“Your grace,” she greeted him with a smile. “Where have you been these past few evenings?”
“I’ve been about. It’s you who seem constantly occupied,” he pointed out good-naturedly, “and I’ve dearly missed your company. Was Rosslyn bothering you?”
In truth, she could take care of herself—hadn’t she just proven it? But she sidled up to him, waving the fan coquettishly. “I’m glad you arrived to protect me.”
“You’re in good hands, my dear.” Looking pleased, he linked an arm through hers and began guiding her toward the terrace.
Good heavens, the blasted terrace again.
“Wouldn’t you rather dance?” she asked, then whirled at hearing the meaty sound of a fist connecting with someone’s skull.
Nell Gwyn’s voice carried across the chamber. “Don’t make me sorry I talked Charles into releasing you from the Tower!” she spat as she stalked off.
The Duke of Buckingham stood watching her go, his mouth hanging open, one hand held to the spot above his ear where petite Nell’s punch must have landed.
What a woman.
Gabriel reclaimed her arm. “Come along.”
“What happened?” she asked, resisting his propulsion.
“The idiot tried to kiss her.” The duke managed to harrumph in a genteel manner. “Everyone knows that unlike Louise and Barbara, Nell is completely devoted to King Charles.”
“Is she?” Rose wondered, pleased to learn that a single other courtier besides herself valued fidelity—even if Nell was a fallen woman. At least she was falling honestly.
“Oh, yes. She hasn’t touched another man since the king made her his mistress. Nearly nine years, if you can believe it.”
Gabriel’s apparent amazement gave Rose pause, but she consoled herself that at least he seemed to admire the achievement. She glanced back at the Duke of Buckingham, who still stood rooted in place. Even with his long black periwig all mussed, he looked entirely too dignified to have recently been a prisoner. “Why on earth was he in the Tower of London?”
“He’s not the first man King Charles has clapped in there, and he certainly won’t be the last. It’s political, my dear. You wouldn’t understand.”
Certain she would understand, Rose was about to ask for an explanation when he added, “Are you and your dear mother coming along to Hampton Court?”
Rose blinked, effectively diverted. “Hampton Court?”
“Haven’t you heard? The court is moving tomorrow—getting ever closer to London, as it were. The household will spend a few weeks at Hampton Court and then move to Whitehall for the winter, in time for the royal wedding on the fourth of November and the queen’s birthday celebration on the fourteenth.” He guided her toward the door. “Will you be coming along?”
“I’m not sure. I suppose I’ll have to ask Mum.”
“Well, I certainly hope she’ll agree. I’d feel bereft without your company.”
He sounded sincere, and she couldn’t help but respond to his flattery. He really was the most handsome of all the courtiers. And the tallest—only King Charles was taller—not to mention the highest ranked.
There was the kissing problem, of course, but having experienced an excellent kiss herself, maybe she could teach him how to perform one.
It was worth a try, she decided as he drew her out to the blasted terrace.
She was getting nowhere in her search.
TWENTY
“BURNING THE midnight oil, eh, Martyn?”
Working in the blaze of torches and candelabrum, Kit looked up from his plans to see Gaylord Craig, the Earl of Rosslyn. He offered his old friend a wry smile. “Oil lamps are a bit dim for my purpose, but you’ve got the gist of it, yes.”
Rosslyn paced the chamber with an elegant swagger, his tall walking stick clicking as he went. He paused, watching men and supplies go in and out of the two sizable holes cut in the ceiling that gave access to the area above, where Kit’s crew was busy reinforcing the structure. “The repairs seem to be coming along nicely.”
“Thank you.” Kit rubbed his eyes, realizing he must force himself to rest more in the daytimes. Even he couldn’t keep up this relentless pace forever. “And your own projects, Rosslyn?”
“Oh, fine, fine.” Rosslyn pulled a tortoiseshell snuffbox from his pocket. “You’ve done an excellent job recovering here, Martyn. But then, you always were up to the task.”
Kit could remember a few occasions, back in their school days, when Rosslyn hadn’t been up to the task. But then, he’d had no compelling reason to excel, as Kit had. The secure life of a peer had been awaiting him.
“What made you become an architect?” Kit asked. Surely an earl didn’t need a profession.
Having partaken of a pinch of snuff, Rosslyn sneezed. “Monuments.”
“Monuments?”
“I wish to leave something behind. Something so men will say there went Gaylord, the Earl of Rosslyn.”
The fellow wasn’t as shallow as Kit had thought. “Your theater in London is a masterpiece,” he conceded.
“I rather prefer my last church. But I thank you.” He tucked the snuffbox back into his pocket. “Well, the ladies are waiting. I shall leave you to it.” He turned on a high heel and swaggered toward the door, letting loose another sneeze followed by an “Oof!”
“Pardon me!” Lady Trentingham exclaimed.
“My apologies, my lady.” Holding his walking stick in a wide stance, Rosslyn swept her a deep bow. “I was just leaving.”
She turned and watched the earl mince away.
“Lady Trentingham,” Kit called over the bangs and scrapes of construction.
The countess looked over and smiled. “Good evening,” she greeted him, her own voice carrying well. He supposed that came of dealing with her half-deaf husband. She walked farther into the dining room, lifting the hem of her gown to step over a few boards and skirt her way around a sawhorse. “My, your men are busy as bees.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he told her, shooting a glance to his crew. “I long ago learned that my presence makes all the difference.” He rolled up the plans. “Can I help you with
