He could still be in London—or anywhere.
Though Kit itched to confront the old cur, he hadn’t time to mount a full-scale search, not while seeing his projects to successful completion. He would have to hope that the arson at Whitehall had satisfied the man’s thirst for revenge—that he wouldn’t try anything more.
When he finally reached Windsor’s dining room, he breathed a sigh of relief. Here, at least, everything seemed to be going right. The ceiling was nearing completion. The scaffolding was coming down, and new plaster was going up. In one corner, men labored to put a fine finish on the last pieces of oak paneling. Pleasant aromas of fresh-cut wood and sawdust filled the air.
The scent of building. It never failed to revive him.
“Well done,” he told his new foreman. They spread out the plans and went over them together, then discussed the final schedule.
“Seen Washburn lately?” Kit asked when they were finished.
Though he hadn’t expected an affirmative answer, the foreman nodded. “Just yesterday, in fact. Been parading about town with some mighty fancy doxies.”
Celebrating his successful revenge, Kit thought, seeing red. And spending the money he’d pocketed by purchasing inferior materials.
Through the anger, though, the new knowledge lifted his spirits. Apparently Washburn was here in Windsor, after all.
“Saw him not an hour ago,” another man volunteered through nails held between his teeth. “At the Old King’s Head on Church Street.”
Better news yet. Kit thanked the men for a job well done, then hied himself off to Church Street, feeling more optimistic than he had in days.
His projects were well in hand, his sister was safely ensconced in London, and best of all, last night’s outing with Rose in the square could not have gone better. Sweet heaven, that girl could make him lose his head. Though he’d always adored her bold nature, somehow he’d been unprepared for physical boldness—perhaps due to her seeming innocence? In any case, that moment when she’d grabbed him by the hair and wrenched him to her…
Well, to be blunt, it had been the most thrilling moment of his life.
And he could only but take it as proof of her feelings growing bolder as well. The only pitfall he could see was this deuced uncomfortable secret between them. That night they’d walked together by the Thames, in a heated moment he’d nearly taken leave of his wits and betrayed her mother’s confidence.
Thank goodness he’d caught himself at the last moment. Though it rankled him to lie to Rose, he couldn’t risk spoiling things with her now that he was finally, finally making progress.
“Good afternoon, Richards,” he said to the guard this time.
“Afternoon,” the man returned with a gap-toothed smile.
Within sight of the castle gates, The Old King’s Head was a typical inn—a few chambers above a darkly paneled taproom. It was known as the meeting place where the Roundheads had sanctioned King Charles I’s execution. Given its association with his father’s beheading, one might presume the current King Charles would avoid the area. But the opposite was true. Nell Gwyn owned the house next door, where she stayed—and the king paid nocturnal visits—whenever the court was lodged at Windsor.
But His Majesty had moved on to Hampton Court, so the infamous Nell wasn’t here now. Kit could only hope Washburn still was.
He pushed open the door and scanned the dim taproom. Few patrons sat at the long wooden tables this quiet afternoon, and the man Kit sought was nowhere to be seen.
“Can I get you something, milord?” A plump blond serving maid sidled up to him.
Milord, he thought with an inward smile, though the honorific was surely no more than calculated flattery. Someday he would have a right to that form of address. “I’m looking for Harold Washburn.”
“Ah, His High and Mighty.” The girl rolled her lively blue eyes. “He’s staying above.” She gestured up a staircase. “The Bard’s chamber, no less.”
It was said that Shakespeare had resided in this inn while writing The Merry Wives of Windsor. Kit wasn’t sure he believed that, but he was sure the establishment charged a pretty penny for the room supposedly rented by the playwright.
Washburn had apparently come up in the world. The cur must have pilfered even more money than Kit had realized. Seeing red again, he took the stairs two at a time.
“Wait, milord!” the serving maid called, lifting her skirts to run after him. “You cannot just go up there!”
Try and stop me, he thought as he reached the top and began pounding on the first door. “Washburn! Are you in there?” When nobody answered, he tested the latch and found the room open and empty.
He strode to the next, rapping so hard he bruised his knuckles. It was a welcome pain, one that fueled his anger. “Washburn!”
The serving maid caught up and tugged on his arm. “Milord, the proprietor—”
“A pox on the proprietor!” Shaking himself free, he opened the door. Finding this room vacant as well, he moved on, banging his fist against the next. “Washburn!”
A loud, startled squeal came from inside. A female squeal. And then Washburn’s voice, a low hiss. “Shut your trap, you hateful wench.”
For the costliest room in the house, Shakespeare’s chamber sure had a thin door.
Kit tried the latch and found the door locked. “Washburn, open up!”
Again, the serving maid tugged on his sleeve. “Milord, you cannot—”
“Oh, but I can. Watch me.” His patience at an end, Kit raised a booted foot and rammed it into the door.
It gave incredibly easily, slamming back against the wall and making the cheap porcelain knickknacks dance on Shakespeare’s marble mantel. Another squeal followed, snapping Kit’s gaze to the gaudy purple velvet–draped bed, where a blowzy woman sat straight up, the counterpane held to her bosom.
And beside her
