But Harold Washburn, his project’s foreman, had apparently not seen fit to order those materials, no matter that he’d been supplied with the funds. Instead, the new portion of the room had been built with inferior goods that weren’t strong enough to support the ceiling. Kit had found beams made of wormy wood that had obviously been hit by lightning, weakening it; and cheap, substandard plaster that might look fine on first inspection, but wouldn’t hold up over the years, sagging ceiling or not.
And Washburn, no doubt, had pocketed the savings. Making Kit look the fool.
Calculations in hand, he stalked toward the bald, dark-eyed man. “Washburn!”
The man swung around, his beady gaze hooded. “Aye, Martyn? Have you a plan to repair the faulty addition?”
“Faulty?” Seething, Kit struggled to keep his temper in check. “The only thing faulty is the material you purchased to build it—which isn’t anywhere near the quality in my specifications.”
Washburn had the gall to pretend shock. “Sir! I would never—”
“Never again for me, at any rate,” Kit interrupted. He gestured with his rolled-up sketches. “Be gone.”
The man’s breath huffed in and out through a large nose crisscrossed with tiny red veins. “You cannot just dismiss me,” he snapped.
“Lord Almighty, you’re a nithing half-wit. The damn ceiling could have fallen on your good-for-nothing head. You’re lucky I’m only dismissing you.”
To Kit’s astonishment, Washburn simply shouldered past him and walked away.
Was it Kit’s imagination, or did the man actually look smug?
Kit consciously unclenched his jaw, reaching for the scrap of brick he usually carried in his surcoat 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 problem had resolved more quickly than he’d any right to expect.
He took a deep breath, promoted a grateful man to take Washburn’s place, then headed to the small chamber he’d been given to use as an office, revamping 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. But this particular one wouldn’t cost him the Deputy Surveyor post.
It would take a much bigger problem to destroy Kit Martyn’s plans.
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 allowed inside, even if we’re late.”
With all the last minute preparations, they’d left home today much later than they’d planned. Chrystabel 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 huge castle as a warden showed them by torchlight to their small apartments.
“I don’t want to be late,” Rose complained. Beneath burgundy 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.” Chrystabel 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 suspected 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 might meet a new man, too,” Mum told Harriet, a familiar light coming into her brown eyes. Chrystabel 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 their lifelong mates.
“Do you think so?” Harriet’s fingers fumbled with the ribbons as she breathed a romantic sigh.
Rose had never thought of Harriet as pining for marriage. Harriet was just Harriet, a sturdy girl with frizzy red hair and pale green eyes in a wide face full of freckles.
But now those eyes went dreamy. “I would so love to fall in love.”
“I shall keep that in mind,” Chrystabel promised her.
“There, Lady Trentingham, you’re finished,” her own maid Anne said. “And you look pretty, too. As for you,” she added to Harriet, “my lady will find you a special man to love.”
Four years earlier, Chrystabel had successfully matched Anne with a coachman from the Liddington estate. Today, they both lived happily at Trentingham, and so far they had produced one little future chambermaid and a tiny stableboy-to-be.
Chrystabel stood and smoothed her peach silk skirts, looking to Rose. “Come along, dear. What’s taking you so long?”
Though a retort hung on the tip of Rose’s tongue, she kept her mouth shut and followed her mother from the lodging. As they crossed 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 bare shoulder. Her breath was coming short, and it had little to do with the rigid, pointed stomacher that stiffened the front of her bodice.
“Shall we?” Chrystabel asked, gesturing toward the door.
One of the footmen pulled it open.
To
