Under other circumstances, Kit might have doubled over with laughter.
But these weren’t other circumstances.
“You mangy old cur,” he gritted out. “I swear on the graves of every thief ever hanged by the High Sheriff of Berkshire, if you interfere with one more of my projects—”
“More?” Washburn squeaked, sounding utterly pathetic. “Why would I—”
“Set fire to the Chapel Royal at Whitehall?” Kit spat, moving closer. “I know not. Why don’t you tell me? Or are you so sotted on women and drink that you’ve lost your half-witted memory?”
The man rose, taking the counterpane with him and baring his companion in the process. Kit averted his eyes as she squealed again and slid off the mattress, cowering on the far side of the bed.
The purple velvet clenched in one fist, Washburn brandished the other threateningly. “To the devil with you, Martyn. I’ve no knowledge of a fire at Whitehall, and I sure as rot didn’t set it.”
Something in his foe’s eyes gave Kit pause. “Where were you four days ago?”
“Here,” Washburn growled.
“And what fine, upstanding citizen can you find to vouch for that?”
The ex-foreman swung to glare at his woman. “Me,” she squeaked, peeking over the edge of the bed.
Kit snorted. “You think me maggot-brained enough to believe such as her?”
“How about me?” the serving maid said from behind him. “Will you believe me?”
Kit turned to her. “About what?” In his red-hot rage, he’d forgotten she was there.
“About him.” She pointed at Washburn with a work-chapped finger. “He’s been here since last week. Hasn’t left except to buy some gewgaws for his ladies. An hour here or there.”
Kit stepped closer and bore into her spirited blue eyes with his own. “Do you swear?” When she nodded fiercely, he turned back to Washburn. “You hired someone to do it for you, then.”
“I’m no arsonist, Martyn.”
Kit snorted. “Just a liar and a cheat, then.” His breath was still coming hard, but blast if he wasn’t beginning to believe the old man. The serving maid seemed too honest, and Washburn seemed too shocked.
Kit dug into his belt purse. “For the damage,” he said, shoving a few coins at the maid. “With my apologies.” He gave her a curt tip of his hat.
Gripping the piece of brick in his pocket, he made for the stairs without another word.
THIRTY-SIX
THE NEXT DAY, Rose answered the door herself, all but dragging Kit into the town house without so much as a good morning. “I need to talk to you.”
He grinned as she pulled him toward the drawing room. “Missed me, did you?”
“No,” she said, although in truth she’d missed him entirely too much. She shut the door behind them and waved him toward a blue brocade chair. “Sit, please.”
“Sit? Then you didn’t drag me in here for a kiss?” Lowering himself, he linked his fingers and rested his elbows on the chair’s arms, looking nauseatingly good in his simple dark blue suit. “It isn’t like you not to be looking for a kiss.”
She gazed at him, wondering how to break this to him gently while half wishing he were an ugly harebrained hayseed with no talent at all for kissing.
Of course she wanted a kiss.
“No, I’m not looking for a kiss.” His sister was more important than kissing. “This is serious, Kit. You must let Ellen wed Thomas. She loves him, and—”
“I’ve told Ellen time and again that I won’t see her wed to a pawnbroker.” The good humor leaving his face, he unlinked his fingers and crossed his arms instead. “I haven’t changed my mind.”
Something else had changed instead. And she hadn’t realized how significant that change was until it had almost cost Ellen her life.
“Thomas isn’t only a pawnbroker,” she said carefully. “He’s also a man—the man your sister loves. You’re judging him the way you complain people judge you.”
He raised a brow. “The way you judge me?”
“We’re talking about Ellen.” She wouldn’t let him turn this around. “Ellen really and truly loves Thomas. Why should it matter what the fellow does for a living? He’s decent, he’s respectable. Don’t you want your sister to be happy?”
He remained quiet for a moment, just gazing at her. As the silence stretched, she thought maybe she’d struck a chord.
Until he finally spoke. “What happened,” he asked slowly, “to your conviction that it’s as easy to fall in love with a titled man as one without?” He rose and slid off his surcoat, tossing it over the arm of the chair. “If those words no longer apply to Ellen, can I assume they no longer apply to you, too?”
She backed up. “No. Of course they still apply. But in Ellen’s case—”
“Why should Ellen be different?” Kit advanced, taking perverse pleasure in watching Rose retreat. He’d caught her—twice—insisting Ellen should marry for love, and this time he wasn’t going to let her get away with claiming it shouldn’t work the same way for her.
“Ellen isn’t different.” She backed into a marquetry desk and braced her hands on the surface. “But Ellen has already fallen in love.” She lifted her chin. “She never had a chance to fall in love with a titled man first.”
He brought his face to within an inch of hers. “Who will you fall in love with first, Rose?”
Though he was too close to see it, he heard her nervous swallow. “We’re talking about Ellen.”
“Not anymore,” he said, and bent his head to meet her lips.
Her eyes closed, and a tiny sound rose up from her throat. Her hands came to rest on his chest, seeming to burn through the thin cambric of his shirt.
Then she pushed him away, her eyes popping open. “Kit! Listen to me. You must let Ellen wed Thomas—she almost killed herself.”
He stumbled
