The Gentleman's Scandalous Bride

by Lauren Royal

  Mum squeezed her shoulder. “Perhaps,” she added, “we can have Kit and Ellen to supper, since they’ll be in London, too.”

  “That would be nice,” Kit said with polite impatience, “assuming I can leave the project. Assuming there’s still a project to leave. Now, we must be off. Excuse us, please.”

  As she watched him herd his sister out the door, Rose realized he hadn’t even taken Ellen to task for escaping to the pawnshop this morning.

  He had to be very worried indeed.

  THIRTY

  THREE DAYS later, Ellen strode into Whitehall’s Chapel Royal. “I’m ready, Kit.”

  Kit swept the newly framed altar with one more glance before turning to his sister. “You’re all packed?”

  “Yes. My maid is seeing everything brought to the carriage. How about you? You’ve spent two solid days in this chapel. Have you eaten? Slept? Are your things all packed?”

  “I have enough at the house in Windsor,” he said, neatly evading her other questions. If he needed to forgo food and rest to accomplish his goals, so be it. What he didn’t need was Ellen nagging him.

  She bent to scoop up some wood scraps and toss them onto a pile. “I’m so glad we’re returning to Windsor.”

  Reaching into his pocket, Kit touched the heavy vellum invitation that had arrived yesterday, a gracious request from Lady Trentingham to join her and her daughter for supper. If his plans worked out, Ellen wouldn’t be returning to Windsor, but he wouldn’t argue with her now. “I thought you loved staying here at Whitehall, where you can pretend you’re a fine courtier.”

  “I loved it before I loved Thomas. Now I know that was only a childish game.”

  Evening was falling, and he’d dismissed his crew for the day, so he picked up the last of the tools himself. “It’s not a game, Ellen,” he said as he put them into a crate. “You could be that woman.”

  “I don’t want to be that woman. I want to be Thomas’s woman.”

  He bit back a retort, preferring to savor a good day’s work. The situation here at Whitehall hadn’t been as bad as he’d feared. Although the fire had destroyed the half-built altar, the building had remained intact. Yesterday he’d hired extra men—triple his original crew—and procured new materials. The progress today had been gratifying, surpassing his revamped schedule. Save for elusive bits of ash and the lingering scent of burnt wood, all evidence of the fire was gone, and the new altar was framed already.

  Disaster had been averted again. But he didn’t like the way things were going. The continued mishaps were reflecting poorly on him, and now he’d been forced to leave the Windsor project in a fragile state. He was anxious to return and ensure that the work remained on course. Even a small setback now could prove to be the feather that would break the horse’s back.

  But first, he had other matters to attend to: tonight, a visit with Rose, and tomorrow, a visit of a far less pleasant kind.

  Kit had found no clear cause of the fire, as he had of the dining room’s sagging ceiling. But he suspected something foul was afoot, and there was only one man he’d made an enemy of in recent memory: Harold Washburn, the foreman he’d fired at Windsor. Kit intended to seek out the old cur. And he preferred not to have his sister along to distract him. Not there at the scene and not at his house in Windsor, either—for he knew better than to believe she’d stay meekly at home. Not with the wretched pawnbroker so close.

  Kit wasn’t the sort of man to lock his sister in a guarded bedchamber, even for her own good. Sometimes he cursed himself for that weakness.

  He folded the drawing of the new altar and slipped it into his pocket, then rolled the rest of the plans and tucked them under one arm. “Let’s go. Lady Trentingham will be waiting.”

  Since the king and his followers were lodged at Hampton Court, Whitehall Palace was quiet. They exited into a large, grassy courtyard, their footfalls crunching on the gravel path as they followed it toward the gate. “I don’t like traveling late at night. There could be highwaymen.” Ellen pouted. “Can’t we just go straight to Windsor?”

  Kit heard: Can’t we just go straight to Thomas? “It would be rude to refuse Lady Trentingham’s invitation. Besides, don’t you want to see Rose?”

  “You want to see Rose.”

  “So what if I do?”

  “She’ll never be yours. Can’t you see, Kit? Your winning her is as unrealistic as your wanting me to marry a title.”

  “Who said I want to win her?”

  She snorted. “You look at her the same way Thomas looks at me.”

  He didn’t like to think of any fellow looking that way at his sister. “If I’m appointed Deputy Surveyor, perhaps I’ll soon be Sir Christopher Martyn.”

  “Is that what you’re counting on? It won’t change you.”

  “Exactly my point. I’m good enough for anyone now, and so are you. But you cannot argue that perception makes all the difference, and a change in rank will affect how outsiders look at us both.”

  “I don’t care what outsiders think. I care only about Thomas.”

  Every discussion with Ellen was circular—back around to Thomas. Kit counted to ten, and then, as they crunched past the Banqueting House, changed the subject. “I wish I’d built that.”

  “It’s pretty,” she conceded. “But considering the rest of the palace is so old, it stands out like a sore thumb.”

  “Inigo Jones designed it with a basilica in mind.” He nodded a greeting to the guard at the gate. “I heard the construction costs ran to more than fifteen thousand pounds. I believe it was the first modern building in all of London.”

  “When Thomas builds his shop on the Strand, it will be modern, too.”

  Thomas, Thomas, Thomas. Taking Ellen’s arm, Kit helped her into the waiting carriage with a little more force than 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 scoundrel 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-ONE

  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.” Mum smiled as she lifted her goblet, looking pleased the Martyn siblings had come at all.

  As Rose served herself a tansy—a sweet omelet flavored with tansy juice—she wondered why Mum had taken such an interest in these commoners. But then she supposed it wasn’t out of character for her mother. After all, the woman did “introductions” for servants. She might be an Ashcroft by marriage rather than blood, but their family motto, Question Convention, described her to a T.

>   Mum 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.” Mum poured more wine. “I’d be happy to teach you how to make it.”

  The girl paused with a forkful of tansy halfway to her lips. “Oh, would you? I don’t know how to cook at all.”

  “No? How is that?”

  Ellen chewed and swallowed. ”I was but four 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.

  Mum looked between them. “Preparing a few special dishes can be a joy,” she told Kit carefully. “No matter whether one has 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.”

  Mum 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 Rose and her mother 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,” Mum 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 Mum 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.” Setting down his goblet, he dug a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her.

  The drawing showed not only the architectural detail but also an elevation complete with an altar cloth, alms dish, candlesticks, candles, and books. The lovely columns, carving, and molding looked much more modern than she supposed the rest of Whitehall to be. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Can you see the original Tudor window behind?” When he leaned close, touching a finger to the sketch, she smelled frankincense and Kit. “Wren designed this to be the same width, so the two would appear harmonious together.”

  Mum reached for the drawing and nodded. “Why didn’t he build it himself?”

  Kit waved a hand. “He has far more important projects. Besides, I’ve a suspicion King Charles wanted to see me spread thin. Projects at Windsor, Whitehall, and Hampton Court all at once…plus my own. It’s a test, you understand? If I can complete all three of the Crown’s projects successfully, and on time, he will know he’s found the right Deputy Surveyor.”

  “And the fire threatened this deadline,” Rose said.

  “Seriously. But fortunately it’s a small project, and the damage could have been worse. I hope to overcome my bad luck a second time.”

  He was still tense, his answers clipped, his gaze settling too often on his sister. Rose tried again. “Hampton Court is a larger project, isn’t it?”

  “The largest of the three. A whole new building. Apartments for the Duchess of Cleveland—”

  “The king’s longtime mistress,” Ellen interrupted, apparently having recovered some spirit. Derision laced her voice. “He is allowed to be with whoever he wants.”

  “He married where he was advised to.” Kit turned to his sister with a lethal raised brow. “If you wish to take Thomas as a lover after you wed a peer, I suppose I cannot prevent you.”

  Ellen made a noise of outrage. Her brother stabbed another bite of chicken. Rose shifted on her petit-point seat, exchanging a look with her mother.

  Kit must be at the very limit of his forbearance to say such things to his sister, even in obvious jest. Rose and her own siblings squabbled, of course, but they rarely harbored true animosity. She wished these two would get along. “Is King Charles wanting large apartments for the duchess?” she asked delicately.

  He chewed and swallowed. “Larger than my house. He wishes their five children to have rooms there as well. I’m certain he’ll be scrutinizing this project most of all.”

  “Did Wren do those plans, too?”

  “No, I did. Top to bottom, start to finish, the building is mine. Thankfully, nothing has gone wrong with it.”

  “Yet,” Ellen said.

  He set his jaw. “When I’m finished with Harold Washburn, he won’t be making any more trouble.”

  Mum pushed back from the table, looking at Ellen. “Shall we begin your first lesson? Something sweet to complete supper?” When Ellen shrugged and began to rise, Mum looked to Rose. “Perhaps you can entertain Kit while we work. A turn in the square might be nice.”

  “Kit must leave,” Ellen said. “He needs to get to Windsor.”

  Kit pulled out Rose’s chair. “It’s late already. I believe I’ll return to Whitehall tonight and leave early in the morning.”

  For a moment Ellen stood there openmouthed.

  “What?” Kit asked.

  “You plotted all along to get me and my luggage here, didn’t you? No wonder you didn’t bring your own things. You had no intention of leaving for Windsor at all.”

  “We came tonight because we were invited. And I’ve urgent business in Windsor that I intend to take care of tomorrow. It doesn’t matter whether I travel there tonight or tomorrow morn. But believe what you wish…you will, anyway.” Sighing, he offered Rose an arm. “If I may, Lady Rose? I could use some fresh air.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  OUTSIDE, TORCHES burned brightly before each of the houses around St. James’s Square, bathing the neighborhood in a pale, hazy glow.

  As they crossed to the fenced square, Rose felt Kit’s hand warm on her back. He slipped his other hand into his pocket and pulled out a small rock. “It’s quiet,” he said, turning it over and over with hi
s fingers.

  “Until recently, we wouldn’t dare come out here at night.” She paused to unlock the gate. “There were no rails—the square was just a big open area between the houses, used as nothing more than a receptacle for offal and cinders, not to mention all the dead dogs and cats of Westminster.” Rose silently congratulated herself on introducing what had to be the least romantic topic possible. “Squatters lived among the filth, and there were thieves galore,” she added with relish.

  Any gentleman would be put off by such an unappealing speech.

  Unfortunately, she’d forgotten that Kit was no gentleman. He merely looked interested, glancing about at all the stately three-story redbrick and stone houses. “Are these not the homes of dukes and earls?”

  “Mostly. It was a travesty.” The gate banged closed behind them as they entered the square. “Once Parliament approved their application for permission to put up rails and plant trees, the dukes and earls wasted no time seeing it done.”

  The dirty pavement had been replaced by soft grass and wide, curving paths with benches scattered throughout. Young trees rustled in the light breeze. When Kit slung his free arm around her shoulders, she couldn’t bring herself to pull away.

  Her will seemed to vanish whenever he touched her.

  He was still playing with the rock. “What is that?” she asked.

  He looked down as though surprised to see it there. “A piece of my first building,” he said with a small, sheepish smile. “Just a bit of brick.” He passed it to her.

  It held the warmth of his hand and felt smooth, though she knew it must once have been angular. “Was it a church? A mansion? A theater?”

  A rueful laugh broke the quiet of the night. “It was a warehouse. But I assure you, it’s the most beautiful warehouse to ever grace our good green earth.”