Page 35 of The King’s Man (Guardians of the Crown #2)

O nce ashore, Kit found the nearest inn and drank himself into insensibility. Alcohol’s amnesiac properties were only illusory. He awoke to find himself lying in a filthy alley, where he had been thrown from the last inn he had visited.

Heavy, dismal rain soaked him through to the bones and he pulled himself into a sitting position, laid his arms over his knees, lowered his head onto them and, as the memory of Fitz’s death came back with cruel, clear clarity, he wept.

Slowly he raised his head and considered the grey, unappealing sky.

He let the rain wash his face and rose to his feet. A quick check revealed his pockets had been turned out for the few coins they contained but the papers he carried, that Fitz had died for, were still safe.

He stumbled through the narrow streets, oblivious to the sidelong glances and looks of disgust that his filthy, disreputable state attracted.

Outside the respectable house he sought, he stopped and looked up at the lighted windows.

Although it still lacked an hour or so until nightfall, the dark and dreary afternoon had drawn in the gloaming.

Dragging his feet, he ascended the well-scrubbed steps and banged on the front door. A manservant opened the door, took one look at Kit and made to shut it again, but Kit had pushed past the man and stood in a respectable entrance hall that smelt of beeswax and wood smoke.

‘Where’s Thurloe?’ he demanded.

‘The master’ll not see you. You must leave at once.’ The man’s nose wrinkled with distaste as he made a grab for Kit’s jacket. ‘Now get out before I call the watch.’

Kit shook him off. ‘He’ll see me.’

He paced the front hall.

‘Thurloe!’ he yelled, his voice echoing up the stairwell. ‘Thurloe, come out and face me, you whoreson.’

A respectably dressed woman appeared at the top of the stairs, her face pinched with fright. ‘Who are you? How dare you! Get out of my house.’

A door opened and Thurloe appeared in the hallway.

‘John? Who is this frightful man?’ The woman’s voice quavered with apprehension.

‘It’s all right my dear, I’ll deal with it,’ Thurloe said calmly, adding in a hard voice, ‘In here now, Lovell!’

Mustering what was left of his dignity, Kit marched past the supercilious manservant through the door that Thurloe held open. The door shut behind them both.

‘What is the meaning of this intrusion?’ Thurloe’s voice was icy.

Kit reached into his jacket and slapped the packet of papers down on the table.

‘These are for you.’

‘They could be delivered in the usual manner.’

‘No, they couldn’t. These reports have been bought and paid for with a life, Thurloe. You will find one of them missing. If you care to drag the Thames Estuary you will find it on the body of my friend Fitzjames.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean Fitzjames discovered Bampfield’s little love letters.’ He took a deep shuddering breath. ‘He would have betrayed me.’

‘You killed him?’ Thurloe sank onto a chair.

Kit took a deep breath. ‘No. It was an accident. A bloody, tragic accident.’

‘I see.’ Thurloe looked down at the papers. ‘It was clever of you to put the papers on him. When we recover the body, the word will go about that Fitzjames was the spy. You did well, Lovell.’

Kit turned away, his face contorted in grief and disgust.

‘Poor, bloody Fitz,’ he said. ‘He was as loyal a servant as Charles Stuart would ever find and you will paint him the traitor?’

Thurloe looked up at him. ‘You’re overwrought. Go home, Lovell. After you’ve cleaned up and had a good night’s sleep, you will see that you had no other choice.’

Kit flung himself down on a chair and buried his face in his arms on the table. ‘I’m heartsick of this, Thurloe. Haven’t I done enough? I want to be left in peace.’

Thurloe’s voice was icy. ‘It’s too late for you to be developing a conscience now, Lovell. Go home and tumble your mistress. Amazing what a few hours of female company can do for the soul.’

‘I don’t have a soul,’ Kit mumbled into his arms. ‘I sold it to you, remember?’

‘And you can have it back when this job is done. You can give me your report on matters in Paris when you are in a fit state.’ Thurloe stood and crossed to the door. ‘Oh, and by the way, your little friend has disappeared.’

‘What friend?’ Kit raised his face.

‘Mistress Granville.’

Kit rose uncertainly to his feet and looked Thurloe in the eye. ‘What do you mean, disappeared?’

‘Failed to appear for her lessons with Mistress Skippon. She’s been missing for over a week. I would like her found. She still owes the Commonwealth money.’

Thamsine ? Kit’s tired mind tried to grapple with the possible circumstances of Thamsine’s disappearance but exhaustion was asserting itself. Thamsine was a problem he would face in the morning.

He passed through the door Thurloe held open for him without conscious thought. Outside it still rained, more heavily if that was possible, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to get any wetter or colder or more miserable than he already was.

***

At Holborn, Lucy’s maid, Mag, opened the door.

‘Well, well,’ she said, with a sneer of distaste, ‘look who’s back.’

‘It’s a pleasure to see you too, Mag,’ Kit replied coldly. ‘Is your mistress at home?’

‘No, she isn’t,’ Mag said.

‘Good. I’d rather she didn’t see me looking like this. Draw me a bath in the kitchen, Mag, and be quick about it.’

Mag opened her mouth to protest and muttering to herself, stomped off to the kitchen.

Kit followed her and downed a glass of Martin Talbot’s best brandy while Mag and the kitchen maid drew the bath.

Ignoring Mag and the kitchen scullion, who stared at him with large eyes, her hands wrapped in her grubby apron, he stripped off his filthy, reeking clothes and climbed into the small tub, his knees around his chin.

With some of Lucy’s favourite rose-scented soap, he scrubbed at his self-disgust.

Thurloe had been right about one thing: being clean did make a difference to his view of the world. Mag fetched him a clean set of clothes and he retired to the parlour with a plate of cheese and a hunk of fresh bread and waited for Lucy.

He did not have to wait long. Lucy, her hair damp from the rain, came through the parlour door, her eyes lighting up when she saw him.

‘Kit. Oh, Kit, you’re home!’ She flung herself at him, covering his face with kisses that he returned with fulsome enthusiasm.

When they both paused for breath, Lucy exclaimed, ‘You smell nice! Is that my soap?’ She held his face in her hands and looked at him. ‘You look terrible! Have you been ill?’

‘I had a trying journey,’ he mumbled, sitting down.

‘Oh, you poor thing!’ Lucy stroked his face with tender concern in her eyes. ‘Was Norfolk that dreadful? How was your aunt?’

Kit shrugged. ‘I’m very tired, Mouse.’

Lucy sat on his knee and laid his head against her shoulder, her hand slipping under his shirt to run her fingers through the hairs on his chest. She smelt divine, and despite his exhaustion, he could feel his ardour rising.

Thurloe may have been right about that too.

A few hours of sport with Lucy and he could forget everything.

‘Did you bring me a present?’ she teased.

‘From Norfolk?’ Kit said. ‘What do you think I would find for you there? No, dearest, I am afraid all I bring you is myself.’

She made no protest as he began unlacing her bodice, and he gave an appreciative sigh, allowing oblivion to wash over him.