Rose (Flower Trilogy) (17 page)

“The sonnets?”

“One of them. It took me half the night.” She didn’t mention that was because she’d spent the majority of the time goggling at the engravings.

And thinking about Kit.

“Thank you.” Ellen tucked the paper into her skirt.

“Thomas will enjoy reading this.”

From the glint in Ellen’s eyes, Rose suspected the two of them would enjoy it together.

Chrystabel turned from the sword. “You’ve a fine young man, Ellen.”

“Thank you. I think so. I just wish I could convince Kit.”

She sighed, then took Rose’s arm. “Come out front.

Thomas has so many wonderful things for you to see.”

“I want to see the books. Especially foreign ones.”

But as they stepped back into the main room, they spotted Kit through the window, striding purposefully toward the door. Ellen gripped Rose’s arm tighter. “Mercy me, I’m in trouble. I was hoping to return home before he woke.”

Even the bell sounded angry when Kit slammed into the shop. “We must leave, Ellen. I’ve had word there’s a problem at Whitehall. A fire.”

Ellen’s green-brown eyes widened. “Whitehall has burned?”

“Not the entire palace. Just the east end of the Chapel Royal where I’m building the new altar.” He swore under his breath. “Come along.”

Ellen set her jaw. “I don’t want to go to London. I shall stay here.”

“No, you’ll not.” Despite his normal tanned complexion, Kit looked paler even than Bridgewater. And he hadn’t noticed Rose. He shot a glance to Thomas instead, then glared back at his sister. “Think you I’m a simpleton? If I leave you here, you’ll elope. You’re coming with me.”

“We’re going to London, too,” Chrystabel suddenly announced.

Kit blinked. “Lady Trentingham. And Lady Rose.” His startled gaze met Rose’s, disturbing as ever.

Chrystabel moved closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “My daughter’s favorite seamstress, Madame Beaumont, resides in London. Rose needs to order some new gowns if we’re to spend more time at Court.”

’Twas news to Rose, but she thought it a fine idea. Not least because it would give her some time to think about Gabriel . . . and Kit, blast him. He might be frantic with worry and wearing a simple blue wool suit instead of embroidered silk and gold, but she could no longer deny he roused feelings in her that Gabriel never would.

Feelings she didn’t want.

Mum squeezed her shoulders. “Perhaps,” she added, “we can have Kit and Ellen to supper, since they’ll be in London, too.”

“That would be nice,” Kit allowed, “assuming I can leave the project. Assuming there is still a project to leave.

Now we must be off. Excuse us, please.”

As she watched him herd his sister out the door, Rose realized he hadn’t even taken Ellen to task for escaping to the pawnshop this morning.

He must be very worried indeed.

Three days later, Ellen strode into Whitehall’s Chapel Royal. “I’m ready, Kit.”

Kit swept the newly framed altar with one more glance before turning to his sister. “You’re all packed?”

“Yes. My maid is seeing everything brought to the carriage.

How about you? You’ve spent two solid days in this chapel.

Have you eaten? Slept? Are
your
things all packed?”

“I have enough at the house in Windsor,” he said, neatly evading her other questions. If he needed to forgo food and rest to accomplish his goals, so be it. What he
didn’t
need was Ellen nagging him.

She bent to scoop up some wood scraps and toss them onto a pile. “I’m so glad we’re returning to Windsor.”

Kit reached into his pocket, fingering the heavy vellum invitation that had arrived yesterday, a gracious request from Lady Trentingham to join her and her daughter for supper. Ellen wouldn’t be returning to Windsor if his plans worked out, but he wouldn’t argue with her now. “I thought you loved staying here at Whitehall, where you can pretend you’re a fine courtier.”

“I loved it before I loved Thomas. Now I know that was naught but a childish game.”

Evening was falling, and he’d dismissed his crew for the day, so he picked up the last of the tools himself. “ ’Tis not a game, Ellen,” he said as he put them into a crate. “You can be that woman.”

“I don’t want to be that woman. I want to be Thomas’s woman instead.”

He bit back a retort, preferring to savor a good day’s work. The situation here at Whitehall had not been as bad as he’d feared. Although the fire had destroyed the half-built altar, the building had remained intact. Yesterday he’d hired extra men—triple his original crew—and procured new materials. The progress today had been gratifying, surpassing his revamped schedule. Save for elusive bits of ash and the lingering scent of burned wood, all evidence of the fire was gone, and the new altar was framed already.

Disaster had been averted again. But he didn’t like the way things were going. The continued mishaps were jeopardizing his likelihood of being appointed Deputy Surveyor.

Ellen could doubtless make a good marriage anyway, thanks to the dowry he’d saved for her, but should he fail to win the post, he feared his chances with Rose were virtually over.

He had no simple explanation for the fire, as he’d had for the problem at the castle. But he suspected something foul was afoot. In short, he reckoned the blame landed squarely on one man’s shoulders: Harold Washburn, the foreman he’d fired at Windsor. Kit intended to seek the man out.

And he preferred not to have his sister along to distract him. Not there at the scene and not at his house in Windsor, either—for he knew better than to believe she would stay meekly at home. Not with her lover so close.

Kit wasn’t the sort of man to lock his sister in a guarded bedchamber. Sometimes he cursed himself for that weakness.

He folded the drawing of the new altar and slipped it into his pocket, then rolled the rest of the plans and tucked them under one arm. “Let us go. Lady Trentingham will be waiting.”

Since the King and his followers were lodged at Hampton Court, Whitehall Palace was quiet. They exited into a large, grassy courtyard, their footfalls crunching on the gravel path as they followed it toward the gate. “I don’t like traveling at night.” Ellen pouted. “Can we not just go straight to Windsor?”

Kit heard:
Can we not just go straight to Thomas?

“ ’Twould be rude to refuse the Ashcrofts’ invitation. Besides, do you not want to see Rose?”

“
You
want to see Rose.”

“So what if I do?”

“She will never be yours. Can you not see, Kit? Your winning her is as unrealistic as your wanting me to marry a title.”

“Who said I want to win her?”

She snorted. “You look at her the same way Thomas looks at me.”

He didn’t like to think of any man looking that way at his sister. “If I’m appointed Deputy Surveyor, perhaps I will soon be
Sir
Christopher Martyn.”

“Is that what you’re counting on? ’Twill not change you.”

“Exactly my point. I’m good enough for anyone now, and so are you. But you cannot argue that perception makes all the difference, and a change in rank will affect how outsiders look at us both.”

“I care not what outsiders think. I care only about Thomas.”

Every discussion with Ellen was circular—back around to Thomas. Kit counted to ten, then, as they crunched past the Banqueting House, changed the subject. “I wish I had built that.”

“ ’Tis pretty,” she conceded. “But compared to the rest of the palace, it stands out like a sore thumb.”

“Inigo Jones designed it with a basilica in mind.” He nodded a greeting to the guard at the gate. “I heard the construction costs ran to more than fifteen thousand pounds. I believe it was the first modern building in all of London.”

“When Thomas builds his shop on the Strand, it will be modern, too.”

Thomas again. Of course. He helped Ellen into the waiting carriage with a little more force than was necessary, then pulled the door shut and dropped down across from her. “Just where do you suppose your Thomas will find the funds to build such an impressive shop?”

’Twas too dim inside the coach to discern her features, but he could see the tilt of her head. And hear the flippancy in her voice. “If the Banqueting House cost fifteen thousand, I expect eleven will more than do for a pawnshop.”

“Eleven?” For a moment he could say no more. But then the words came out in a rush. “If you think Thomas Whittingham will ever see the money I’ve saved for your dowry, you’d best think again.”

If the pawnbroker was courting her for her money,
he’d
best think again, too.

“You wouldn’t keep it from me,” Ellen said smugly.

“You cannot know that,” he shot back, although he feared she knew him all too well.

A tense quiet stretched between them, a silent battle of wills. When Ellen finally replied, her voice was so soft he had to strain to hear it over the rattles and squeaks of the carriage. “If you do,” she said, “I will never speak to you again.”

Built only a few years earlier, the Ashcrofts’ gray stone town house in St. James’s Square was the height of modernity. Kit insisted on a tour before they all sat down to supper, admiring the ornamental scrolled ironwork on the staircase, the intricate pediments over the doorways, and all the chimneypieces carved with festoons of fruit and flowers.

For Rose’s part, she’d decided it was all a bit overdone since seeing the clean simplicity of his house.

“We cannot stay too long,” he warned when they were finally seated. “I plan to be on the road to Windsor tonight.”

“I understand.” Chrystabel smiled as she lifted her goblet, looking pleased that the Martyn siblings had come at all.

Rose couldn’t figure why her mother had taken such an interest in these commoners, but she supposed ’twas not out of character. After all, she did “introductions” for servants.

Mum might have married into the Ashcroft family, but their motto, Question Convention, described her to a T.

Chrystabel sipped. “Have you solved the problem at Whitehall?” she asked Kit.

“I hope so.” He speared a bite of chicken fricassee, managing to brush against Rose’s arm for the third time in the process. “The problem of getting it finished on schedule, in any case. The problem of how and why the fire started is another matter entirely—one I’m hoping to solve in Windsor. There is a man there who is less than happy with me—

the foreman I fired after the ceiling collapsed.”

Rose wasn’t sure if he was touching her on purpose or not, but either way, she was having trouble eating with the little bubbles dancing in her stomach. “You think he set the fire?”

Kit nodded. “A dishonest man like Washburn is the type to take revenge, and sabotaging another of my projects is effective revenge, indeed.” He met her gaze, his eyes looking more green than brown.

She sipped from her goblet, half expecting to taste champagne instead of the sweet Rhenish wine.

“This artichoke pudding is delicious,” Ellen said with a hum of delight. “Almost worth delaying my return to Windsor.”

“I’m so glad you’re enjoying it.” Chrystabel poured more wine. “I would be happy to teach you how to make it.”

Ellen’s eyes widened. “Would you? I know not how to cook at all.”

“No? How is that?”

“I was but six when my mother died. While Kit was in school and university and I lived with Lady St. Vincent, I wasn’t even allowed in the kitchen. And since then I’ve lived with Kit . . .”

Without brushing Rose this time, Kit set down his fork.

“My sister has no need of cooking. When she marries, she’ll have an army of servants to prepare her meals.”

“Not if you won’t give me my dowry,” Ellen said darkly.

Chrystabel looked between them. “Preparing a few special dishes can be a joy,” she told Kit carefully. “No matter whether one needs to. Most every lady has a number of signature recipes.”

“I would love to learn how to cook this,” Ellen said.

“ ’Twas very kind of you to offer, Lady Trentingham.”

Chrystabel smiled. “We shall have to plan another visit soon.”

“May we?” Ellen asked her brother.

“Perhaps sooner than you think.” Kit cleared his throat, sweeping both Chrystabel and Rose with a glance. “I hesitate to presume upon our new acquaintance, but I am wondering if Ellen might stay here with you for a day or two while I take care of my business in Windsor.”

“No!” his sister burst out.

Seeing the determined set of Kit’s jaw, Rose turned to Ellen with a smile. “It could be fun. We could visit the shops at the Royal Exchange, and you could come along to my fittings. Maybe Kit would allow you to order a new gown.”

“Two,” he offered quickly, obviously willing to placate his sister.

Ellen’s eyes narrowed. “The only new gown I need is one for my wedding to Thomas.”

Kit’s eyes blazed.

“I could teach you how to cook,” Chrystabel put in before he could open his mouth. “We could start tonight.”

“I’m lea—”

“You’re staying here,” Kit said. If looks could kill, Rose thought, his sister would be dead as the chicken on the platter.

Ellen apparently knew when to give up. She swallowed hard and put down her fork. “You’re very kind,” she told Chrystabel in a voice devoid of emotion. “Unlike my brother.”

A strained silence stretched between the siblings. Before more hurtful words could be spoken, Rose turned to Kit and tried to distract him. “I’ve seen what you’re doing at Windsor, but tell me about Whitehall.”

“ ’Tis a small project, just a new altar for the Chapel Royal.” He took a bracing swallow of wine. “ ’Tis not my design. Here is Wren’s sketch.” Setting down his goblet, he dug a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her.

The drawing showed not only the architectural detail but also an elevation complete with an altar cloth, candlesticks, alms dish, candles, and books. The lovely columns, carving, and molding looked much more modern than she supposed the rest of Whitehall to be. “ ’Tis beautiful.”

“Can you see the original Tudor window behind?” He leaned close, touching a finger to the sketch, and she smelled frankincense and Kit. “Wren designed this to be the same width, so the two would appear harmonious together.”