He hesitated, then took one of her hands in a comforting grasp. Desire was startled at the unprecedented familiarity of his gesture. She had known Arscott all her life, but he very rarely touched her. She was disconcerted by his attempt to reassure her, and withdrew her hand from his as tactfully as she could.
‘My lady, you know that I will always do everything in my power to protect you,’ he said. ‘But until you are married you will always be at risk from those who seek your fortune.’
‘I know,’ Desire said wearily. ‘But how am I to find a husband? By all accounts the nobility is full of rapacious villains. I’d hate to fall prey to a man such as Lord Rochester. How am I to avoid such a fate?’
‘By choosing a man you know to be honest and loyal,’ Arscott replied.
‘But I don’t know any—’ Desire began, her voice rising in exasperation.
‘My lady, my family has served yours for three generations,’ Arscott interrupted. ‘Your father himself selected me to be his steward. I have always been honoured by the trust he placed in me and the high esteem in which he held me. Under any other circumstances I would never put myself forward in this manner. But your plight is desperate. Until you marry you will always be at risk of further attempts to take you by force. And the years are passing. Soon—’
‘I know!’ Desire longed to hold her own babe in her arms. She didn’t want to be reminded that her chances of doing so diminished with every year she remained unwed.
‘Forgive me.’ Arscott bowed his head. ‘I did not meant to cause you distress. But my lady, there is a way you can safeguard yourself from fortune hunters and have the children you long for.’ He dropped suddenly on one knee beside the bench.
Desire stared at him in disbelief, too startled to notice when he took her hand in his once more.
‘If you had a more worthy suitor I would never put myself forward,’ he said. ‘But as your husband I would continue to protect and serve you as loyally as I have done as your steward.’
‘You want to marry me!’ she exclaimed, dumbfounded by his proposal. The possibility of marrying the steward had never before occurred to her.
‘I will make you a good and faithful husband,’ he assured her, his grip on her hand tightening. ‘You may be sure I will never expose you to hurt or insult.’
‘I’m sure…’ Desire swallowed, hoping Arscott hadn’t sensed her instinctive dismay at the prospect of marrying him. She was grateful for the dim light, which prevented him from seeing her clearly.
What he suggested would no doubt provoke outrage in many sections of society. There was a vast gulf between their social rank and fortunes. But at that moment Desire did not recall that Arscott was the son of a stonemason. It was the thought of sharing his bed that chilled her heart.
She knew that such an objection was foolish and impractical. Most brides had little choice in who they wed. But when she imagined lying beside Arscott in the dark, every fibre of her being cried out against such intimacy. She respected the steward. Admired him even. And God knows she was grateful for his loyalty through all the years of his service. But she didn’t want to marry him.
‘I do thank you for your kind offer,’ she said. She was too soft-hearted to reject him immediately, but she tried to prepare him for her ultimate answer. ‘I will consider it very carefully. Perhaps we can discuss it again when we have all had a chance to recover from what happened earlier. I confess, I’m still a little shaken now.’
‘Of course, my lady.’ Arscott released Desire’s hand and stood up. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken so hastily. But until you are safely wed you will remain in danger. It will be best if you don’t consider too long.’
Desire suppressed a shiver of apprehension. ‘Perhaps not,’ she said. ‘Anyone else who might have been planning to abduct me will surely think twice now. Now they know they are more likely to end up dead than married.’ The words emerged more harshly than she’d intended. She was still shaken by Arscott’s ruthlessness on her behalf.
‘I had no choice,’ said Arscott. She could hear the thread of anger beneath the rigid deference in his voice. ‘There were three of them. And my pistol misfired.’
‘I heard it—!’ Desire began.
‘I fired the musket,’ said Arscott, ‘but the pistol misfired. I could not threaten the two remaining men with it. Only fight hand-to-hand to save you.’
‘I will always be grateful,’ Desire said. The last thing she wanted was ill feeling between her and her steward. ‘It’s dark. Let’s go inside now.’
Chapter Two
Newgate, Tuesday 4 September 1666
‘Fire! Fire! Fire!’
‘The Papists have fired London!’
‘Nay! The flames of hell are purging the corrupt city!’
‘It’s the French to blame. Throwing fireballs into the houses…’
‘’Tis God’s punishment for the sins of the Court…’
‘The Dutch are taking vengeance for our recent victory…’
‘St Paul’s burns…’
‘We’ll all burn!’
Jakob listened grimly to the uproar around and below him. He was in Newgate, awaiting the next gaol delivery to the Old Bailey. At the best of times the prison wasn’t silent, but now the cries of his fellow captives had risen to a frenzied cacophony of panic.
Newgate was not only a gaol, it was also one of the seven ancient gateways into London. Its two massive stone towers straddled Newgate Street. Every day people crowded through the iron gates and beneath the portcullis on their journey into, or out of, the City. But for two days there had been no normal traffic through the gate. The sounds of London descending into chaos had filtered through the thick stone walls and iron bars of the gaol.
News of a fire in the east of the City had first reached the gaol on Sunday morning, but fires among the old wooden buildings of London were so common that initially only a few doom-mongers were alarmed.
All the same, speculation about the extent and cause of the conflagration quickly circulated among the prisoners. By Monday it was claimed that the fire extended from London Bridge in the south to Lombard Street in the north. That it covered the whole of the waterfront for almost the entire length of Thames Street. Rumours abounded. Many people believed absolutely that the fire had been started deliberately by a Dutch baker. Others that the French had ignited it by throwing fireballs into houses. England was at war with both countries. On Monday night the fire destroyed Cornhill and advanced inexorably on Cheapside.
By Tuesday morning, St Paul’s Cathedral and Newgate were both under immediate threat. It no longer mattered to anyone trapped inside the prison how the fire started. Their only concern was to escape. Even in their confinement the prisoners could hear the terrified screams of those who fled through the gate in search of safety. They could also hear the thunderous roar of the fire raging towards the towers. The stench of burning was stronger than the usually overpowering stench of the gaol. The air was foul with smoke.
Jakob stood at a barred window, his throat raw from the polluted air. He took shallow breathes to avoid pulling the smoke too deeply into his lungs. He was in a better position than many prisoners. They were incarcerated in squalid quarters below ground. Fortunately Jakob had not come penniless to gaol. He’d bribed the Keeper of Newgate to house him in the more comfortable conditions of the Master’s Side at the top of the prison. He’d also taken the first opportunity to send out a message to his cousin, the Duke of Kilverdale. The Keeper had been impressed by Jakob’s high-ranking connections and since then had treated him with careful respect.
But