But first, he had other matters to attend to: tonight, a visit with Rose, and tomorrow, a visit of a far less pleasant kind.
Kit had found no clear cause of the fire, as he had of the dining room’s sagging ceiling. But he suspected something foul was afoot, and there was only one man he’d made an enemy of in recent memory: Harold Washburn, the foreman he’d fired at Windsor. Kit intended to seek out the old cur. And he preferred not to have his sister along to distract him. Not there at the scene and not at his house in Windsor, either—for he knew better than to believe she’d stay meekly at home. Not with the wretched pawnbroker so close.
Kit wasn’t the sort of man to lock his sister in a guarded bedchamber, even for her own good. Sometimes he cursed himself for that weakness.
He folded the drawing of the new altar and slipped it into his pocket, then rolled the rest of the plans and tucked them under one arm. “Let’s go. Lady Trentingham will be waiting.”
Since the king and his followers were lodged at Hampton Court, Whitehall Palace was quiet. They exited into a large, grassy courtyard, their footfalls crunching on the gravel path as they followed it toward the gate. “I don’t like traveling late at night. There could be highwaymen.” Ellen pouted. “Can’t we just go straight to Windsor?”
Kit heard: Can’t we just go straight to Thomas? “It would be rude to refuse Lady Trentingham’s invitation. Besides, don’t you want to see Rose?”
“You want to see Rose.”
“So what if I do?”
“She’ll never be yours. Can’t you see, Kit? Your winning her is as unrealistic as your wanting me to marry a title.”
“Who said I want to win her?”
She snorted. “You look at her the same way Thomas looks at me.”
He didn’t like to think of any fellow looking that way at his sister. “If I’m appointed Deputy Surveyor, perhaps I’ll soon be Sir Christopher Martyn.”
“Is that what you’re counting on? It won’t change you.”
“Exactly my point. I’m good enough for anyone now, and so are you. But you cannot argue that perception makes all the difference, and a change in rank will affect how outsiders look at us both.”
“I don’t care what outsiders think. I care only about Thomas.”
Every discussion with Ellen was circular—back around to Thomas. Kit counted to ten, and then, as they crunched past the Banqueting House, changed the subject. “I wish I’d built that.”
“It’s pretty,” she conceded. “But considering the rest of the palace is so old, it stands out like a sore thumb.”
“Inigo Jones designed it with a basilica in mind.” He nodded a greeting to the guard at the gate. “I heard the construction costs ran to more than fifteen thousand pounds. I believe it was the first modern building in all of London.”
“When Thomas builds his shop on the Strand, it will be modern, too.”
Thomas, Thomas, Thomas. Taking Ellen’s arm, Kit helped her into the waiting carriage with a little more force than necessary. He pulled the door shut and dropped down across from her. “Just where do you suppose your Thomas will find the funds to build such an impressive shop?”
It was too dim inside the coach to read her expression, but he could see the tilt of her head. And hear the flippancy in her voice. “If the Banqueting House cost fifteen thousand, I expect eleven will more than do for a pawnshop.”
“Eleven?” For a moment he could say no more. But then the words came out in a rush. “If you think Thomas Whittingham will ever see the money I’ve saved for your dowry, you’d best think again.”
If the scoundrel was courting her for her money, he’d best think again, too.
“You wouldn’t keep it from me,” Ellen said smugly.
“You cannot know that,” he shot back, although he feared she knew him all too well.
A tense quiet stretched between them, a silent battle of wills. When Ellen finally replied, her voice was so soft he had to strain to hear it over the rattles and squeaks of the carriage.
“If you do,” she said, “I will never speak to you again.”
THIRTY-ONE
BUILT JUST A few years earlier, the Ashcrofts’ gray stone town house in St. James’s Square was the height of modernity. Kit insisted on a tour before they all sat down to supper. He admired the ornamental scrolled ironwork on the staircase, the intricate pediments over the doorways, and all the chimneypieces carved with festoons of fruit and flowers.
For Rose’s part, she’d decided it was all a bit overdone compared to the clean simplicity of his house.
“We cannot stay too long,” Ellen said when they were finally seated. “We need to be on the road to Windsor before it gets too late.”
“I understand.” Mum smiled as she lifted her goblet, looking pleased the Martyn siblings had come at all.
As Rose served herself a tansy—a sweet omelet flavored with tansy juice—she wondered why Mum had taken such an interest in these commoners. But then she supposed it wasn’t out of character for her mother. After all, the woman did “introductions” for servants. She might be an Ashcroft by marriage rather than blood, but their family motto, Question Convention, described her to a T.
Mum sipped. “Have you solved the issues at Whitehall?” she asked Kit.
“I hope so.” He speared a bite of chicken fricassee, managing to graze Rose’s arm for the third time in the process. “The issue of getting it finished on schedule, in any case. The issue of how and why the fire started is another matter entirely—one I’m hoping to solve in Windsor. There’s a man there who’s less than happy with me—the foreman I fired after the ceiling collapsed.”
Rose wasn’t sure if he was touching her on purpose or not, but either way, she was having trouble eating with the little bubbles dancing in her stomach. ”You think he set the
