Gareth crouched down, his eyes moving over the various parts, his mind already putting the pieces in their proper positions. He had a fondness for automata and had taken apart more than his fair share of clocks and other mechanisms with moving parts.
The boy knelt beside him and pointed to the book, which showed a schematic of a clock-winding mechanism. Oliver Lombard was a clever lad; he’d found Gareth’s well-thumbed science journals and then searched the indices until he found something appropriate.
Gareth looked from the spring in the palm of the boy’s grubby hand back to the drawing and picked up a metal plate from the small pile of parts. “I believe the problem lies with this small pin. Here,” he pointed to the drawing and then to the piece in his hand. “There is still a piece inside this dimple but it is bent almost in half. It will not catch the spring and hold it.” He looked at the boy, who was nodding his head, comprehension dawning in his sea-colored eyes.
Gareth gestured to his desk. “Go fetch the letter opener from the top right desk drawer and we will see if we can bend it back.”
After Gareth had carefully straightened the bent piece he turned to the boy. “Do you know how to put it back together?”
He shot Gareth a look of boyish scorn. “Of course, sir.”
Gareth watched in silence as Oliver deftly fit tiny pieces together with his dirty, but slender, agile fingers. The toy was some type of big cat with wheels beneath the lower panel hidden by the clever placement of the animal’s four feet. The key location was, naturally, just below the cat’s tail, a scandalous placement sure to please any young male.
Once he’d fully reassembled the toy they both stood and—without any need to consult on the matter—left the library to test the toy in the hall, which had carpet but only a runner, leaving a perfect strip of black and white tile down each side that was perfect for metal wheels.
Oliver put his hand on the key and then hesitated. He looked up at Gareth. “Would you like to do the honor, sir? You were the one to find the problem and fix it.”
“I will do the next one.”
Oliver’s smile was one of relief and he twisted the key with great care and then bent down, holding the toy in both hands before turning his head to look at Gareth. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
The metal cat shot down the hallway, emitting a high-pitched mechanical whirring sound and skidding almost all the way to the second library entrance before sliding to a halt. The boy leapt into the air, both arms raised in victory. “Hurrah! Hurrah!”
Gareth smiled. “It is my turn.”
Gareth heard a small clicking sound as he wound the mechanism, as if the spring were slipping. He looked down at the boy, who was waiting with barely restrained impatience. “I think it will require a new pin. The metal has been stressed and is no longer stable.” He finished winding the mechanism and handed the cat to Oliver, who held it with both hands to stop it from prematurely beginning its cycle. “You can release it. I think you will find it cannot be wound too many more times.”
“Do you know how to make a pin, sir?”
“I do not possess the necessary equipment for such fine work. But I daresay a clockmaker could fashion what you need.”
The spring had begun to slip badly by the time Mrs. Lombard and Declan found them a quarter of an hour later.
The sculptor looked at her son—who was in the process of crawling on hands and knees toward the cat—and then at Gareth, who was following behind him, but on his feet.
“What a pleasant surprise, Mr. Lockheart.” The smile she gave him seemed authentic, as far as he was ever able to gauge such things. “I think you will be happy with the progress we are making with the dam.”
Her riding habit was a dark green that made her even prettier than he recalled. Her hair, as usual, had come loose around her flushed cheeks and softened her round face, making her appear younger. Gareth looked at Declan, only to find the Irishman watching him, an amused glint in his eyes that Gareth could not like.
“What do you think of the project?” Gareth asked his friend when he realized they were waiting for some response—any response—from him.
“I never got so far. I met Mrs. Lombard in the stables and decided to accompany her back here.”
Oliver came up to his mother, holding up his toy. “Mr. Lockheart fixed it for me, Mama, but it will not stay fixed. He says we must take it to a clock maker.”
She brushed his hair from his forehead, the love on her face as she looked at her son blatant enough even for Gareth to notice and identify. What must it be like to be the recipient of such undiluted affection?
“I believe there is one in town, Oliver. We shall take it with us the next time we go. Now, it is time for your tea. Nounou will be waiting for you.”
“Yes, Mama.” He turned to leave and then pivoted back around. He grinned at Gareth and held up the toy. “Thank you so much, sir.”
Gareth nodded and the boy sped down the corridor.
Mrs. Lombard began pulling off her gloves. “Would you gentlemen care for tea?”
“No,” Gareth said.
“Yes,” Declan said at the same time.
The woman’s lips twitched. “Perhaps we might leave the hall and discuss the matter more comfortably in the small drawing room?”
Declan gave Gareth an ingratiating smirk. “That would be lovely. Wouldn’t it, Gare?” He offered Mrs. Lombard his arm and they headed toward the small drawing room, leaving him to trail behind.
Gareth did not like what he saw on his friend’s face. Not at all.
***
Serena could not envisage a less likely pair of friends: McElroy would not shut up and Lockheart was all but mute. And then there was the awkwardness of acting like a hostess in a strange man’s house. But Lockheart appeared either uninterested in, or unaware of, his duties as a host.
When the tea tray arrived even before they sat down Serena recognized the invisible hand of Jessup at work. No doubt he’d been prepared with a tea tray even before his master’s carriage rumbled into the front drive.
While Serena prepared the tea, McElroy, a man bursting with energy, paced the room and fired off questions.
“I see they are laying out something directly behind the center section of the house.”
“Yes, that would be the parterre gardens.” She looked at Lockheart, who was watching her with the silent, opaque look that made her feel self-conscious. Was her hair a mess? Was there a dirt smut on her nose? “Milk or sugar, Mr. Lockheart?”
“Milk, please.” He came to claim his cup and saucer. “No biscuits for me, thank you.”
“Gareth is an ascetic, Mrs. Lombard. But I will have both milk and sugar in my tea and a couple of those delightful looking fairy cakes as well.” McElroy paused in front of her and waited for his cup and plate, his smile making her feel just as self-conscious as his friend’s brooding stare.
Serena poured herself a cup and added a little milk, selecting one of the cream-filled cakes even though she had promised to exert some restraint when it came to her teas. In the weeks she had been here the magnificent food had begun to tell and her gowns were all a bit snug, even with all the activity that took up much of her days.
She looked up to find both men watching her. “Mr. McElroy tells me you have returned to the area to inspect a brewery?” she asked her employer.
“That is correct. It is possible we may consider investing in it.”
“Do you consider any kind of business?”
“Our decisions are based on a variety of factors that all contribute to the health of a business.”
“We also bury a potato on the west side of a building during a full moon before we make up our minds,” McElroy added.
Serena had a mouthful of cake and almost choked on it. Mr. McElroy winked at her.
Mr. Lockheart sighed. “I came to see how the work was progressing and bring the horses.”
“Horses?�
� She glanced from man to man, “I saw only the one.”
Lockheart sipped his tea before answering. “We brought six in all. One among them should be suitable for your son.”
“You brought a horse for Oliver? But—”
“Jessup informed me you had rented two horses from the livery stable in the village. He indicated that,” there was a slight hitch, “your son was an accomplished rider.”
Serena realized her mouth was open and shut it. She looked at the Irishman, who was managing to smirk and drink tea at the same time. Lockheart’s eyes were as unreadable as the moon and not dissimilar in color. He had cut his hair since last she’d last seen him and she would have sworn his face was slightly thinner, as if he had been ill or not eating well. She shook her head to dismiss the thought. The horses, she reminded herself.
“That is very kind of you, Mr. Lockheart. I assure you, you needn’t—”
He waved one hand and a flicker of something that looked like irritation crossed his face. “It is something I wished to do, so I did it. There is no need to thank me.”
Serena blinked at his rather abrupt tone.
The silence was so loud it clanged like a bell.
McElroy’s chuckle broke it. “You’re doing it again, Gare.”
Two bright strips of red appeared like slashes over Lockheart’s high, sharp cheekbones.
He sighed. “I apologize, Mrs. Lombard. It was not my intention to be discourteous.” Lockheart’s shapely lips flexed into a frown. “I’m afraid you will find my manners are often . . .wanting.”
“Quite savage, really,” the Irishman added, popping an entire cake into his mouth and managing to smile around it.
Serena could not decipher the look Lockheart cut his friend. But when he turned back to her, he wore the same undecipherable expression. “Yes, savage is perhaps more accurate. Fortunately today I have Mr. McElroy nearby to apologize or translate for me.”
Unabashed, the Irishman nodded. “Mr. Lockheart just made a joke, Mrs. Lombard. You may laugh now.”
Serena couldn’t help laughing and the tension drained from the room.
“I believe I’ll need another of those fairy cakes, ma’am.” McElroy presented his plate and Serena transferred a delicate pastry onto it with two forks.
The Irishman raised his eyebrows at the method of serving but made no comment.
“Would you care for more tea, Mr. Lockheart?”
His response was to bring his cup to her. She refilled it, handed it back, and smiled up at him. His disconcerting eyes were on her, serious and unreadable, his handsome features bland. Serena swallowed and wondered if he noticed the hitch in her breathing, which to her was as noisy as the rasp of a saw.
“Thank you.”
“I understand this is a first for you, Mrs. Lombard?” McElroy’s question seemed to come from a long way off.
She assumed he did not mean having tea with two men who’d grown up in an orphanage. “You mean designing a garden of this size?”
He nodded, his smile encouraging but the glint in his green eyes unsettling. What a pair these two were!
“Yes, it is. Until now, the only gardens I’ve had the pleasure of designing were in the city. And most of those were done according to the owner’s rather particular plans.”
“And Gareth is giving you free rein, I hear.”
Serena felt there were more to his words than was obvious and could only nod.
“How do you find it thus far?”
“I’ll admit I was anxious before actually commencing work.” She glanced at her employer to see how he received such information, but saw his attention was on her sketchbook, which had slipped out of the large satchel onto the settee beside her.
Serena set down her cup and saucer. “Would you like to see the sketches I’ve made since returning? There are more formal plans that should be here by the end of the week.”
He set down his own tea and came to sit beside her, his presence on the small sofa making her aware of how tall he was. He was slim but sleekly muscled. Serena thought of the room off his bedchamber and realized he must visit it frequently. She swallowed at the thought and opened the sketchbook to the section in question and handed it to him.
Lockheart took the book in his long, sensitive fingers, and held it lightly, as if it was valuable. McElroy had come to stand beside him, his hand resting on the arm of the couch as he leaned over his friend’s shoulder.
“As you know, Mr. Lockheart, I commissioned a draughtsman to come and help me once you approved my original drawings.”
The first sketch was one as she imagined the property would look like from above.
“That is interesting,” McElroy, murmured. “How were you able to get the correct perspective?”
“We spent four days, most of that time pacing out the various sections.” She looked up at Lockheart, but his attention was on the sketch. “I know that might seem excessive, but I felt it was called for as this is so new to me.”
When she realized he had no response, she leaned closer to turn the page. She could feel his warmth, and he smelled of some wonderful cologne, clean wool, and warm male.
“Here is my plan for the east courtyard.”
McElroy leaned closer. “What are these rectangles?”
“Those that are vertical are sites for statuary, these three here,” she gestured to three horizontal rectangles, “Are benches.”
Serena kept waiting for her employer to ask questions or make comments, but he seemed contented to let his friend do the talking.
***
Gareth did not care if the woman decided to erect bent lamp posts as sculptures and plant brambles and thistles on every square inch of land; he just wanted to sit beside her and breathe in her scent. And enjoy her nearness—the heat of her body inches away from his own—something he had only sought with one other person, also a woman.
He vaguely heard Dec’s questions and her answers. His friend would be curious about Gareth’s proximity to the woman. He knew his preference for space between himself and others, his dislike of being touched by strangers, which, for him, meant almost everyone.
She smelled of the outdoors, with a hint of whatever female soap it was she used. He detected the not unpleasant odor of leather and horse mingled with a more feminine scent. Her hands were what one would expect from a woman who did manual labor. The backs of them were square and broader than the rather delicate bone structure of her face would have suggested, the skin a bit chapped, callouses evident on her thumbs, a writing bump on her right middle finger that mirrored the one on Gareth’s left hand. They were not pretty, dainty hands, but he found them mesmerizing.
The last time he had been this near a woman was with Venetia, a woman who could not have been more different.
“And here you see how the lake will follow the contours of the gentle hillside.” Gareth looked at the picture she was referring to, the geometry of her drawing the first thing he noticed.
“Where is the berm you are constructing?”
He felt her jolt beside him.
“It is here,” she traced her thumb nail over a line. “But you can see it better in this drawing.” She flipped the page. “Here.”
Gareth looked at the orientation of the berm and turned back the page, and then looked at the berm again.
“What is it?”
Gareth could hear the anxiety in her voice.
“If the degree of elevation is as you have indicated in this drawing, you will need to shift your berm perhaps fifteen degrees to get the support necessary.” He looked up and found her face only inches from his, a deep notch between her green-gold eyes. This close, he saw fine lines around her eyes, perhaps from squinting, and parentheses around her plump, coral-pink lips. The texture of her skin was quite fascinating. She was golden brown—unfashionably so, he knew—a sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her straight, small nose. Her lips were small but shapely, the corner
s of them invariably curled up in a smile. But not now. Now they were moving, and Gareth had not been paying attention. Instead he’d been imagining his own lips on hers, his tongue delving between them.
“Mr. Lockheart?”
He blinked. “Mrs. Lombard?”
She gave him an uncertain smile. “Will you come down with me tomorrow?” She looked at the watch pinned to the left side of her bodice. “It is too late now, but perhaps we might go in the morning, before they commence work and you could look for yourself?”
Gareth supposed he should. After all, he had never even seen this part of his property before.
“We can leave our trip to the brewery for the day after, Gare.”
Gareth looked up at the sound of Dec’s voice. The Irishman was no longer smiling, which was almost more frightening. He’d known Dec since they were boys—far longer than anyone else in his life—but Declan was an amazingly complex human being and Gareth still could not read or interpret all the other man’s expressions. Except to know he was scheming or planning some sort of mischief.
Gareth knew he had dug a hole for himself, so to speak, and now he would need to see the site. “I will send a message to Mr. Fowler and reschedule our tour of the brewery.” He turned back to the woman, who was waiting for his answer with obvious interest. “We can walk the area and see if the berm will need to be moved.” He already knew it would, but he guessed it would not be politic to declare such an opinion so baldly in the face of her mistake. Her smile told him he had guessed correctly for a change.
They looked at the rest of the drawings without incident.
Chapter Seven
The only meal Serena could recall being odder than the one she’d had tonight was her last dinner at Rushton Park. Oh, the food and service were impeccable, as usual. But Lockheart and McElroy were not the most restful of dinner companions. The Irishman seemed to delight in prodding and poking not only his friend, but Serena, and—she suspected—anyone else who had the misfortune to enter his orbit. He was a sharp man with a rather thin, brittle façade of charm and she did not trust for a moment.
A Figure of Love Page 8
