“But after we’re wed…” Ellen murmured, then left it at that.
Rose knew she was thinking about her dowry. Eleven thousand pounds—surely more than enough to open the fanciest shop on the Strand. But she also knew that Kit wasn’t going to be happy turning that money over to Thomas Whittingham.
The bell tinkled in the outer room, signaling another customer. “Pray excuse me,” Thomas said.
As he left, Mum turned to examine a sword with a jewel-encrusted hilt. “Isn’t this beautiful?”
“It is, Mum.”
She hefted its shining weight, watching sapphires and emeralds twinkle in the light from the small, barred windows. “If this isn’t claimed, I’ll be tempted to buy it for your father.”
Rose couldn’t imagine he’d be too impressed—the sword wasn’t a flower or plant, after all—but she knew her mother liked for him to look nice when they went out in public. “I’m certain he’d love it, Mum.”
Her mother looked up 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. “Come, 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. We must leave immediately.”
Ellen set her jaw. “I don’t want to go to London. I’ll stay here.”
“No, you won’t.” 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. “Do you think me a simpleton? I’ll not leave you alone with him. You’re coming to London.”
“We’re going to London as well,” Mum announced, surprising Rose.
Kit looked surprised, too. “Lady Trentingham. And Lady Rose.” His startled gaze met Rose’s, disturbing her as much as ever. Something seemed to be fluttering in her stomach.
Her mother moved closer and put a hand on Rose’s shoulder. “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.”
That was news to Rose, but she wasn’t displeased. A few days’ distance would give the court gossips time to move from I Sonetti to the next scandal. Meanwhile, Rose would have 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 couldn’t keep pretending she felt nothing for him. She needed to figure out what these feelings meant—and whether she might ever feel them with Gabriel.
Mum squeezed her shoulder. “Perhaps,” she added, “we can have Kit and Ellen to supper, since they’ll be in London, too.”
“That would be nice,” Kit said with polite impatience, “assuming I can leave the project. Assuming there’s 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 had to be very worried indeed.
THIRTY
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.”
Reaching into his pocket, Kit touched the heavy vellum invitation that had arrived yesterday, a gracious request from Lady Trentingham to join her and her daughter for supper. If his plans worked out, Ellen wouldn’t be returning to Windsor, 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 only 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. “It’s not a game, Ellen,” he said as he put them into a crate. “You could be that woman.”
“I don’t want to be that woman. I want to be Thomas’s woman.”
He bit back a retort, preferring to savor a good day’s work. The situation here at Whitehall hadn’t 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 burnt 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 reflecting poorly on him, and now he’d been forced to leave the Windsor project in a fragile state. He was anxious to return and ensure that the work remained on course. Even a small setback now could prove to be the
