julian Thomas Edmonton, the eighth Earl of Thornsby, paced through his study, fighting the urge to smash the ugly--but valuable--porcelain vases that stood waist-high near the hearth. He turned his back on the crumpled sheet of paper he had tossed on his desk, and tried to decide what to do next.

Lady Cranbourne's letter had been polite but cool, thanking him for his kind regards, and regretting that she was unable to permit him to call upon her. She had also returned his presents: a pair of perfumed gloves and the portrait miniature he had commissioned with almost the last of his funds.

Thornsby flipped a long, jasmine-scented lock off his shoulder, and contemplated the task he had set for himself. Not for him the periwigs of lesser-endowed men--the thick, curling mass was entirely his own. Coupled with golden-green hazel eyes and a lazy smile, his good looks had enabled him to cut a wide swath through the Court ladies, both married and maiden. He had been confident his portrait would prove the key in approaching Lady Cranbourne. After all, she had been an old man's bride!

Six years ago, Thornsby had met the Earl of Cranbourne and his little merchant-girl at a ball in the city. He remembered that Lady Cranbourne had been very young and very pretty, with an enchanting smile, brown curls, and a fine white bosom.

If her face had been ruined by the smallpox as Purbeck claimed, that bosom would more than make up for it once he blew out the candles--but how could he win her hand if she wouldn't even receive him?

And--more alarming--what if someone else managed to snatch away this prize before he had a chance to win her?

She was his last hope. He knew of no other suitable widows or heiresses to save him from financial ruin. At the very least, he would be unable to return to his position as a Gentleman of the King's Bedchamber at court, and reduced to hiding in this huge, drafty tomb of a house, while creditors invaded his parlor and stood watch outside his gates.

Julian looked out the window at the sadly overgrown garden, and scowled. His late brother George had spent most of the estate's funds transforming it into a formal monstrosity in the French style, with clipped hedges, plump statues lolling in fountains, and gravel paths, but there had been no monies allocated to maintain it after the initial work was completed. The neglected garden made Thornsby Hall look shabby, like a maid wearing her mistress's castoffs.

An outspoken loyalty to the late king during the Civil War had nearly cost Father this Elizabethan manor house. Once Parliament proved victorious, they had executed Charles I and forced the queen and her children into exile on the Continent. Julian supposed that his own family had been lucky to escape with only heavy fines, but it had all but ruined them.

In his brief tenure as the seventh Earl of Thornsby, George Edmonton had not been successful in petitioning the newly-restored king for redress. Indeed, it appeared that he had done little in London except drink, gamble, and whore until a surfeit of French brandy a fortnight ago carried him away without wife or heir.

Which had left Julian, at age twenty-six, quite unexpectedly the eighth Earl of Thornsby and responsible for both his brother's debts and the family estates, the majority of which his great-grandfather had carefully entailed against sale.

The elder Thornsby's loyalty had won his three grown children--George, Julian, and Anne--positions at Court after the Restoration, but precious little financial recompense from a monarch perpetually in debt himself.

At the moment, Thornsby was living a precarious existence on winnings from games of chance and the bribes he accepted to pass along petitions to His Majesty. His younger sister, Lady Anne, served as a maid-of-honor to the queen, but without a sufficient dowry; her marriage prospects looked mighty bleak at the moment.

Thornsby massaged his brow, hoping for inspiration. The Countess of Cranbourne had rejected his initial overture, but he was not ready to give up the chase.

It was vexing to think he might actually have to go in person to woo that Cranbourne creature, but he was in dire need of a rich wife, if even she was one of those detestable Puritans. He could always banish her to Kent after the wedding, and visit her only when he wished to get heirs upon her.

Thornsby straightened up as he suddenly remembered how the Earl of Rochester had won his bride. Encouraged by the king to court an heiress, Rochester had sought to ensure his success by kidnapping the wench and forcing a marriage. Her outraged father had caught up with them on the western highway just outside London, and Rochester had been sent to the Tower. Then, almost miraculously, he had managed to win the girl's heart and hand from his cell.

Rochester's bold plan fired Thornsby's imagination--let him but get Lady Cranbourne to Thornsby Hall, and he'd marry her, then seduce her with sugared words and honeyed kisses until she grew great-bellied with his heir and it was too late to annul.

Yes! He must find a way to do this. But how could he do it without getting himself sent to the Tower?

* * *

As Kit and Margaret trudged wearily up the wide gravel drive leading to Thornsby Hall, Kit noticed that the grounds, once a pleasant expanse of lawns and trees, were now sadly neglected, the pools and fountains algae-greened. The grass had grown knee-high and the low hedges bristled with unclipped twigs like great furry caterpillars creeping alongside the graveled paths. These signs worried him.

They rounded the last stand of trees, and Thornsby Hall appeared. Built around three sides of a graveled courtyard, its red brick walls glittered with dozens of diamond-paned windows as the sun appeared between a break in the clouds.

"Oh," Margaret exclaimed. "Are we going to live here, Papa?"

"No, sweetheart, I don't think so. But we may bide here a while," he added hastily, as her face fell. "Remember how I told you that your Uncle George is an earl, and much grander than we are? Why don't we hope for dinner first, then see what happens?"

"Yes, Papa," Margaret's thin shoulders slumped, as if her pack suddenly weighed a hundred pounds.

Kit looked at the house again, trying to see it through the eyes of a little girl who had only known the primitive world of summers in tents and winters in thatched cottages.

He sighed, and pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve. "Come here, sweetheart."

She stood obediently while Kit dipped the handkerchief into a nearby fountain, then used the damp cloth to remove the worst of the travel stains from her face. As he did so, he noted with alarm how flushed her cheeks were.

Kit wished he could be certain of his welcome here. Bad enough that he intended to ask charity from the family that had never formally acknowledged his existence!

Please, let George be kind to my daughter, Kit prayed as he took Margaret's hand and continued towards the house.

* * *

A tap on the door roused Thornsby from composing his plans to abduct Lady Cranbourne.

Porter, the young butler Thornsby had hired in London, entered and bowed. "My lord, there's a--person come to call upon you. He claims he's your brother." The very neutrality of Porter's tone indicated that he found this possibility unlikely.

"Did he give his name?" Thornsby demanded.

"Christopher Fitzgeorge, my lord," said Porter, and Thornsby's heart turned over. "And he has a little girl with him."

"You may show him in," Thornsby said, wondering why Kit had decided to return after all this time.

While he waited, he remembered the day his illegitimate half-brother, free of the restrictions that ruled Julian's life, had gone to Canterbury and enlisted in a company of mercenaries. Julian had tried to follow Kit, but had been caught by Father and hauled home for a whipping.

The door opened again, and Thornsby inhaled with shock. The golden older brother of his memory was a bearded, filthy stranger. His clothes showed the effects of hard wearing: the wool of his jacket and breeches, once a proud crimson, had faded to a dusty pink, and his wide linen cuffs were stained and blackened. And yet, there was a presence to him, an indefinable air of command, which had not been there before.

Kit had a little girl by the hand, also thin and ragged, greasy blonde hair straggling from beneath a grimy cap sewn in the German style. As they entered the room, she sneezed, then stared open-mouthed at a portrait of Thornsby's mother, resplendent in sky-colored satin and pearls.

"Look, Papa," she whispered, loudly. "A princess!"

"What, brother, did the soldiering bring you no glory?" Thornsby drawled sarcastically. Given his present troubles, he could not afford any more dependents.

Kit glowered at him, and the years between them suddenly vanished. Then, with a visible effort, he pressed his palms flat against his ragged breeches.

"Glory enough," he said finally, his voice deeper than Thornsby remembered. "But little in the way of riches, though Europe is once more spared the incursion of the Turk." He gave a half-shrug, and his stubbled cheeks creased in a wry grimace. "And God give you good day, also, Julian."

Thornsby's face grew hot at the subtle reprimand, and he reminded himself that he was a titled peer now, and did not owe courtesy to a beggar, even one related by blood.

"Where is George--er, my lord Thornsby?" Kit asked. "I need to speak with him--to ask of him a favor, actually."

Of course, Kit would not have heard the news. Thornsby drew himself up, and said, coldly, "I am Lord Thornsby, now. What do you wish of me?"

"Oh. My condolences...my lord, ah, Thornsby." Kit snatched his hat off his head and swept a hasty bow. "But George--when?"

Thornsby found that he relished the sound of my lord coming from the older brother he had once worshipped. And as bad as things were for Thornsby, they were apparently infinitely worse for Kit.

"Recently," Thornsby said. "I gave his funeral oration last week."

Damn him, for going wild after Father's death, for squandering what remained of the estate's money. In less than six years, George had spent several thousand pounds on clothes, cards, strong drink, and the actress Penelope Merryfield.

"What happened?" Kit asked, finally, after Thornsby had stewed in silence for a while.

"Drank himself to death. He was ever the sot--" Thornsby broke off, feeling renewed rage at his brother's fecklessness.

"Ah," Kit said softly. "Poor George. He always bore the brunt of our father's beatings."

"He was a damned fool," Thornsby snapped. "And I never wanted to be the earl, to own this dreadful pile of a house." Nor these debts, he thought but did not say it. He did not want to expose any weaknesses. "And, my God, Kit, did you see what George did to the garden? Father must be rolling in his grave!" He gave a snort and turned his attention to the girl. "Your daughter?"

Kit nodded, and beckoned to her. "Margaret, sweetheart, come and greet your uncle, Lord Thornsby."

She came over shyly, dragging her worn, lumpy shoes a little on the polished parquet floor, and made Julian an awkward curtsey.

"God give you good day, Uncle Julian," she whispered dutifully after a gentle nudge from Kit.

Thornsby smiled benevolently down at her, wondering if she had lice, then picked up a silver handbell and rang for Porter. "What say you, Kit, shall Mrs. Jones give her a bath and feed her supper?"

"Mrs. Jones?" Kit grinned, and looked suddenly a decade younger. "Never tell me that she's still the housekeeper!" He placed his hand on Margaret's shoulder as the door opened and a housemaid entered. "Go with..." He looked at the housemaid.

"Ellen, sir," the pink-cheeked girl said.

"Go with Ellen, then, and be a good girl. Your uncle and I have much to discuss." He steered her towards Ellen, who extended her hand, somewhat gingerly.

"And either launder or burn the girl's clothes, Ellen," Thornsby said, wrinkling his nose.

"Do not burn them," Kit said in the tone that of a man accustomed to being obeyed. Ellen, halfway into a bob of acknowledgment at Thornsby's order, stopped, and looked first at Kit, then, uncertainly, at Thornsby.

Thornsby scowled, unused to having his commands questioned, and Kit added a trifle apologetically, "She has no other clothes, just a change of linens. If you burn her gown, she will be reduced to her shift."

"Oh, that." Thornsby shrugged carelessly. "Burn everything, Ellen." He turned to Kit. "There are chests filled with old children's clothes in the attic. Mother never could bear to throw anything away. Mrs. Jones can find and alter something." Kit nodded warily, and Thornsby continued: "And, Ellen? Find something for Mr. Fitzgeorge as well. His present garments are hardly fit for a beggar."

Kit flushed under his dirt and stubble, but he said nothing.

"Yes, my lord," Ellen bobbed again, and left the room, taking Margaret with her.

Thornsby seated himself, and crossed his legs at the ankle. He deliberately did not offer the room's other chair to his brother, and Kit was forced to remain standing. "Now, then. You wished a favor of me, Kit?"

"Ah, well," Kit began, turning his hat round and round between his fingers. His flush deepened. "I--I've come to ask charity on behalf of my daughter. We'll not impose on you long, only until I can find work in London, and get some decent lodgings," he finished in a rush. "My soldiering days are over, my lord. I do well enough with a sword, but only for short periods, and I'll never use a pike again." He hitched his right shoulder uncomfortably. "If we could but stay here for a short while, I would be grateful."

Thornsby let Kit finish speaking, relishing the sight of his half-brother as a humble supplicant. "Now Kit," he chided, lacing his fingers over his flat stomach. "As if I could refuse your request! You insult me by asking for charity from your own family. Rest assured that I will do all in my power to aid you."

Kit gave him a stiff smile. "You are very gracious, my lord."

Thornsby briefly considered giving Kit permission to use his Christian name, then decided against it.

"And I am grateful," Kit continued, staring fixedly at the floor. "My shoulder is nearly healed, and I have heard that the Duke of Selborough seeks guards. If I could ask one further favor, and request a reference--"

"Now, Kit," Thornsby interrupted, inspiration dawning. "If you are seeking work, then perhaps we could help each other. I need help with a most important and er, delicate errand. Before you arrived, there was no one I could entrust with it."

"I'd welcome the opportunity to be of service." Kit relaxed his tense posture by a small degree, and looked up. "What sort of help do you require, my lord?"

Thornsby let himself sigh. "I need a wife, and a wealthy one. I have just the woman in mind--a widow--but the matter will take a special sort of persuasion."

As Kit gave a puzzled frown, Thornsby said, impatiently, "I want you to abduct her and bring her here."

"You must be jesting!" Kit recoiled slightly.

"I am utterly sincere," Thornsby said, flatly. "And your skills are precisely what I need."

"So that the king's men can throw you in the Tower, and hang me?" Kit retorted. "Your plan is both dishonorable and foolish."

"Honor is the luxury of the rich," Thornsby sneered. "A luxury that you cannot afford, brother Kit."

"I can find other employment--honorable employment," Kit said, but his tone was uncertain.

Thornsby sensed victory. "With His Majesty waging war against the Dutch, crippled veterans swarm to London like lice on a beggarwoman. You'll get no charity there, and Margaret will end up in the hands of a brothel-keeper if she doesn't starve first." He paused. "I hear that the bawds of Nightingale Lane pay top price for young virgins."

For a moment, Thornsby thought he had gone too far. Kit's eyes had gone cold, and he looked capable of murder.

Thornsby took a deep breath, and deliberately gentled his tone. "Kit, I am offering you the chance to ensure your daughter a dowry and respectable prospects. If you refuse me, she will perhaps not end up a whore, but certainly a maidservant, the plaything of her employer. As your mother was," Thornsby added, seeing Kit waver. "The choice is yours."

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

"You will pay Margaret's dowry if I help you?" Kit said at last, hitching his shoulder. He sounded weary.

"And give you new clothing and a letter of reference as well," Julian agreed. "The clothing and a sum for expenses now, and the dowry when Antonia, Lady Cranbourne, is delivered to me."

"How large a dowry?" Kit asked, relaxing into the comfortable stance of a man used to bargaining.

"Two hundred pounds."

"Four hundred, and if aught happens to me while I'm abducting your bride, you'll promise to care for Margaret and settle a portion of at least a hundred pounds upon her when she comes of age." Kit smiled grimly. "In return, I shall keep silent should I be arrested."

"Two hundred and fifty pounds, a hundred pounds as her portion, and I'll acknowledge her publicly as my niece," Thornsby countered. "Even if you are taken and hanged." He was being mighty generous, he thought. A dowry equivalent to a year's income for a gentleman, and a connection to the nobility. More than enough for the little wench to make a respectable match when she came of age.

Sensing victory, Thornsby rapidly reviewed his assets, and decided to sell some of his mother's jewelry and assorted items from his father's collections, including those hideous vases. It was an investment in his future.

"Very well," said Kit, knowing he had no other choice. "I will do it in return for three hundred pounds and your acknowledgment of Margaret."

"Agreed," Julian said without hesitating. He snatched up the handbell. "Be seated, good Kit! Let us drink upon it!"

Kit sank into the proffered chair, glad to take his weight off his aching feet, while his brother rang for a bottle. He felt a small ember of hope kindle to a steady flame as he realized that Margaret would never have to live--or die--in a soldier's humble lodgings like her mother.

His brave wife, who had accompanied him uncomplainingly through the travails of a mercenary soldier's life on the Continent! She had not lived to see the rose garden or the cottage he had promised her. She had died in a hovel--a rented hovel, all the saints be damned! And his mother had died alone.... Kit scrubbed the back of his hand angrily against his eyes. So many losses...but he would do better for Margaret. He had to.

"How do you propose I should go about fetching your widow?" Kit asked. He lifted the engraved glass goblet, took a mouthful of good Burgundy, and felt warmth expand in his stomach.

Julian shrugged carelessly. "By any means, fair or foul, I care not, so long as Lady Cranbourne comes to no harm. We can discuss our strategy over supper. But first--" He surveyed Kit and wrinkled his nose. "You shall make use of my bathing-closet. That blue suit of George's should fit you--he had it made just before the drink took him, and it was never worn."

Kit took another sip of the wine, and tried to convince himself that he had done the right thing--the only thing--by agreeing to Julian's scheme.

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