Rose (Flower Trilogy) (22 page)

A privileged church was quite obviously a lucrative business.

He stood in the back, watching a wedding in progress.

Several more couples seemed to be waiting their turns.

One bride was well gone with child, another quietly weeping. A third wedding party included a man who didn’t look much happier. If Kit didn’t miss his guess, the bride’s father was surreptitiously holding a pistol on the poor fellow.

The minute the current wedding concluded, Kit barged down the aisle.

The priest looked up and frowned. “You’re not next.”

“I’m not marrying at all. But my sister will be here later today, and I wish to make certain you’ll stay to perform the ceremony no matter how late she arrives.”

The man shook his balding head. “I’ve too many weddings this day already. She will have to come tomorrow. Or go to St. James instead.”

Ellen and her groom weren’t going to St. James—they were coming here. “What is your customary charge?” Kit asked flatly.

The plump clergyman sized him up. “Six crowns.”

Gasps from behind told Kit the quote was high, perhaps by double or more. “I’ll pay you ten,” he told the man.

“And half of that now.” He fished his pouch from his surcoat and began counting out coins. “I’ll expect her to be wed the moment she appears.”

“By all means, good sir,” the priest said, licking his fleshy lips. When he took the gold and hefted its weight in a hand, a wide smile emerged, revealing large, uneven teeth. “Bring two witnesses, and—since you seem to value speed—a pistol,” he added with a wink.

Despite himself, Kit almost laughed. “We’ve no need of a pistol—I’m the only party reluctant to this match.”

Hours later, Kit was waiting on the steps when the Ashcrofts’ carriage pulled up. His sister stepped to the cobblestones, followed by Rose, who was carrying a bunch of flowers. He wasn’t surprised when Lady Trentingham emerged next, although he hadn’t expressly invited her.

Finally, Whittingham stepped down, dressed in a green wool suit that was ten or more years out of fashion. His brown hair was tied back in a neat queue. Somehow he managed to look both pleased and scared spitless.

Kit was happy to see that. Perhaps the man cared after all.

Ellen marched up the steps and dragged Kit inside the church. Her gaze skimmed the sanctuary before swinging to fasten on him. “What the devil have you planned here?”

she whispered fiercely.

“Such language in a house of God,” he chided. She’d changed into a gown that he imagined must belong to Rose, a confection of pale green satin with silver embroidery. It didn’t suit Rose’s high coloring at all, but it looked perfect on his sister. The hue brought out the green in her eyes—

they always had turned green when she was angry.

“I am going to ask Whittingham if he’ll take you without your dowry,” he informed her in an even tone. “And if he hesitates as much as a moment—
one
moment, Ellen—the wedding is off.”

“That is so unfair!” she burst out.

Heads turned. “Hush!” he cautioned.

She moderated her voice, but not her demeanor. “You’d have me raise this child alone?”

“Not alone. With me. Your child will never see an unhappy day if I can help it—you’ve nothing to fear. Should Whittingham love you, I wish you the best. But if not . . .

you’ll be better off in my care than bound to a man who wanted you only for your money.”

She crossed her arms, narrowed her eyes, and shut her mouth decisively. Remembering her words when he’d talked of withholding her dowry—
I will never speak to you
again
—he figured she was following through on her threat.

That
wouldn’t last. A woman carrying a child couldn’t afford to act like one.

“I’ve paid good money to see you wed quickly.” He put a hand on her arm, then frowned when she shoved it off. “Let us adjourn outside and see this thing through.”

*

*

*

Rose watched Kit and his sister emerge from St. Trinity, Kit looking determined, Ellen furious. She wondered what had been said during their short time inside.

Thomas stepped forward and looked directly at Kit.

“Ellen has informed me you’ve put a condition on our marriage.”

He was a direct sort of man. Rose had come to know him a little better on the ride from the town house to the church, and she believed he would make a good husband for her friend.

If only Kit would allow it.

“Yes,” Kit said. “You must be willing to take my sister without her dowry.”

Rose suspected Kit just wanted to be sure of the man’s love, but Ellen released an angry huff. Yet Thomas, bless the man, didn’t so much as blink. “I would take your sister if she came with a mound of debt. Ellen’s dowry would be welcome—I’ll not lie—but I don’t want your sister for money, sir. I want her because I love her.”

’Twas such a pretty speech, Rose wanted to applaud.

But Kit just nodded, somehow contriving to appear pleased, relieved, disappointed, and apprehensive all at once. “Come along, then. Let’s get this done.”

Ellen let out a little squeal, then ran to Thomas and pressed her lips to his in a fervent kiss.

“
After
the wedding,” Kit said, but not without a hint of good humor.

Regardless, Ellen chose to glare at him.

“Good luck, Ellen.” Rose handed her the bouquet of flowers she’d arranged while they were waiting for Thomas.

’Twould not feel like a real wedding without flowers.

Ellen smiled, but her jaw didn’t relax until Thomas had drawn her down the aisle to stand before the priest. Then she took his hand and released a heartfelt sigh.

Some other people started to protest, but Kit pressed a small pile of gold into the priest’s plump hand—and that was that. The man wasted no time beginning the ceremony.

He was the no-nonsense sort, with a booming voice, a big belly under his robe, and flushed, well-fed cheeks.

Standing in the small, old chapel, Rose shifted on her high-heeled shoes, wondering if she’d ever be a bride.

“Thomas Whittingham, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will.” The confident words boomed off the plain, whitewashed walls, binding Thomas to Kit’s sister.

But Rose wasn’t listening to the ceremony. Instead, she focused on the bride and groom—their linked hands, their bodies ranged close, their eyes shining with a potent mixture of disbelief and happiness.

Chrystabel smiled as though she’d arranged this wedding herself. She leaned closer until she bumped against Rose’s left side, her voice made breathy by emotion. “They’re perfect together, are they not?”

Rose could only nod dumbly. Ellen and her pawnbroker were clearly in love . . . for Ellen, at least, it had not been as easy to fall in love with a titled man as a commoner.

The priest cleared his throat and looked back down at his
Book of Common Prayer.
“Ellen Martyn, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband . . .”

Standing on Rose’s right, Kit sighed. “Have I done the right thing?”

“Oh, yes,” she breathed, wondering if
she
would do the right thing. For she feared that, like Ellen, she was not finding it easy to fall in love with a titled man. The Duke of Bridgewater was handsome and rich and kind, and she’d tried to make herself fall in love with him, to no avail. And yet, with Kit . . .

Her feelings didn’t bear thinking about.

“ . . . so long as ye both shall live?” the priest concluded expectantly.

“I will,” Ellen pledged, sounding happier than Rose remembered ever feeling.

A few more words, a ring slid onto her finger—something hastily chosen from the pawnshop, no doubt—and Ellen was clearly and truly wed now, Mrs. Thomas Whittingham.

And Rose was more confused than ever.

When Thomas lowered his lips to meet Ellen’s, Kit looked to Rose. Her breath caught in her chest. His eyes were full of promises . . . but they were promises she couldn’t return.

She didn’t breathe easily again until they were all heading back down the steps to her family’s carriage.

“Where will you go tonight?” she asked Ellen.

“Home. To the pawnshop in Windsor.” She smiled up at Thomas, then glanced at Kit and lifted her chin before turning back to Rose. “ ’Twill doubtless be late by the time we arrive, but there is no place I wish to stay in London.”

“We’re going home to Trentingham tomorrow,” Chrystabel announced.

“Are we?” Rose asked, surprised. But right now the idea of home sounded wonderful.

“I miss your father. And Rowan. And I’m going to have your sisters and their husbands over for supper as soon as possible. In fact, I’ll send notes to them before we leave.

Perhaps they can join us tomorrow night.” Without missing a beat, Chrystabel turned to Kit. “Will you join us as well?

My husband is likely impatient to see his greenhouse take shape. You
did
promise to work up a design before you left Lily’s wedding.”

“I did, didn’t I?” he said wryly. “But—”

“Rose has indicated you’ve got Whitehall under control.

And you’ll not be far from Windsor. Or Hampton Court, for that matter.”

Mum could be persuasive when she put her mind to it.

Kit nodded. “I suppose since no red-and-white-liveried King’s man has shown up with bad news, I can take a day to sketch a design.”

“And one night to relax before jumping back into the fray.”

“And one night,” he agreed, his gaze straying to Rose.

Her skin heated all over.

It took a few more minutes for plans to be nailed down.

Rose and Chrystabel would take Ellen and Thomas back to the town house to fetch Ellen’s things. Kit would return to Whitehall, spend the balance of the day making certain everything there would proceed smoothly, then go on to Trentingham Manor in the morning.

Rose was settled in the carriage and halfway to St.

James’s Square before she realized that in all the time since before the wedding began, Ellen hadn’t said one word to her brother.

Rose’s family was almost more than Kit could take.

They were loud. They were boisterous. And there were so damn
many
of them.

Rose’s oldest sister, Violet, had brought along her husband, Ford, and their three children—two of which were infant twins and prone to wailing—plus Ford’s niece, ten-year-old Jewel.

Kit’s friend Rand was there with his new wife, Rose’s younger sister, Lily. Lily, as usual, was surrounded by animals—a cat she’d brought, along with a sparrow and a squirrel that had followed her. Her mother had ordered the latter two outside during supper, but they were watching through a window.

And then, of course, there were Lord and Lady Trentingham. And their eleven-year-old son, Rowan.

With Rose and Kit—and not counting the creatures—that made eleven people around the table in Trentingham Manor’s white-paneled dining room, plus two in cradles nearby. Kit was unwillingly reminded of his school days, eating in a huge hammerbeam-ceilinged hall with shouts and conversation coming from all angles. He half expected a food fight to break out. It seemed quite a racket to a man who was used to dining only with his sister.

Ellen. She’d passed her wedding night by now—not that it had been the proper wedding night he had wanted for her—and he wondered how she was doing. Was she happy with her pawnbroker? They’d be happier, of course, when he gave them the money he’d saved for her dowry, but he thought he’d wait a little while for that. A week or two, at least. Let them get settled first—such a windfall was likely to be unsettling, indeed.

In the meantime, he hadn’t wanted to be alone at his house in Windsor, imagining his baby sister and her new husband doing God knew what down the street. So Lady Trentingham’s invitation had been welcome, even though he damn well knew he had better things to do.

But his projects seemed stabilized, and the day had gone well enough. Lord Trentingham had been happy with Kit’s ideas for the greenhouse, and Kit had gone only half hoarse shouting all his explanations. He’d order the materials and hire a foreman when he returned to Windsor. Lord Trentingham was anxious to get his plants inside before winter, so Kit had promised him an accelerated schedule. The groundbreaking was planned for ten days hence.

“This all must be very disturbing,” Rand said.

“Hmm?” Kit had been so deep in his thoughts he hadn’t even noticed that sweets had been put on the table. “Are you talking to me?”

“Wake up, you dolt.” Rand elbowed him in the ribs and laughed. “We were talking about the problems you had at both Windsor and Whitehall.”

“They’re settled now,” Kit said. His plate had been removed by one of Trentingham’s footmen, and he hadn’t noticed that, either. Someone set a smaller, clean plate in front of him.

“Are you sure?” Jewel’s deep green eyes looked wide in her fine-boned, heart-shaped face.

“I’m convinced Washburn didn’t set the fire, so I don’t expect him to try anything else.”

“But how can you be sure?”

Seated to his left, Rose passed him a platter of small currant cakes, her soft floral fragrance wafting to his nose along with the fruity scent of the baked goods. “The fire was probably not intended,” she told Jewel.

“Exactly.” He took three and passed the plate to Rand.

“The men aren’t supposed to smoke pipes on the job, but I wasn’t there to watch.”

Lord Trentingham frowned. “Has Whitehall become overrun with mice?”

Kit blinked. “Pardon?”

“You said the men aren’t supposed to poke mice?”

“Smoke pipes, darling.” Lady Trentingham leaned to brush a few cake crumbs off her husband’s cravat. “The men aren’t supposed to smoke pipes.”

“It could have been someone else.” Taking six cakes for himself, Rowan sounded a bit gleeful at the prospect of uncovering intrigue. “Not this Washburn, but someone else.”

“Let us hope not.” Kit used one of the cakes to scoop sweet whipped cream “snow” from a dish, suddenly worrying that the children might be right. “ ’Twas most probably accidental. These things happen.”