Rose (Flower Trilogy) (21 page)

“In the Chapel Royal at Whitehall,” Kit spat, moving closer. “Are you so sotted on drink and women that you’ve lost your half-witted memory?”

The man came off the bed, taking the counterpane with him and baring the doxy in the process. She squealed again and slid off the mattress to cower on the far side of the bed.

The purple velvet clenched in one fist, Washburn brandished the other threateningly. “To the devil with you, Martyn. I’ve no knowledge of a fire at Whitehall, and I damn well didn’t set it.”

Something in the man’s dark eyes gave Kit pause. “Where were you four days ago?”

“Here,” Washburn snapped.

“And what fine, upstanding citizen can you find to vouch for that?”

The ex-foreman swung to glare at his woman. “Me,” the doxy squeaked, peeking over the edge of the bed.

Kit snorted. “You think me maggot-brained to believe such as her?”

“How about me?” the serving maid said from behind him. “Will you believe me?”

Kit turned to her. “About what?” In his red-hot rage, he’d forgotten she was there.

“Him.” Pointing at Washburn, she nervously licked her lips. “He’s been here since last week. Hasn’t left except to buy some gewgaws for his ladies. An hour here or there.”

Kit stepped closer and lifted her chin so he could meet her big blue eyes. “Do you swear?” When she nodded fiercely, he turned back to Washburn. “You hired someone to do it for you, then.”

“I’m not an arsonist, Martyn.”

“No, just a liar and a thief.” Kit’s breath was still coming hard, but damn if he wasn’t beginning to believe the bastard. The serving maid seemed too honest, and Washburn seemed too shocked.

Without another word, Kit turned on a heel and headed for the stairs, gripping the piece of brick in his pocket as he fought to regain his composure. Though Washburn might be innocent, he felt no need to apologize. Perhaps Shakespeare would have summoned fine words, but Kit couldn’t—and to his mind, the man didn’t deserve them anyway.

Rose answered the door herself, practically dragging Kit into the town house without so much as a good morning. “I need to talk to you.”

He grinned as she pulled him toward the drawing room.

“Missed me, did you?”

“No,” she said, although in truth she had missed him entirely too much. She shut the door behind them and waved him toward a blue brocade chair. “Sit, please.”

“Sit? Then you didn’t drag me in here for a kiss?” He steepled his fingers and rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, looking nauseatingly good in his simple dark blue suit. “ ’Tisn’t like you not to be looking for a kiss.”

She stared at him, wondering how to break this to him gently while half wishing he were an ugly harebrained hayseed with no talent at all for kissing.

Of course
she wanted a kiss.

“No, I’m not looking for a kiss.” His sister was important to them both—much more important than kisses. “This is serious, Kit. You must let Ellen wed Thomas. She loves him, and—”

“I’ve told Ellen time and again that I’ll not see her wed to a pawnbroker.” The good humor left his face, and he unsteepled his fingers and crossed his arms instead. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

Something else had changed instead. But suddenly Rose wondered if she could convince him without giving away Ellen’s secret. ’Twould not only be easier for Ellen, but for him as well.

“Thomas is not only a pawnbroker,” she said carefully.

“He’s also a man—the man your sister loves. You’re judging him the way you complain people judge you.”

He raised a brow. “The way
you
judge me?”

“We’re talking about Ellen.” She wouldn’t let him turn this around. “Ellen really and truly loves Thomas. Why should it matter what the man does for a living? He’s a good man, Kit. Do you not want your sister to be happy?”

He remained quiet for a moment, just staring at her. As the silence stretched, she thought maybe she’d succeeded in convincing him.

Until he finally spoke. “What happened,” he asked slowly, “to your conviction that it is as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without?” He rose and slid off his surcoat, tossing it over the arm of the chair. “If those words no longer apply to Ellen, can I assume they also don’t apply to yourself?”

She backed up. “No. Of course they still apply. But in Ellen’s case—”

“Why should Ellen be different?” Kit advanced, taking perverse pleasure in watching her retreat. He’d caught her—twice—insisting Ellen should marry for love, and this time he wasn’t going to let her get away with claiming it shouldn’t work the same way for her.

“Ellen isn’t different.” She backed into a marquetry desk and placed her hands behind her for support. “But Ellen has already fallen in love.” She lifted her chin. “She never had a chance to fall in love with a titled man first.”

He brought his face to within an inch of hers. “Who will
you
fall in love with first, sweetheart?”

Though he was too close to see it, he heard her nervous swallow. “We’re talking about Ellen.”

“Not anymore.” He bent his head, angled his mouth. Her warm, sweet breath teased his lips. Her eyes closed, and a little mewing sound rose up from her throat. She raised her hands and rested them on his chest. They felt warm through the thin cambric of his shirt.

Then she pushed him away. “Kit! Listen to me. You must let Ellen wed Thomas—she’s carrying his child.”

He stumbled back, not from the force of her shove, but the impact of her words.

His baby sister was having a baby?

Unable to wrap his mind around that fact, he fell back onto the chair.

“Good God,” Rose said, putting her hands to her cheeks and looking entirely unRoselike. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tell you like that. It must be a terrible shock.”

“You could say that.” He rubbed his face. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

She sat in the chair next to his, shifting to face him. “She said she couldn’t. That she couldn’t bear to see the look on your face. Your disappointment.” She put a hand on his.

“She loves you.”

“She says she loves Whittingham.”

“Him, too.” Apprehension flooded her eyes, and he watched her swallow hard. “Kit, I think you should know . . .”

“What?” he asked. Whatever it was couldn’t be worse than what he’d already learned.

“Rather than disappoint you, she tried to rid herself of the child.”

He couldn’t have heard right. “She
what
?”

“She took pennyroyal, hoping to bring on her courses. I caught her in time, in the act, and made her bring it back up. Can you not see that this changes everything? What you wanted for your sister doesn’t matter anymore. Her fate is out of your hands.”

The second half of what she’d said had been lost on him, so appalled was he by the first. “Pennyroyal?” he echoed.

“A midwife told her pennyroyal tea can stimulate the menses. But she used one of my mother’s essential oils.

They’re a hundred times or more stronger than the herbs—

’twas likely to take her life along with the child’s.”

His heart hammering, Kit came halfway off the chair.

She leapt from hers and pushed him back down, looking desperate. “Good God, I said it all wrong again.” Her hands on his shoulders, her dark eyes held his captive. “The doctor said she is well, and she wasn’t aware of the risks, Kit.

I’m certain of it. She thought it would be just like the tea.”

Did he know his sister at all? “Does she not trust me even a little?” That hurt. “That she would do this rather than disappoint me?”

“She wasn’t thinking of it that way. She wasn’t thinking at all.”

“Even so, how could she? How could she kill her child?”

Rose winced. “Please don’t judge her so harshly. She’s hurting and confused. Women rid themselves of unwanted children all the time, for all sorts of reasons.”

“Ellen has no good reason.” His heart was finally slowing. Apparently the danger had passed. “How could she not know I would love her child? This is my sister and my niece or nephew.”

“I know,” she said softly.

Guilt was a vise squeezing his chest. He’d almost lost his sister, his only family. The one person he’d vowed to protect at all costs. If it hadn’t been for Rose . . .

She’d saved his sister. Because she was good, because she was caring, because there was a heroic person hiding inside this exasperating woman who insisted she wanted a duke.

His throat tightened, and something twisted around his heart—an unwelcome thrill laced with a flicker of fear. He reached to gather her onto his lap, wrapped his arms around her, and buried his nose in her rose-scented hair.

“Thank you,” he whispered, afraid he’d just fallen in love.

Lust was one thing, love quite another. It scared him to death. He’d wanted her before, yes. Wanted her for her beauty, her refreshing forthright nature, her family’s position in society, her intelligence, her sheer suitability as a wife. And, of course, because she’d made him hotter than the sun in August from the first time he’d laid eyes on her.

But suddenly he wanted her in an entirely different way.

The want had turned into need.

He’d been determined to make her fall in love with him, but he hadn’t expected to fall himself. What would he do now if she wouldn’t agree to be his?

Feeling his throat tighten more, he pressed his lips to the top of her head.

“You must let them marry,” she said quietly. “If you have even a glimmer of an idea what they feel for each other, you cannot deny them.”

He had a glimmer, all right. A sudden new glimmer that was frightening as hell. And he loved his sister, and—already—her unborn child. Rose was right, everything had changed—and he hadn’t the will left to deny Ellen and her baby loves of their own.

As long as he could make sure Thomas Whittingham loved them back.

He motioned to the marquetry desk. “Is there paper and quill in there?”

“Yes.” Rose slanted him a look. “Why?”

“I wish to write a letter.”

Her expression made clear she didn’t consider that much of an answer.

“Trust me,” he added. “And fetch Ellen, please.”

His sister looked pale when she walked in, wan and frightened. He silently handed her his hastily scribbled missive. As she scanned the single page, her eyes widened. A soft gasp escaped her lips.

“What is it?” Rose asked.

“A letter to Thomas.” Ellen looked up at Kit. “You’re . . .

you’re allowing our marriage?”

“Demanding it,” Kit corrected. “On one condition.”

“What?” She swallowed hard, clutching the paper against her middle.

His gaze flicked down, but there was no sign of her pregnancy. ’Twas too early, he supposed. He might suspect her of fibbing to get her way, but he seriously doubted she’d have risked poisoning herself if she wasn’t actually with child.

“Why?” he asked suddenly. “Why did you do it?”

Her eyes filled. “I know not. I think . . . I was confused.”

She brought her other hand to cover the first. “It seemed as though this child growing inside me had stolen my options—that I needed more time to convince you, and I feared your wrath, and—” She stared at the floor. “ ’Twas wrong, wasn’t it? Very, very wrong.”

“Yes.” Kit watched a teardrop fall to the polished wood, then stepped forward to wrap her in his arms. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”

“I’m sorry,” she sniffed against his chest.

“Do you not know how much I love you?”

Her arms tightened around him as she raised her tear-stained face. “I guess I forgot. I only thought about how angry you’d have been if you’d known.”

“Had I known, Ellen, I might have been disappointed—I
am
disappointed—but I’d not have kept you from wedding your child’s father. And I won’t. What’s done is done. I wanted more for you, but you’ve narrowed
my
options. Unless—”

“What?” She pulled away. “What is this condition?”

He met her gaze, hardening his heart against the tears.

“You’ll find out soon enough.” He turned to Rose. “Can you send a rider to Windsor to deliver this letter to Whittingham? And an extra horse so they can both ride back. I left my carriage at Whitehall, and ’tis too slow in any case.”

She looked between him and his sister. “Of course.”

“Good,” he said to her, and to Ellen, “I will see you wed today.”

Both women stared at him incredulously. Rose spoke for the two. “They cannot marry today!”

“Tonight, then. However long it takes Whittingham to show up, we’ll wait.”

“Banns must be called—’twill take weeks.”

“Have you never heard of a privileged church? There are two, I believe, directly outside the City walls. Places where a man and a woman can marry without posting banns, without taking out a license. Without waiting.”

“That doesn’t sound legal,” she said doubtfully.

“They claim they’re outside the jurisdiction of the Bishop of London and can therefore make their own rules.”

He shrugged. “The marriages stand, and that is all I care about at the moment. I wish I could remember at least one of their names . . . ah, yes. St. Trinity, in the Minories.” He turned to his sister. “I was hoping to see you wed in a cathedral, but a privileged church will have to do.”

Following a bit of wrangling, ’twas decided Kit would go ahead to St. Trinity and arrange matters while Rose and his sister waited for Whittingham. They would all meet Kit at the church.

It took an hour for him to reach St. Trinity—an hour during which he cursed himself ten times over for not watching more closely over his sister. For not protecting her better. For allowing her to maneuver him to the point where he had no choice.

But there was nothing left to do except make the best of it. If Whittingham could prove he truly loved Ellen, the man could have her. And Kit would make sure they had a wonderful, carefree life together.

Or rather, his eleven thousand pounds would.

But he wouldn’t tell them that now. Either of them. His sister had said over and over that she wanted to marry for love—and marry for love she would.

Kit arrived to find St. Trinity in surprisingly good repair for such an old building. The walls and columns were freshly painted, costly leaded glass filled the windows, and votive candles flickered around the sanctuary.