The Gentleman's Scandalous Bride

by Lauren Royal

  Ellen looked like she wanted to believe her. “Do you think?”

  “I know.” Rose felt her age and then some. Ellen was so young. So vulnerable. Rose thought of Kit’s concerns and her promise to watch over his sister. “Would you like to sleep in here instead of the other room? We can talk all night like my sisters and I used to when one of us was upset.”

  Tears leaked again as Ellen nodded. “You’re so kind, Rose.”

  Nobody had ever described Rose as kind. Her own eyes felt watery as she rang for her maid to prepare them both for bed.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “GOOD MORNING, Ellen.” Rose stretched beneath the quilt, then slowly rolled over. “Ellen?”

  Ellen wasn’t there.

  Rose sat up and squinted at the clock on her mantel. Seeing it was only seven in the morning, she groaned. Breakfast wouldn’t be served until nine.

  Yawning, she absently lifted one of the bottles off her bedside table. The cork came free with a soft pop, and she inhaled deeply, closing her eyes.

  Frankincense and myrrh. Kit. Almost. Something was missing. That woodsy something. She’d have to locate and add that elusive ingredient before she gave the bottle to the duke.

  Thinking she’d better find Ellen, Rose yawned again and slid from the bed. She tied a red wrapper over her white night rail, slipped her feet into a pair of quilted satin mules, and padded out of her chamber, taking the bottle with her.

  Ellen wasn’t in the room opposite, either. Through the open door of her mother’s sitting room, Rose glimpsed two maids busy about their day’s work, one opening the shutters while the other cleaned the fire grate.

  “Have either of you seen Ellen Martyn?” she asked.

  “Nay, my lady,” they chorused in unison. “Perhaps she’s still abed?” one of them guessed.

  “No, she’s not.”

  For one panicked moment, Rose wondered if Ellen had escaped and gone to Thomas after all, but then she shook herself and headed for the staircase. Just because the upstairs maids hadn’t seen her didn’t mean that Ellen wasn’t here. She could easily be in the dining room having an early breakfast. Or perhaps in the large basement kitchen. Their cook would be long awake, baking the day’s bread, and she wasn’t the type to let anyone in the house go hungry.

  There was no need to fret. In fact, Rose thought, pausing in front of the perfumery and looking at the bottle in her hand, maybe she could take the time to perfect this scent. Half guilty knowing her mother would be a much more solicitous hostess, she pushed down on the door’s latch and shoved it open.

  The bottle crashed to the planked wood floor. “Ellen!”

  Ellen held a dropper in one hand and a vial in the other. Looking away from Rose, she tilted her head back and deliberately emptied the last glistening drop into her mouth.

  “Ellen!” Skidding on glass and perfume, Rose ran to her, not wanting to believe what she’d just seen. “Whatever are you doing?” She grabbed the vial from her hand. “Tansy?” Her heart pounded. “Are you trying to kill yourself? Essential oils are poison, tansy one of the worst!”

  Ellen’s skin looked as white as her night rail. Sweat beaded on her forehead. As her red-rimmed eyes met Rose’s, the glass dropper fell from her slack fingers and shattered on the floor.

  She doubled over. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “It’s just as well, else I’d stick my finger down your throat and make you sick!” Rose ran for the chamber pot that sat beneath a sideboard and rushed back to plunk it on the worktable.

  She held Ellen’s head—and her own tongue—while spasms wracked the girl’s body, purging her of the poison. Over and over, but it wasn’t enough for Rose. When Ellen swallowed convulsively, holding back another spasm while she slumped over the table, Rose hauled her back up.

  “All of it,” she demanded. Ellen’s knees buckled, and Rose kept her upright by sheer force of will. “More! I want to see that there’s nothing left in your stomach. Nothing, Ellen, you hear me? Else my finger will go down your throat. More!”

  At long last, a series of dry heaves left Rose satisfied. She slung an arm around Ellen’s shoulders and led her to a chair.

  Still shuddering and frightfully pale, Ellen sank down. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, a shaky hand to her mouth. Tears spilled and ran down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

  Rose took the chair beside her, a hand to her still-racing heart. She thought she’d caught Ellen in time. She’d call her mother and a doctor to make sure, but first she had to catch her breath.

  She’d never been so scared in her life.

  “Confound it, Ellen, I know you’re unhappy, but surely things aren’t bad enough to end it all.”

  Ellen’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t trying to,” she whispered. “I swear it. I didn’t know tansy was dangerous.”

  Cautious relief sang through Rose’s veins, but something still didn’t fit. “Why, then?” Suddenly chilled, she hugged herself, running her hands up and down her arms. “Tansy is powerful stuff. What could have possessed you to drink a whole vile?”

  Ellen clenched her hands together in her lap and stared at them. “What do you know about it?”

  “I know what my perfumer mother drilled into her children’s heads so we wouldn’t accidentally do ourselves in. Tansy oil is incredibly potent and never safe to eat. In herb form, small doses can be used to flavor food and brew remedies.” Rose’s brows snapped together. “Are you ill?”

  Ellen shook her head. “A midwife told me tansy tea helps a woman conceive.” The tears flowed faster, and words spilled out between her sobs. “But I didn’t have any leaves, and then I saw your mother’s oils…”

  “Conceive?” Rose felt utterly lost. “But I thought…you and Thomas haven’t…”

  “No,” Ellen whimpered, “not yet. I don’t know how to do it yet, since you haven’t finished—” She stopped abruptly, dropping her head in her hands.

  Rose’s breath faltered as she stared at her friend’s miserable, huddled form—and understanding dawned.

  “Oh, Ellen!” Aghast, Rose slid from her chair to kneel at Ellen’s feet and pull her hands away from her face. “Why?” The girl’s tears fell on their clasped fingers as Rose searched her eyes. Her friend hadn’t been attempting suicide, thank heavens, but… “Why on earth would you behave so recklessly?”

  A sudden spark of anger made her friend’s eyes flash green. “It’s the only way, don’t you see? If I’m carrying Thomas’s child, Kit will have to let me marry him.”

  She wrenched her hands from Rose’s and dashed at her tears.

  “Which is worse, Rose? Sacrificing my virtue in exchange for a happy marriage, or saving it for a rotten one? Because I vow and swear, if Kit marries me to some rich poltroon, I will not be a dutiful wife. I will never lie with my husband. How could I, knowing I was meant to be with another? I will run back to Thomas, and then my virtue will be sullied anyhow.”

  Rose swallowed, trying to understand, trying to be a good friend. “So you felt the only way to persuade Kit was to get yourself with child?”

  “Can you think of another way?” Ellen’s tears flowed even faster. “I’ve tried for months to talk him around—I’ve tried! He’ll never listen to me. And I’ll never give up Thomas. It’s hopeless.”

  Not knowing what she could say to help, Rose patted the girl’s shoulder. She appreciated the depth of Ellen’s frustration—her situation was hopeless. “Does Thomas know of your plan?” she asked gently.

  “Of course not.” Ellen sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve, evidently too wretched to care. “He would never have agreed. That’s why I needed the book. I was going to persuade him, you know, the way women persuade men. Only I don’t know how.”

  “And you won’t need to,” Rose said through gritted teeth. Ellen was her friend, and she’d promised Kit she’d watch over her. He wouldn’t want to see his sister like this—especially knowing he’d had a hand in causing her distress. “I’m afraid you�
�re not getting that book back, Ellen.”

  The girl’s face hardened, though she didn’t refuse the handkerchief Rose offered. She blew her nose loudly. “Perhaps I had the right idea with the tansy.”

  Though Rose didn’t think Ellen was serious, she was glad no more tansy oil remained in the house. Thankfully, her friend seemed to be out of danger. A little color had sneaked back into her cheeks. Though her face was wet with tears, her forehead was no longer slicked with sweat. Her body had stopped shuddering.

  All Ellen needed was rest. And hope.

  Rose got to her feet, bringing Ellen up with her, and wrapped her into a fierce hug. “You will not sacrifice your virtue,” she decreed into Ellen’s wavy dark hair. Drawing away, she offered a shaky smile. “And you will marry Thomas.”

  “Kit won’t—”

  “Kit will. I shall talk to him.”

  Ellen stepped back, startled. “And tell him what?”

  “Everything,” Rose said firmly. “But first, we send for the doctor.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “GOOD AFTERNOON, Mr. Martyn,” the guard at Windsor Castle’s gate greeted.

  “Afternoon,” Kit muttered back.

  After all, there was nothing good about it.

  He’d arrived at Harold Washburn’s meager rooms on Peascod Street only to find them empty. The only neighbor he could locate informed him that Washburn had carted his belongings out days before.

  Of course. As he walked from the Lower Ward to the Upper, Kit cursed himself for a fool. It was obvious enough that if the man had set fire to Whitehall, he’d left Windsor in the time since Kit had dismissed him. Kit had assumed Washburn would return home, but without employment, there was no longer anything to hold him here.

  He could still be in London—or anywhere.

  Though Kit itched to confront the old cur, he hadn’t time to mount a full-scale search, not while seeing his projects to successful completion. He would have to hope that the arson at Whitehall had satisfied the man’s thirst for revenge—that he wouldn’t try anything more.

  When he finally reached Windsor’s dining room, he breathed a sigh of relief. Here, at least, everything seemed to be going right. The ceiling was nearing completion. The scaffolding was coming down, and new plaster was going up. In one corner, men labored to put a fine finish on the last pieces of oak paneling. Pleasant aromas of fresh-cut wood and sawdust filled the air.

  The scent of building. It never failed to revive him.

  “Well done,” he told his new foreman. They spread out the plans and went over them together, then discussed the final schedule.

  “Seen Washburn lately?” Kit asked when they were finished.

  Though he hadn’t expected an affirmative answer, the foreman nodded. “Just yesterday, in fact. Been parading about town with some mighty fancy doxies.”

  Celebrating his successful revenge, Kit thought, seeing red. And spending the money he’d pocketed by purchasing inferior materials.

  Through the anger, though, the new knowledge lifted his spirits. Apparently Washburn was here in Windsor, after all.

  “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.

  His projects were well in hand, his sister was safely ensconced in London, and best of all, last night’s outing with Rose in the square could not have gone better. Sweet heaven, that girl could make him lose his head. Though he’d always adored her bold nature, somehow he’d been unprepared for physical boldness—perhaps due to her seeming innocence? In any case, that moment when she’d grabbed him by the hair and wrenched him to her…

  Well, to be blunt, it had been the most thrilling moment of his life.

  And he could only but take it as proof of her feelings growing bolder as well. The only pitfall he could see was this deuced uncomfortable secret between them. That night they’d walked together by the Thames, in a heated moment he’d nearly taken leave of his wits and betrayed her mother’s confidence.

  Thank goodness he’d caught himself at the last moment. Though it rankled him to lie to Rose, he couldn’t risk spoiling things with her now that he was finally, finally making progress.

  “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 meeting place where the Roundheads had sanctioned King Charles I’s execution. Given its association with his father’s beheading, one might presume the current King Charles would avoid the area. But the opposite was true. Nell Gwyn owned the house next door, where she stayed—and the king paid nocturnal visits—whenever the court was lodged at Windsor.

  But His Majesty had moved on to Hampton Court, so the infamous Nell 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 plump blond serving maid sidled up to him.

  Milord, he thought with an inward smile, though the honorific was surely no more than calculated flattery. Someday he would have a right to that form of address. “I’m looking for Harold Washburn.”

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

  It was said that Shakespeare had resided in this inn while writing The Merry Wives of Windsor. Kit wasn’t sure he believed that, but he was sure the establishment charged a pretty penny for the room supposedly rented by the playwright.

  Washburn had apparently come up in the world. The cur must have pilfered even more money than Kit had realized. Seeing red again, 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 anger. “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 hateful 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—”

  “Oh, but I can. 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.

  And beside her lay a half-bare Washburn sporting a day-old beard and a sheen of sweat on his bald head. Huddled beneath the covers, he looked, if possible, even more petrified than the woman. The tiny red veins on his oversized nose seemed to pulse with terror.

  Under other circumstances, Kit might have doubled over with laughter.

  But these weren’t other circumstances.

  �
��You mangy old cur,” he gritted out. “I swear on the graves of every thief ever hanged by the High Sheriff of Berkshire, if you interfere with one more of my projects—”

  “More?” Washburn squeaked, sounding utterly pathetic. “Why would I—”

  “Set fire to the Chapel Royal at Whitehall?” Kit spat, moving closer. “I know not. Why don’t you tell me? Or 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 his companion in the process. Kit averted his eyes as she squealed again and slid off the mattress, cowering 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 sure as rot didn’t set it.”

  Something in his foe’s eyes gave Kit pause. “Where were you four days ago?”

  “Here,” Washburn growled.

  “And what fine, upstanding citizen can you find to vouch for that?”

  The ex-foreman swung to glare at his woman. “Me,” she squeaked, peeking over the edge of the bed.

  Kit snorted. “You think me maggot-brained enough 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.

  “About him.” She pointed at Washburn with a work-chapped finger. “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 bore into her spirited blue eyes with his own. “Do you swear?” When she nodded fiercely, he turned back to Washburn. “You hired someone to do it for you, then.”

  “I’m no arsonist, Martyn.”

  Kit snorted. “Just a liar and a cheat, then.” His breath was still coming hard, but blast if he wasn’t beginning to believe the old man. The serving maid seemed too honest, and Washburn seemed too shocked.