Astonishingly, Washburn simply shouldered past him and marched out.
Was it Kit’s imagination, or did the old cur actually look smug?
Kit consciously unclenched his jaw, reaching for the scrap of brick in his pocket. His fist clenched around it; he’d been itching for a fight.
In the end, though, the anger faded, replaced by relief. In truth, the crisis had resolved far more quickly and easily than he’d feared.
He took a deep breath, promoted a grateful mason to take Washburn’s place, then headed to the small chamber he’d been given to use as an office, revising the schedule in his head. The project would still finish on time.
That there were greedy men in the world wasn’t news to Kit. He wouldn’t let this particular one cost him the Deputy Surveyor post.
It would take worse than the likes of Harold Washburn to stand in Kit Martyn’s way.
SIX
“HURRY,” ROSE said. “Or by the time we get to court, the presentations will be finished.”
“Stop worrying, dear.” Seated together with Rose at the single dressing table in the rooms they’d been assigned at Windsor Castle, Mum held very still while her maid, Anne, used hot curling tongs to put the final touches on her hair. “We’ll still be admitted, even if we’re late.”
With all the last minute preparations, they’d left home today much later than they’d planned. Mum had needed to leave instructions for the running of the entire household, and Harriet, Rose’s maid, had taken forever to pack. It had been dark by the time they’d reached Windsor, and Rose, dying of curiosity, had hardly been able to see anything of the enormous castle as a warden showed them by torchlight to their small apartments.
“I don’t want to be late,” Rose complained. Beneath wine-colored satin sleeves fastened at intervals with jeweled clasps, her skin prickled with suppressed excitement. “I want to meet the king and queen.”
“You will, dear.” Mum met her gaze in the dressing table’s mirror. “You look very pretty.”
“Yes, you certainly do,” Harriet added as she wove matching burgundy ribbons through the bun on the back of Rose’s head. “And just think of all the new men you’re going to meet! I can hardly believe I’m here, so far from Trentingham.”
Actually, it wasn’t far at all—little more than a couple of hours downriver. Though Rose had never been inside the castle before, she and her sisters often came to Windsor to visit the shops. But Harriet had been born at Trentingham Manor and, at age nineteen, had never gone farther than the nearest village before today.
Rose reckoned that was half the reason for their late start. Harriet had been so flustered, she’d been unable to keep her mind on the preparations.
“You just might meet a nice young man, too,” Mum told Harriet, a familiar light coming into her brown eyes. Chrystabel Trentingham was always happiest when matchmaking. She didn’t care whether the couples were royalty or servants, so long as—thanks to her—two people were finding true love.
“Do you think so?” Harriet’s fingers fumbled with the ribbons as a wistful expression unfocused her pale green eyes.
Rose had never thought of Harriet as pining for romance. Harriet was just Harriet, a sturdy girl with frizzy red hair and a wide face full of freckles.
But now that face had gone soft and dreamy. “How I would love to fall in love,” the maid sighed.
“I shall keep that in mind,” Mum promised her.
“There, Lady Trentingham, you’re finished,” her own maid Anne said. “And you look wonderful, too. As for Harriet,” she added, aiming a wink at the girl, ”my lady will find you someone special to love.”
Anne’s husband had been a coachman at the Liddington estate before Mum’s ministrations brought the pair together. Now they both resided happily at Trentingham, and so far they had produced one boisterous stableboy-in-training and a darling little chambermaid-to-be.
Mum stood and smoothed her peach silk skirts, looking to Rose. “Come along, dear. Do you mean to make us late?”
Though a retort danced on the tip of Rose’s tongue, she clamped her mouth shut and leapt to her feet. As she followed her mother across the Upper Ward, excitement churned in the pit of her stomach.
She was about to meet the king and queen of England.
When they reached the open courtyard called Horn Court, where two red-and-white liveried footmen stood guard at the door, she paused and pulled a curl forward to rest artfully on one shoulder. Her breath was coming short, and it had little to do with the rigid stomacher that stiffened the front of her bodice.
“Shall we?” Mum asked, gesturing toward the door.
One of the footmen pulled it open.
To Rose’s disappointment, the monarchs weren’t waiting right inside. Instead, she followed her mother into a tall, wide hall that held nothing but a staircase. But what a staircase. “Oooh,” she breathed. “It’s beautiful!”
“It’s in the French style,” Mum whispered back. “While exiled on the Continent, King Charles was much taken with Versailles.”
French or English, Rose thought the staircase was magnificent. Twin flights of steps rose to their right and left, meeting at a central landing above. The rooms they had been given here were rather ancient, with plain plastered walls, but these walls were covered in colorful painted murals depicting Greeks and Trojans. Giants battled on the deeply coved ceiling that towered over her head.
As Rose climbed the steps, carefully holding her skirts, she felt very small and insignificant. She supposed that was the desired effect. Even here, outside his chambers, the king would want to project strength and power.
At the top of the stairs, she held her breath while another liveried footman opened another door.
But she was disappointed again. Beyond lay an enormous rectangular room with no furniture—and no king or queen, either. A handful of courtiers stood in little clusters, absorbed in low, murmured conversations.
Rose’s and Mum’s high-heeled shoes made clicking sounds
