“When Thomas builds his shop on the Strand, it will be modern, too.”
Thomas again. Of course. Taking Ellen’s arm, Kit helped her into the waiting carriage with a little more force than was 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 pawnbroker 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-TWO
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.” Chrystabel smiled as she lifted her goblet, looking pleased the Martyn siblings had come at all.
Rose couldn’t figure why her mother had taken such an interest in these commoners, but she supposed it wasn’t out of character. After all, she did “introductions” for servants. Mum might have married into the Ashcroft family, but their motto, Question Convention, described her to a T.
Chrystabel 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 fire?”
Kit met her gaze, his eyes looking more green than brown. “A dishonest man like Washburn is the type to take revenge, and sabotaging another of my projects is effective revenge, indeed.”
She sipped from her goblet, half expecting to taste champagne instead of the sweet Rhenish wine.
“This artichoke pudding is delicious,” Ellen said with a hum of delight. “Almost worth delaying my return to Windsor.”
“I’m so glad you’re enjoying it.” Chrystabel poured more wine. “I’d be happy to teach you how to make it.”
Ellen’s eyes widened. “Would you? I don’t know how to cook at all.”
“No? How is that?”
“I was but six when my mother died. While Kit was in school and university and I lived with Lady St. Vincent, I wasn’t even allowed in the kitchen. And since then I’ve lived with Kit…”
Without brushing Rose this time, Kit set down his fork. “My sister has no need of cooking. When she marries, she’ll have an army of servants to prepare her meals.”
“Not if you won’t give me my dowry,” Ellen said darkly.
Chrystabel looked between them. “Preparing a few special dishes can be a joy,” she told Kit carefully. “No matter whether one has a staff in the kitchen. Most every lady has a number of signature recipes.”
“I would love to learn how to cook this,” Ellen said. “It was very kind of you to offer, Lady Trentingham.”
Chrystabel smiled. “We shall have to plan another visit soon.”
“May we?” Ellen asked her brother.
“Perhaps sooner than you think.” Kit cleared his throat, sweeping both Chrystabel and Rose with a glance. “I hesitate to presume upon our acquaintance, but I’m wondering if Ellen might stay here with you for a day or two while I take care of my business in Windsor.”
“No!” his sister burst out.
Seeing the determined set of Kit’s jaw, Rose turned to Ellen with a smile. “It could be fun. We could visit the shops at the Royal Exchange, and you could come along to my fittings. Maybe Kit would allow you to order a new gown.”
“Two,” he offered quickly, obviously willing to placate his sister.
Ellen’s eyes narrowed. “The only new gown I need is one for my wedding to Thomas.”
Kit’s eyes blazed.
“I could teach you how to cook,” Chrystabel put in before he could open his mouth. “We could start tonight.”
“I’m lea—”
“You’re staying here,” Kit said.
If looks could kill, Rose thought, his sister would be dead as the chicken on the platter.
Ellen apparently knew when to give up. She swallowed hard and put down her fork. “You’re very kind,” she told Chrystabel in a voice devoid of emotion. “Unlike my brother.”
A strained silence stretched between the siblings. Before more hurtful words could be spoken, Rose turned to Kit and tried to distract him. “I’ve seen what you’re doing at Windsor, but tell me about Whitehall.”
“It’s a small project, just a new altar for the Chapel Royal.” He took a bracing swallow of wine. “It’s not my design. Here is Wren’s sketch.”
