Rose

by Lauren Royal

  “Saw him not an hour ago,” another man volunteered through nails held between his teeth. “At the Old King’s Head on Church Street.”

  Better news yet. Kit thanked the men for a job well done, then hied himself off to Church Street, feeling more optimistic than he had in days.

  As he strode through the castle grounds, his thoughts turned to Rose and what had happened last night in the square. Lord Almighty, she’d made him all but lose his head. He’d never been with a woman so forward, or so responsive.

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t at all sure she was as ready to surrender mentally as she was physically.

  “Good afternoon, Richards,” he said to the guard this time.

  “Afternoon,” the man returned with a gap-toothed smile.

  Within sight of the castle gates, The Old King’s Head was a typical inn—a few chambers above a darkly paneled taproom. It was known as the place a group of Parliamentarians met in 1648 to resolve that King Charles I “should be prosecuted for his life as a criminal person.” One would think the current King Charles, the beheaded king’s son, would avoid the street, but the opposite was true. His favorite mistress, the “pretty, witty Nell Gwyn,” owned the house next door, where she stayed—and he paid nocturnal visits—whenever the court was lodged at Windsor.

  But the king had moved to Hampton Court, so enchanting Nelly wasn’t here now. Kit could only hope Washburn still was.

  He pushed open the door and scanned the dim taproom. Few patrons sat at the long wooden tables this quiet afternoon, and the man Kit sought was nowhere to be seen.

  “Can I get you something, milord?” A buxom blond serving maid sidled up to him, eyeing him appreciatively. “Mayhap an ale…or something else?”

  Her expression made clear the “something else” involved herself, but Kit wasn’t interested. “I’m looking for Harold Washburn.”

  “Ah, His High and Mighty.” The girl rolled her pretty blue eyes. “He’s staying above.” She gestured up a staircase. “Shakespeare’s chamber, no less.”

  It was said the Bard had lived here while writing The Merry Wives of Windsor. Kit wasn’t sure he believed that, but he was sure the inn charged a pretty penny for the room purported to be the playwright’s.

  Washburn had apparently come up in the world. He must have embezzled even more money than Kit had feared. Money that would be coming straight out of Kit’s pocket.

  He saw red again as he took the stairs two at a time.

  “Wait, milord!” the serving maid called, lifting her skirts to run after him. “You cannot just go up there!”

  Try and stop me, he thought as he reached the top and began pounding on the first door. “Washburn! Are you in there?” When nobody answered, he tested the latch and found the room open and empty.

  He strode to the next, rapping so hard he bruised his knuckles. It was a welcome pain, one that fueled his emotions higher. “Washburn!”

  The serving maid caught up and tugged on his arm. “Milord, the proprietor—”

  “A pox on the proprietor!” Shaking himself free, he opened the door. Finding this room vacant as well, he moved on, banging his fist against the next. “Washburn!”

  A loud, startled squeal came from inside. A female squeal. And then Washburn’s voice, a low hiss. “Shut your trap, you damnable wench.”

  For the costliest room in the house, Shakespeare’s chamber sure had a thin door.

  Kit tried the latch and found the door locked. “Washburn, open up!”

  Again, the serving maid tugged on his sleeve. “Milord, you cannot—”

  “I can, my dear. Watch me.” His patience at an end, Kit raised a booted foot and rammed it into the door.

  It gave incredibly easily, slamming back against the wall and making the cheap porcelain knickknacks dance on Shakespeare’s marble mantel. Another squeal followed, snapping Kit’s gaze to the gaudy purple velvet–draped bed, where a blowzy woman sat straight up, the counterpane held to her bosom.

  An obviously naked bosom. And beside her, Washburn wore nothing but the evidence of a day-old beard. Sweat gleamed on his bald head. The tiny red veins on his oversized nose seemed to pulse. Huddled under the covers, he looked, if possible, even more horrified than the doxy. Under other circumstances, Kit might have burst out laughing.

  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 wel
l.

  “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 baby?

  Unable to wrap his mind around that fact, he fell back onto the chair.

  “Good God,” Rose said, putting her hands to her cheeks and looking entirely unRoselike. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tell you like that. It must be a terrible shock.”

  “You could say that.” He rubbed his face. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  She sat in the chair next to his and angled to face him. “She said she couldn’t. That she couldn’t bear to see the look on your face. Your disappointment.” She put a hand on his. “She loves you.”

  “She says she loves Whittingham.”

  “Him, too.” Apprehension flooded her eyes. He watched her swallow hard. “Kit, I think you should know…”

  “What?” he asked. Whatever it was couldn’t be worse than what he’d already learned.

  “Well, rather than disappoint you, she tried to rid herself of the child.”

  He couldn’t have heard right. “She what?”

  “She took pennyroyal, hoping to bring on her courses. I caught her in time, in the act, and made her bring it back up. Can’t you see that this changes everything? What you wanted for your sister doesn’t matter anymore. Her fate is out of your hands.”

  The second half of what she’d said had been lost on him, so appalled was he by the first. “Pennyroyal?” he echoed.

  “A midwife told her pennyroyal tea can stimulate the menses. But she used one of my mother’s essential oils. They’re a hundred times or more stronger than the herbs—it was likely to take her life along with the child’s.”

  His heart hammering, Kit came halfway off the chair.

  She leapt from hers and pushed him back down, looking desperate. “Good God, I said it all wrong again.” Her hands on his shoulders, her dark eyes held his captive. “The doctor said she’s well, and she wasn’t aware of the risks, Kit. I’m certain of it. She thought it would be just like the tea.”

  Did he know his sister at all? “Does she not trust me even a little?” That hurt. “That she would do this rather than disappoint me?”

  “She wasn’t thinking of it that way. She wasn’t thinking at all.”

  “Even so, how could she? How could she kill her child?”

  Rose winced. “Please don’t judge her so harshly. She’s hurting and confused. Women rid themselves of unwanted children all the time, for all sorts of reasons.”

  “Ellen has no good reason.” His heart was finally slowing. Apparently the danger had passed. “How could she not know I would love her child? This is my sister and my niece or nephew.”

  “I know,” she said softly.

  Guilt was a vise squeezing his chest. He’d almost lost his sister, his only family. The one person he’d vowed to protect at all costs.

  If it hadn’t been for Rose…

  She’d saved his sister. Because she was good, because she was caring, because there was a heroic person hiding inside this exasperating woman who insisted she wanted a duke.

  His throat tightened, and something twisted around his heart—an unwelcome thrill laced with a flicker of fear. He reached to gather her onto his lap, wrapped his arms around her, and buried his nose in her rose-scented hair.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, afraid he’d just fallen in love.

  Lust was one thing, love quite another. It scared him to death. He’d wanted her before, yes. Wanted her for her beauty, her refreshing forthright nature, her family’s position in society, her intelligence, her sheer suitability as a wife. And, of course, because she’d made him hotter than the sun in August from the first time he’d laid eyes on her.

  But suddenly he wanted her in an entirely different way. The want had turned into need.

  He’d been determined to make her fall in love with him, but he hadn’t expected to fall himself. What would he do now if she wouldn’t agree to be his?

  Feeling his throat tighten more, he pressed his lips to the top of her head.

  “You must let them marry,” she said quietly. “If you have even a glimmer of an idea what they feel for each other, you cannot deny them.”

  He had a glimmer, all right. A sudden new glimmer that was frightening as hell. And he loved his sister, and—already—her unborn child. Rose was right: everything had changed, and he hadn’t the will left to deny Ellen and her baby loves of their own.

  As long as he could make sure Thomas Whittingham loved them back.

  He motioned to the marquetry desk. “Is there paper and quill in there?”

  “Yes.” Rose slanted him a look. “Why?”

  “I wish to write a letter.”

  Her expression made clear she didn’t consider that much of an answer.

  “Trust me,” he added. “And fetch Ellen, please.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  KIT’S SISTER looked pale, wan, and frightened when she walked in.

  He silently handed her his hastily scribbled missive. As she scanned the single page, her eyes widened. A soft gasp escaped her lips.

  “What is it?” Rose asked.

  “A letter to Thomas.” Ellen looked up at Kit. “You’re…you’re allowing our marriage?”

  “Demanding it,” Kit corrected. “On one condition.”

  She swallowed hard, clutching the paper against her middle. “What?”

  His gaze flicked down, but there was no sign of her pregnancy. It was too early, he supposed. He might suspect her of fibbing to get her way, but he seriously doubted she’d have risked poisoning herself if she wasn’t actually with child.

  “Why?” he asked suddenly. “Why did you try to rid yourself of it?”

  Her eyes filled. “I don’t know. I think…I was confused.” She brought her other hand to cover the first. “It seemed as though this child growing in
side me had stolen my options—that I needed more time to persuade you, and I feared your wrath, and—” She stared at the floor. “It was wrong, wasn’t it? Very, very wrong.”

  “Yes.” Watching a teardrop fall to the polished wood, Kit stepped forward to wrap her in his arms. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”

  “I’m sorry,” she sniffed against his chest.

  “Don’t you know how much I love you?”

  Her arms tightened around him as she raised her tearstained face. “I guess I forgot. I thought only about how angry you’d have been if you’d known.”

  “Had I known, Ellen, I might have been disappointed—I am disappointed—but I wouldn’t have kept you from wedding your child’s father. And I won’t. What’s done is done. I wanted more for you, but you’ve narrowed my options. Unless—”

  “What?” She pulled away. “What is this condition?”

  He met her gaze, hardening his heart against the tears. “You’ll find out soon enough.” He turned to Rose. “Can you send a rider to Windsor to deliver this letter to Whittingham? And an extra horse so they can both ride back. I left my carriage at Whitehall, and it’s too slow in any case.”

  She looked between him and his sister. “Of course.”

  “Good,” he said to her, and to Ellen, “I will see you wed today.”

  Both women stared at him incredulously. Rose spoke for the two. “They cannot marry today!”

  “Tonight, then. However long it takes Whittingham to show up, we’ll wait.”

  “Banns must be called—it will take weeks. Either that, or Thomas will have to obtain a special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

  “Have you never heard of a privileged church? There are two, I believe, directly outside the City walls. Places where a man and a woman can marry without posting banns, without a license. Without waiting.”

  “That doesn’t sound legal,” Rose said doubtfully.

  “They claim they’re outside the jurisdiction of the Bishop of London and can therefore make their own rules.” He shrugged. “The marriages stand, and that’s good enough for me. I wish I could remember at least one of their names…ah, yes. St. Trinity, in the Minories.” He turned to his sister. “I was hoping to see you wed in a cathedral, but a privileged church will have to do.”