KIT HAD SIX men erecting scaffolding, two chipping off the ruined plaster, and another two hauling away the debris. At the same time, he had a team dispatched to London to fetch the quality materials that had been figured into his original specifications. With any luck, they’d return on the morrow, or at worst, the day after that.
Construction work generally halted at dusk. There were no chandeliers in the room as yet, so the men worked by the light of torches and candelabrum. If Kit could persuade the rest of his crew to remain on the job twenty-four hours a day, he would. But of course they were snug in their beds while he fretted. Artists, especially, were temperamental creatures.
“Careful!” he warned, one eye on the late-night crew while he reworked the schedule again in his head, planning contingencies in case the new materials arrived late. “We’re strapped for time, but I won’t have injuries. Or a fire.”
“Pardon me!” a musical voice exclaimed. He turned to see the swish of peach-colored skirts as Lady Trentingham swiveled away, narrowly missing being whacked in the head by three men carrying a beam. “I’ve apparently stumbled into the wrong room.”
Emerging from the shadows, Kit strode toward her, his footfalls muffled by the protective tarpaulins on the new oak flooring. “It’s perfectly all right, Lady Trentingham.” Taking her arm, he drew her over to a safe corner.
“Mr. Martyn!” she said warmly. “I was searching for my daughter—”
“Lady Rose? I thought I glimpsed her earlier. What a surprise to find you both here.”
She turned slowly, inspecting the chamber. “I’ve brought her to court to find a husband.”
He should have guessed. A woman as beautiful and bright as Rose would be snapped up here within days—if she wasn’t debauched first. Absurdly, disappointment tightened his chest as he watched Lady Trentingham scan the room and saw her pretty brown eyes—so like Rose’s—widen with appreciation.
“This ceiling is going to be exquisite,” she commented, gazing up at the half-painted details on the older portion of the room—the part that wasn’t ruined. “A banquet of the gods, am I right? Fish and fowl…and look, a lobster! How very charming.”
“I’m pleased you think so. I envisioned it both exquisite and somewhat amusing.” He hoped the king would be even half as impressed as she. “I hired Antonio Verrio to paint it. You may have heard of him?”
“Heavens, yes. The Duke of Montagu brought him from Paris, didn’t he? I arranged his marriage. The duke’s, not the artist’s.” She ran a hand down the intricate oak carving on the wall beside her, a melange of fruit and vegetables. “And who is responsible for this?”
“Grinling Gibbons, assisted by Henry Phillips.”
She nodded approvingly, still looking around. “The cornice is his work as well, if I’m not mistaken. Are you interested in my daughter, Mr. Martyn?”
He blinked at the rapid change of subject. Not to mention the subject itself. “Lady Rose is indeed interesting,” he replied cautiously. “And please, call me Kit.”
“Kit.” She dropped her gaze to meet his. “That isn’t the sort of interest I was enquiring about, and”—a small smile curved her lips—“I suspect you know it. Do you want Rose?”
He wished there were furniture in the unfinished room, so he could sit down. “Do I want…”
“I don’t mean in a carnal sense,” she clarified, then her eyes twinkled. “Well, of course that’s part of it…but do you want her as a wife?”
“A wife?” Furniture or no, if this line of questioning continued, he was going to have to sit. The floor was looking mighty tempting. His knees felt weaker than the plaster that was crumbling overhead.
And he hadn’t the slightest idea what sort of reply Lady Trentingham was seeking. He rubbed the back of his neck.
Do you want her as a wife?
Only in his most ludicrous dreams.
If he answered yes, would Lady Trentingham berate him for aspiring far above his station? If he answered no, would she take offense on her daughter’s behalf?
Thankfully, she saved him from answering at all. “You would make me a fine son-in-law, but if you wish for that to happen, you’d do best to hide my approval from my daughter.”
Kit could hardly believe his ears. Elation sang through his veins, tempered by a rush of confusion. “I…” He paused for a deep breath. “Doesn’t it bother you that I’m not of noble birth?”
Lady Trentingham graced him with a soft smile. “I know a good man when I see one, and a title rarely has much to do with it. In my opinion, that is. I wish I could say my Rose felt the same way.” Her voice was laden with warning. “If you wish to pursue her, I’m afraid you’ll have your work cut out for you.”
He wondered if he was up to the task. But with the approval of Rose’s mother, he was damn well willing to try. “She told me she’s allowed to choose her own husband.”
“Yes, she is. And furthermore, she’s determined not to wed anyone of my choosing. I’m rather known as a matchmaker,” she added, but it wasn’t a boast, rather an honest nugget of information. “Like my other daughters, she wants no part of any marriage I arrange.”
“I see.”
She cracked a smile. “Nevertheless—and unbeknownst to my children—I chose both Violet’s and Lily’s husbands. And I aim to make it three for three. How’s that for an impressive accounting?”
“My lady, I wish you every success in attaining that goal.” He’d never spoken more earnest words, since her success would mean his as well.
“I’m pleased to hear you agree. One more thing.” She placed her hand on his arm, commanding his gaze. “My daughter is an innocent…and I expect her to remain one until the day she’s wed. I’m well aware of the goings-on here at court—”
“I’m no courtier,” he rushed to assure her. He waved an arm, encompassing the half-finished chamber. “I’m only the hired help.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She smoothed down her skirt. “Now I must leave your glamorous room and seek out my daughter, before another man—who is a courtier—gets his claws into her. Can I persuade you to accompany me in my search?”