by Lauren Royal
“I’m thinking to take Rose to court at Windsor. With your permission, of course,” she rushed to add, knowing he would never deny her.
“Court? Do you expect that’s wise? The men there—”
“I’ll watch her like a hawk. And rest assured, there’s not a man at court I want for Rose. She belongs with Kit Martyn. He’s at Windsor as we sleep, checking on a project—”
“Kit Martyn? Chrysanthemum my love, I know you fancy yourself a matchmaker, but Rose has shown no interest—”
“Which is exactly why he’s the perfect man for her.”
Joseph lifted his head and searched her eyes in the dim, flickering light from the fire. “Come again?”
“You know how she is. As soon as she sets her sights on a man, the act begins. The flirting. The flattering. Don’t you see? She has a much better chance of winning a man she thinks she doesn’t want. With Kit she’ll be herself. Charming, intelligent, sharp-witted….why, he cannot fail but fall in love with her.”
“I suspect he’s taken with her already,” Joseph said dryly. “But what good will that do if she doesn’t fall for him? We’ve promised her she can choose her own husband.”
“Making her fall,” Chrystabel said, “will be Kit’s problem, and I’ve no doubt he’s up to the task. I need only provide the opportunity.”
“You cannot push, Chrysanthemum.”
Her laugh tinkled through the darkness. “I would never. I know full well our daughters pledged to avoid me arranging their marriages. Yet I managed to match both Violet and Lily without either being the wiser, didn’t I? Have no fear, darling—Rose’s romance will follow suit. And she’ll have no idea I was behind it.”
FIVE
KIT STOOD in a corner of Windsor Castle’s soon-to-be new dining room, watching two carpenters affix carvings of fruit to the paneled wall. The piece, exquisitely worked by Grinling Gibbons, was made of the finest wood.
He wished he could say the same for the rest of his project.
His gaze went to the sagging ceiling on the side of the room that had recently been part of a brick courtyard. Jagged cracks ran this way and that, and bits of broken plaster littered the floor underneath. On his orders, men were hastily erecting scaffolding to support the damaged ceiling until it could be repaired from above.
All day, Kit had measured and figured, tearing out parts of the ceiling to search for causes, to find where his planning had gone wrong. It hadn’t, he’d finally discovered—the plans had been perfect. That was, if they’d been executed with the fine materials he’d used in his calculations.
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 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 looks French,” Chrystabel whispered back. “While exiled on the Continent, King Charles was much taken with Versailles.”
French or English, Rose thought the staircase was lovely. 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 the door lay an enormous rectangular room with no furniture—and no king or queen, either. A few lords and ladies stood in little clusters, absorbed in softly murmured conversations.
Rose’s and Chrystabel’s high-heeled shoes made clicking sounds on the planked floor as they crossed the chamber. Rose huffed out a sigh. “Where are the king and queen?”
“We’re getting there, dear. This is the Guard Chamber.”
As though she couldn’t have guessed. Military trophies covered every inch of the walls: helmets and drums, shields and armor, guns and lancets, swords and knives. “Are there any weapons left for the army?” she whispered.
Mum’s laugh broke the hush of the chamber. “I certainly hope so!” She met Rose’s gaze, her brown eyes glittering. “It’s an impressive display, but all the same, I expect we’re still well defended.”
The painted ceiling featured Jupiter and Juno seated on thrones at either end. In the center, a glassed octagonal opening provided a view of the stars and, Rose imagined, a great splash of natural light in the daytime.
Reaching the door at the far end, Chrystabel paused. “Lady Trentingham and Lady Rose Ashcroft,” she announced, her voice laced with quiet dignity.
Finally. As one of the six guards bowed and opened the door, Rose lifted her burgundy satin skirts.
But the room beyond was deserted, save for an usher at the far end.
“What’s this?” Rose demanded.
“The King’s Presence Chamber.” Chrystabel curtsied in front of the magnificent red velvet throne, taking Rose’s hand to make certain she did, too.
Thinking it the most ridiculous thing she’d ever done, Rose frowned as she straightened. “Despite the name of the chamber, the king,” she said pointedly, nodding toward the empty throne, “does not seem to be present.”
“Come along,” her mother said with a half-concealed smile.
Rose looked to the heavens for patience, seeing instead a painted ceiling where Mercury was presenting a portrait of the king to the four corners of the world.
She was beginning to think all this decoration might be a tad overdone.
A red-and-white-garbed usher grandly opened the next door. By now, Rose wasn’t expecting to see Their Majesties on the other side. In fact, she figured that at this rate she might be a wrinkled old crone by the time she actually met them.
“The Audience Chamber,” Chrystabel intoned softly. “You’ll curtsy to this empty throne as well.” She glided toward the canopied seat. “Charles does sit here to receive visitors in the daytime.”
“Does he never sit in the other throne?”
“That throne is only symbolic, dear. Ceremonial.”
Rose had been sure she’d find the court’s pageantry intriguing and exciting, but in truth, it all seemed a little silly!
The next chamber made her jaw drop open, and it had nothing to do with the gaudy decorations—or even the spectacular clothing and jewels that adorned all the people milling about.
Unable to avert her gaze, she drifted slowly through the room by her mother’s side. There, in that dark corner, a woman sat sprawled on a man’s lap, her head thrown back in laughter. Across the chamber, a fluttering curtain left the distinct impression that action of some sort was going on behind it.
Nearby, another couple was kissing. No, more than kissing. Rose squinted, wishing there were more chandeliers overhead, or that those yeomen holding flaming torches would move closer to…
Gemini!
Her eyes widened. The woman’s stomacher was unfastened down one side, hanging drunkenly, and the laces beneath were undone, and—oh, dear!—the man had his hand—
His gaze met Rose’s for a moment. Or at least she thought it had—she couldn’t be sure, given how quickly she shifted to focus on the ceiling overhead. But the painting above did nothing to erase the shocking-but-intriguing mental picture. There, the painted Charles rode in a chariot surrounded by naked angels, just as the real Charles was apparently surrounded by naked—
“Come along, dear. We’re about to be announced.”
“Announced?” She’d been so shocked, she hadn’t even realized she’d finally made it to the chamber where Their Majesties waited.
Rose had always considered herself unshockable, but quite suddenly she felt like an innocent country mouse. Father had been right all along, she thought. Court was no place for a well-bred young lady.
Good thing she wasn’t so young anymore.
The couple in front of her bowed and curtsied and moved out of the way, and she found herself approaching a red-canopied dais.
“Lady Trentingham!” the stuffy usher called. “Lady Rose Ashcroft!” Rose held out her satin skirts—so plain compared to the jewel-encrusted gowns of the other ladies—and dropped into a deep curtsy. When she came up, she aimed a smile at King Charles, a bit startled to find that he seemed to be an ordinary human being.
She’d seen paintings, of course, but of a younger man, and somehow not such a real one. The king was forty-seven now, and a bit of gray-streaked hair peeked out from beneath his long, curled black periwig. His dark eyes were as sharp as ever, though—or at least as sharp as Rose had always heard. They swept her from head to toe, a gaze both approving and more than a bit lascivious.
Well, he was known for that.
In contrast, Queen Catharine’s eyes were a warm, liquid brown. She wasn’t a beauty, but her appearance wasn’t displeasing, either—she looked sad, and a little world-weary.
After fifteen years of marriage, she had yet to present her husband with a child.
Standing before Catharine, Rose mimicked what her mother was doing with Charles and lifted the queen’s hand to press a kiss to the back.
She was rewarded with a smile. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Catharine told her in flowing, Portuguese-accented English.
“The pleasure is mine,” Rose returned sincerely. Really, she couldn’t imagine why her sisters had gone all fluttery over the prospect of meeting the monarchs. They were just people!
She switched sides with her mother and bent her lips to the king’s hand.
He surprised her by gripping her fingers. “You’re as lovely as your mother.”
Chry
stabel blushed. Rose grinned at Charles. “Your reputation is well deserved, Your Majesty.”
Still holding her hand, he grinned back. “My reputation, my dear?”
“As a ladies’ man.”
Chrystabel gasped. When Charles threw back his head and laughed, Rose shot her a victorious smile.
Charles glanced around the room. “It seems you’re the last to be presented,” he said, not looking at all displeased about that. “Would you honor me with a dance?”
Now it was Rose’s turn to gasp. She knew the protocol was for ladies to ask His Majesty to dance, not the opposite. Feeling light-headed, she curtsied again. “It would be my honor, Sire.”
“The second dance, then,” he said, rising from his throne. He held out a hand to Catharine, and she rose as well and allowed him to guide her to the dance floor, the jewels on her gorgeous lavender gown twinkling as she moved.
The incessant chatter in the room ceased as everyone turned to watch the king and queen dance the first dance. Rose drifted to join the small crowd that surrounded the dance floor, hugging herself with excitement. After the king danced with her, surely other men would want to do the same. Maybe one of them would end up her husband.
In fact, before the first dance even ended, she felt a light tap on her shoulder and turned to see a handsome specimen. The man was tall and fair, his clothing dripping with lace, his manner oozing aristocracy.
He struck a pose, one hand resting lightly on the jeweled hilt of his court sword, the other on the head of his high, beribboned walking stick. “Lady Trentingham, may I have the honor of an introduction?”
Rose wasn’t surprised the gentleman knew her mother’s name. Mum was known far and wide as an amateur matchmaker—and a very successful one, at that. Could the request for an introduction mean he was looking to find a wife?
Chrystabel laid a hand on Rose’s arm. “Lord Rosslyn, may I present Lady Rose Ashcroft. My daughter,” she added meaningfully. “Rose, this is the Earl of Rosslyn. And how is your wife, my lord?” she asked in pointed tone.