But these weren’t other circumstances.
“I swear,” he gritted out, “by God and all that is holy, if you set fire to one more of my projects—”
“What fire?” Washburn squeaked, sounding more pathetic than the whore.
“In the Chapel Royal at Whitehall,” Kit spat, moving closer. “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 the doxy in the process. She squealed again and slid off the mattress to cower 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 damn well didn’t set it.”
Something in the man’s dark eyes gave Kit pause. “Where were you four days ago?”
“Here,” Washburn snapped.
“And what fine, upstanding citizen can you find to vouch for that?”
The ex-foreman swung to glare at his woman. “Me,” the doxy squeaked, peeking over the edge of the bed.
Kit snorted. “You think me maggot-brained 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.
“Him.” Pointing at Washburn, she nervously licked her lips. “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 lifted her chin so he could meet her big blue eyes. “Do you swear?” When she nodded fiercely, he turned back to Washburn. “You hired someone to do it for you, then.”
“I’m not an arsonist, Martyn.”
“No, just a liar and a thief.” Kit’s breath was still coming hard, but damn if he wasn’t beginning to believe the bastard. The serving maid seemed too honest, and Washburn seemed too shocked.
Without another word, Kit turned on a heel and headed for the stairs, gripping the piece of brick in his pocket as he fought to regain his composure. Though Washburn might be innocent, he felt no need to apologize. Perhaps Shakespeare would have summoned fine words, but Kit couldn’t—and to his mind, the man didn’t deserve them anyway.
THIRTY-SEVEN
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 steepled 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 kisses. “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 unsteepled his fingers and crossed his arms instead. “I haven’t changed my mind.”
Something else had changed instead. But Rose hoped to persuade him without revealing Ellen’s secret. That would not only be easier for Ellen, but also for him as well.
“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 man does for a living? He’s a good man, Kit. 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 succeeded in persuading him.
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 placed her hands behind her for support. “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, sweetheart?”
Though he was too close to see it, he heard her nervous swallow. “We’re talking about Ellen.”
“Not anymore.” He bent his head, angled his mouth. Her warm, sweet breath teased his lips.
Her eyes closed, and a little mewing sound rose up from her throat. Blindly she raised her hands and rested them on his chest. They seemed 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’s carrying his child.”
He stumbled back, not from the force of her shove, but from the impact of her words.
His baby sister was having a
