Rose wanted to applaud.
Gabriel reclaimed her arm. “Come along.”
“What happened?” she asked.
“The idiot tried to kiss her.” The duke managed to harrumph in a genteel manner. “Everyone knows that unlike Louise and Barbara, Nell is totally devoted to Charles.”
“Is she?” Rose wondered, gratified to discover that this was possible even at Court.
“Oh, yes. She has never slept with another man since Charles made her his mistress. Nine years, almost.”
Gabriel’s apparent amazement at that feat gave Rose pause, but she consoled herself that at least he sounded admiring. She glanced back at the Duke of Buckingham, who still stood rooted in place. Even with his long black periwig all mussed, he looked entirely too dignified to have recently been a prisoner. “Why on earth was he in the Tower of London?”
“He’s not the first man Charles has clapped in there, and he certainly won’t be the last. ’Tis political, my dear. You wouldn’t understand.”
Certain she would understand, Rose was about to ask for an explanation when he added, “Are you and your lovely mother coming along to Hampton Court tomorrow?”
Rose blinked, effectively diverted. “Hampton Court?”
“Have you not heard? The Court is moving—getting ever closer to London as it were. The household will spend a few weeks at Hampton Court and then move to Whitehall for the winter, in time for the Queen’s birthday celebration on the fourteenth of November.” He guided her toward the door. “Will you be coming along?”
“I know not. I suppose I will have to ask my mother.”
“Well, I certainly hope she’ll agree. I would feel bereft without your company.”
He sounded sincere, and she couldn’t help but respond to his flattery. He really was the most handsome of all the courtiers. And the tallest—only King Charles was taller— not to mention the highest ranked.
There was the kissing problem, of course, but having experienced an excellent kiss herself, maybe she could teach him how to perform one.
’Twas worth a try, she decided as he drew her out to the blasted terrace. She was getting nowhere in her search.
Chapter Eleven
“ Burning the midnight oil, eh, Martyn?”
Working in the blaze of torches and candelabra for the second night in a row, Kit looked up from his plans to see the Earl of Rosslyn. He offered his old friend a wry smile. “Oil lamps are a bit dim for my purpose, but you’ve got the gist of it, yes.”
Rosslyn paced the chamber with an elegant swagger, his tall walking stick clicking as he progressed. He paused, watching men and supplies go in and out of the two sizable holes cut in the ceiling that gave access to the area above, where Kit’s crew was busy reinforcing the structure. “ ’Tis coming along nicely.”
“Thank you.” While unsurprised that his rival should check on his progress, Kit was pleased with the man’s pleasant tone. “And your own projects?”
“Oh, fine, fine.” Rosslyn pulled a tortoiseshell snuffbox from his pocket. “You’ve done an excellent job recovering here, Martyn. But then, you always were up to the task, weren’t you?”
Kit could remember a few occasions, back in their school days, when Rosslyn hadn’t been up to the task. But then, he’d had no compelling reason to excel, as Kit had. The secure life of a nobleman had been awaiting him.
“What made you become an architect?” Kit asked.
Having partaken of a pinch of snuff, Rosslyn sneezed.
“Monuments.”
“Monuments?”
“I wish to leave something behind. Something so men will say there went Gaylord Craig, the Earl of Rosslyn.”
The man wasn’t as shallow as Kit had thought. “Your theater in London is a masterpiece,” he conceded.
“I rather prefer my last church. But I thank you.” Rosslyn tucked the snuffbox back into his pocket. “Well, the ladies are waiting. I shall leave you to it.” He turned on a high heel and swaggered toward the door, letting loose another
Gabriel reclaimed her arm. “Come along.”
“What happened?” she asked.
“The idiot tried to kiss her.” The duke managed to harrumph in a genteel manner. “Everyone knows that unlike Louise and Barbara, Nell is totally devoted to Charles.”
“Is she?” Rose wondered, gratified to discover that this was possible even at Court.
“Oh, yes. She has never slept with another man since Charles made her his mistress. Nine years, almost.”
Gabriel’s apparent amazement at that feat gave Rose pause, but she consoled herself that at least he sounded admiring. She glanced back at the Duke of Buckingham, who still stood rooted in place. Even with his long black periwig all mussed, he looked entirely too dignified to have recently been a prisoner. “Why on earth was he in the Tower of London?”
“He’s not the first man Charles has clapped in there, and he certainly won’t be the last. ’Tis political, my dear. You wouldn’t understand.”
Certain she would understand, Rose was about to ask for an explanation when he added, “Are you and your lovely mother coming along to Hampton Court tomorrow?”
Rose blinked, effectively diverted. “Hampton Court?”
“Have you not heard? The Court is moving—getting ever closer to London as it were. The household will spend a few weeks at Hampton Court and then move to Whitehall for the winter, in time for the Queen’s birthday celebration on the fourteenth of November.” He guided her toward the door. “Will you be coming along?”
“I know not. I suppose I will have to ask my mother.”
“Well, I certainly hope she’ll agree. I would feel bereft without your company.”
He sounded sincere, and she couldn’t help but respond to his flattery. He really was the most handsome of all the courtiers. And the tallest—only King Charles was taller— not to mention the highest ranked.
There was the kissing problem, of course, but having experienced an excellent kiss herself, maybe she could teach him how to perform one.
’Twas worth a try, she decided as he drew her out to the blasted terrace. She was getting nowhere in her search.
Chapter Eleven
“ Burning the midnight oil, eh, Martyn?”
Working in the blaze of torches and candelabra for the second night in a row, Kit looked up from his plans to see the Earl of Rosslyn. He offered his old friend a wry smile. “Oil lamps are a bit dim for my purpose, but you’ve got the gist of it, yes.”
Rosslyn paced the chamber with an elegant swagger, his tall walking stick clicking as he progressed. He paused, watching men and supplies go in and out of the two sizable holes cut in the ceiling that gave access to the area above, where Kit’s crew was busy reinforcing the structure. “ ’Tis coming along nicely.”
“Thank you.” While unsurprised that his rival should check on his progress, Kit was pleased with the man’s pleasant tone. “And your own projects?”
“Oh, fine, fine.” Rosslyn pulled a tortoiseshell snuffbox from his pocket. “You’ve done an excellent job recovering here, Martyn. But then, you always were up to the task, weren’t you?”
Kit could remember a few occasions, back in their school days, when Rosslyn hadn’t been up to the task. But then, he’d had no compelling reason to excel, as Kit had. The secure life of a nobleman had been awaiting him.
“What made you become an architect?” Kit asked.
Having partaken of a pinch of snuff, Rosslyn sneezed.
“Monuments.”
“Monuments?”
“I wish to leave something behind. Something so men will say there went Gaylord Craig, the Earl of Rosslyn.”
The man wasn’t as shallow as Kit had thought. “Your theater in London is a masterpiece,” he conceded.
“I rather prefer my last church. But I thank you.” Rosslyn tucked the snuffbox back into his pocket. “Well, the ladies are waiting. I shall leave you to it.” He turned on a high heel and swaggered toward the door, letting loose another
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