“Noon.”
“Then I shall be ready by ten.”
“Make sure you are.” Though Wren’s words sounded serious, he tempered them with a small smile. “With any luck, we can pull this off.”
“I’ve never put much stock in luck. Hard work and persistence have done well by me so far.” Kit returned the smile with a wry one of his own. “But I suppose a little luck wouldn’t come amiss just this once.”
Wren rose and opened the door, giving Kit a companionable slap on the back as he ushered him through it. “I’ll do what I can.”
“I’m counting on it,” Kit told him.
Hard work and persistence. He’d always believed that with both, anything could be his.
The castle grounds were quiet this time of night, the Round Tower on its huge mound of earth looming tall and imposing between the Lower and Upper Wards. Kit’s footfalls echoed off the cobblestones as he skirted the circular structure and cut through Horn Court on the way back to his site.
Nodding a familiar greeting, the usher there opened the door to admit him to the King’s Staircase. Kit hurried up the steps and through the progression of chambers—rooms he didn’t belong in, if one went strictly by rank. But as one of the king’s architects, he had free access.
His mind on the hectic night ahead, he fairly sprinted through the Audience Chamber and into the King’s Drawing Room, where court was in full swing this evening. There, he stopped short at the sight of Rose Ashcroft on the dance floor.
He very nearly tripped over his own feet.
Rose was stunning in burgundy satin. Her wide neckline exposed creamy skin, and her jewel-studded bodice tapered to a narrow, elegant waist. Most striking of all, her face was flushed with excitement, her rose-red mouth beaming. He’d never seen her looking so happy. As if she hadn’t a care in all the world.
He wanted to be the one making her look that way.
But she was dancing with a gentleman—a tall, blond, and exceedingly aristocratic one. Kit hated him on sight.
As she spun in the stranger’s arms, jealousy crawled over Kit’s skin. Which was absurd, aggravating, and utterly unproductive. She would never be his—at least not until he had the one thing that could make a lowly commoner worthy of someone like Lady Rose Ashcroft.
A title.
There was reason to hope a knighthood might accompany the Deputy Surveyor appointment—Kit’s good friend Sir Christopher Wren hadn’t been born a knight, after all. If the king was sufficiently impressed with Kit’s work, he might judge it prudent to raise his rank, granting him the status of a member of the court.
Which had, as it happened, always been Kit’s long-term goal. Holding a title meant the Martyns would forever after be members of the enviable gentry class. Never again would he, his sister, or their descendants suffer the desperation and humiliation of poverty. The degradation of being pitied. Looked down upon. Inferior.
And suddenly it seemed vital that Kit achieve that goal now. Today. Yesterday! This very evening Rose might accept an offer from one of the many rich, eligible men who were presently ogling her. She could very soon be betrothed to the blond cur who was holding her—in Kit’s opinion—quite a bit closer than was necessary.
Not that Kit was ready to propose. Perish the thought! He barely knew her, after all. All he knew so far was that she was beautiful, clever, and challenging. And that he wanted to know more. And that the thought of never having the chance to know more made his lungs mysteriously stop working.
If he wanted to keep breathing, he would have to win that appointment.
Determination made his jaw clench and his hands curl into fists. It would take more than cleaning up Washburn’s mess to impress Charles. He must not only meet, but surpass expectations—and with Wren talking up Kit’s merits to the king, likely those expectations had been raised high.
Windsor’s new dining room would prove to be spectacular, that was a given. The renovations at Whitehall Palace and the new building at Hampton Court—apartments for Charles’s long-time mistress and their five children—would have to be equally so.
Kit tore his gaze from Rose and strode through the glittering assembly, exiting the drawing room into the small, as-yet-unrenovated vestibule that led to his project.
“Martyn.”
Kit turned to see Gaylord Craig, the Earl of Rosslyn, follow and close the heavy door behind him. After the hubbub of court, the vestibule seemed quiet, the music and voices muffled to a dull hum.
“Yes, Rosslyn?”
Slim, fair, and fine-featured, Rosslyn clapped Kit on the back. “I hear you’ve run into a spot of trouble, my friend.”
Kit cast him a sharp glance. “And thought you’d come gloat over your rival’s misfortune?”
“My rival?” Rosslyn snorted. “You think I care a fig for that piddling appointment? I’m overwhelmed with commissions as it is.” His pale blue eyes raked Kit’s plain clothes. “And I certainly have no need of a knighthood. Truth be told, it would suit me quite well if you took the Deputy Surveyor job off my hands.”
“Then you’ll be happy to know my project has suffered only a minor setback. I will finish by the deadline as planned.”
“I’m glad of it.”
Kit measured his old classmate, watching him toy with the ribbons that crowned his walking stick. “You could simply refuse the appointment, you know. If you don’t want it.”
“Refuse the king? Gads, Martyn, you are new to court.” One square-toed high-heeled shoe tapped impatiently. “I shall have to serve if Charles commands it of me. But I’d much rather spend my time in more, ah, satisfying pursuits.”
Kit didn’t wonder what sort of pursuits Rosslyn had in mind. At Oxford, he and his cronies had shown far more enthusiasm for tumbling maids than attending lectures.
“Thus,” the earl went
