Mr. Lockheart remained as mysterious as ever. Although he rarely spoke, he seemed articulate and comfortable when he did. Which made her wonder what it was he enjoyed inside his own head enough to ignore the discussions and people around him the rest of the time.
By the time the sumptuous dessert course had been cleared from the table Serena had endured quite enough prodding by McElroy and Lockheart’s quiet, measured looks.
“I will leave you gentleman to your port. I’m afraid I’ve had rather a long day and will turn in unfashionably early.” She stood and they with her.
“Good night, Mrs. Lombard.” McElroy said bowing. “I’m afraid I’m something of a late riser, so I’ll leave matters of earth moving and dams to you and Gareth.”
Lockheart met Serena at the door, even though a footman hovered nearby to open it.
“Will six be too early, Mr. Lockheart? It is when I usually breakfast and then head to the site.” She had hoped to see him recoil or at least wince at the early hour, but he merely nodded.
“At six, madam.” He bowed and opened the door. “Good night.”
Serena breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind her. She would have liked to be a fly on the wall in the dining room—especially to see how the two men interacted while on their own. Over the course of dinner McElroy had shared the general details of their history. Two boys dropped at the same orphanage. McElroy was older than his friend, although he behaved in a far younger and more carefree fashion. In any event, she was glad he was staying away in the morning. She wanted to speak with Mr. Lockheart without wading through witticisms and double entendres.
She went up to Oliver’s room, which was on the third floor of the family wing. There was a light beneath Nounou’s door so she tapped softly.
“Entre!”
The older woman was in bed reading. She raised her eyes when she saw who it was and lowered her book.
“So,” she asked in her native language, “How was a dinner with those two?” She used a word for “men” that had untranslatable connotations in English.
Serena smiled. “Much as you would expect. They will be staying for at least one more day. Mr. Lockheart believes there is some problem at the dam.”
Nounou’s dry smile showed what she thought about that.
“Is Oliver asleep?”
She made a sound that was entirely Gallic. “That boy! He will burn us in our beds. I have decided it is safer to let him read all night if he wishes. He will be sandy-eyed and sleepy, but that is the only way to learn. He is like his mother that way—a head like a stone.”
Serena chuckled. “It won’t hurt him, Nounou.” She stood. “I will go and see if he is awake. Either way, I will extinguish the light, so you may go to sleep without worry of immolation.” She bent over the bed and kissed her on the cheek. “Good night.”
Her son was indeed still awake and reading, not one book, but two spread across his lap while a single candle burned in a holder on his nightstand.
“Mama.” He grinned up at her, unabashed to be found awake at almost eleven o’clock.
“You will go blind reading in such light.” She nudged one of the books over and sat on the side of his bed. “You are driving poor Nounou to distraction. I want you to promise lights out by ten from now on. It is good to think without a book in front of you. That is when I have my most creative thoughts.”
He nodded and closed the books. “All right, Mama. I will try it.” He shot her a furtive glance. “But maybe we can discuss the matter after I have done so for a while?”
Serena laughed and ruffled his hair. “Very well, a negotiation. How long?”
“A week?”
She shook her head at his hopeful look. “A month. And then we can reassess.”
He gave a heavy sigh but nodded.
“Good,” she said, leaning forward to give him a loud smack on his cheek and chuckling at the “Aw, Mama!” her action elicited.
She stood and picked up the candle.
“Mama?”
“Hmm?”
“How long will Mr. Lockheart stay?” His voice had a hopeful note in it that made her pause.
“Do you like him?”
His vigorous nod set his hair flopping and reminded her he needed his hair cut.
“He likes automata. He has built one of his own, Mama.”
“Has he?” She smiled at her son’s enthusiasm. She’d been disappointed that he’d shown no interest in sculpture, but she would be just as pleased if he had a passion for another subject.
“He said I might build my own, too.” He gave her a shy look. “I like him, Mama.”
“So do I,” she said, and then extinguished the light.
***
Two hours later Serena was still awake. She had tossed and turned, trying to force sleep on herself, but it had not worked. She needed to walk, to think. She put on her dressing gown and found a fleecy scarf.
It was a half moon and the south side of the house looked magical in the silvery light. Pine stakes had been hammered into the rough turf where the parterre garden would go, its shape defined by twine. Dew had already begun to collect on the shaggy grass and her ankles were damp by the time she’d walked the perimeter of the garden twice. Her mind, however, was down by the river. She was anxious about what Mr. Lockheart had found with her dam and hoped it would not require a great deal of money and time to repair, although she could not see how it could not.
She bit her lip. She’d been foolish to take on such a commission. Three weeks of studying the work of Capability Brown and looking at gardens were not enough training to take on a job of this magnitude. She had let the promise of money—riches to her—lure her out of her area of expertise. She was arrogant and foolish to resist the notion of moving back to her in-laws’ house.
Her feet had led her away from the main block and toward the west. She could walk around the wing and enter through the arcade that ran along the northwest side of the building. As she came around the corner of the building, she saw light coming from one of the second floor windows. Her own rooms had the ninth through fourteenth windows and these were. . . she counted to herself. . . part of the last block, the master suite. She was too close to the building to see so she walked toward the small stand of trees until she had a clear vantage point. It was Mr. Lockheart’s room, the one with the padded floor and odd hanging bags. The room blazed with light but she saw nothing but the smaller of the bags, the one shaped like a pear. Shadows flickered in the background meaning there was somebody—Lockheart, most likely—moving about. She was just about to turn away when he came into view.
Serena sucked in a noisy gasp of air. It was Mr. Lockheart, and he was without a shirt. Serena looked away, staring at her clenched hands in the darkness. What she was doing—spying, there was no other word for it—was wicked. She was intruding on his privacy. How would she like it if he were to do the same?
Her eyes moved back to the window, as if they’d been dragged there by a team of oxen.
He was hitting the bag with his fists, alternating hands, the movement so rapid it was a blur. Even from this distance she could see his nude torso was slick from exertion, the muscles so distinct they might have been graven upon metal. His body, for all its musculature, was too thin—hard and devoid of any fat. Even though she was a female, her father and Monsieur Favel had seen to it that she’d had many opportunities to sketch nude models, men and women chosen for their superlative physiques. But never had she seen such definition.
“It is like watching one of your sculptures come to life, isn’t it?”
Serena screamed and jumped at least a foot, her heart thudding against her ribs to get out. She whipped around, her hand clutching her chest.
“I apologize, Mrs. Lombard. Did I startle you?” McElroy did not sound sorry. He sounded amused. “I must admit I was surprised to find you out here at this time of night. Especially after such an arduous day.”
She did not hear only humor in his voice, but skepticism. What could she say? He had caught her gawking at a half-naked man.
So she stated the obvious. “I could not sleep.”
He took a step closer. “Perhaps I might help you with that.”
Serena could scarcely believe she had heard him correctly. But his arrogant smirk and hooded eyes told her she had.
She gave him a freezing look.
“Ah,” he said, his smile growing harder. He turned his gaze back to the window and she was glad to follow. They watched Lockheart pound the bag without ceasing.
“This is some sort of pugilistic training?” she finally asked, deciding to forget his lapse in manners.
He nodded but did not look away from the window. “It is the type of thing men of your class play at in places like Jackson’s Salon, except this is the real thing.”
The derision in his words made her bristle. “What do you know of my class, Mr. McElroy?”
This time he did turn to her, his smile as mocking as his words. “Oh come now, Mrs. Lombard, your husband was the son of a duke. You can scarcely marry much higher.”
Serena supposed it was arrogance that had led her to believe men of the merchant class would not know of her lineage.
McElroy chuckled, as if she’d spoken out loud. “Oh yes, I make it my business to know who Gareth associates with, even if he doesn’t.”
“Mr. Lockheart knows of my connections.”
“Connections like your cousins Leeland and Sandford Featherstone?”
Serena ground her teeth. “Cousins by marriage.”
“By marriage,” he agreed.
“Yes, he knows.” Serena found his smug, knowing tone annoying. “If you are so keen on keeping up with your business partner’s associates, why didn’t you warn him about the Featherstones?”
“I said I made it my business to know about his associates, not to make his decisions for him.” He shrugged. “Featherstone is a small-time operator. He was skimming from Gareth, but he was also providing a service Gareth believed necessary. I’m afraid my friend has a bee in his bonnet about the need for a genteel setting in which to wine and dine the men who make the laws the rest of us are supposed to abide by.”
“Mr. Lockheart told me it was you who put the bee in his bonnet, Mr. McElroy.”
His eyebrows arched high and the look he gave her was speculative, rather than just accusing. “Did he? It is unlike Gareth to confide such matters—or even have them in his head to discuss them. It would seem he has taken an uncommon shine to you.”
“And you believe that is unwise.”
“Tut, tut, Mrs. Lombard—or I suppose I should call you Lady Lombard—don’t put words in my mouth.”
“Trust me, Mr. McElroy, I don’t wish to go anywhere near your mouth. As to your other comment, no, you should not call me that.” She no longer bothered to keep the disdain from her tone. “Not only because it would be inaccurate—you would refer to me as Lady Robert Lombard—but also because I have stated my preferred title, and it is Mrs. Lombard”.
“Come, Mrs. Lombard, no need to come the ugly with me. I must admit I do not understand why you would feel the need to hide your light, or your rather grand connections, under a bushel—especially around Gareth.”
“I can’t tell you how much comfort it gives me to know the workings of my mind are beyond your comprehension, Mr. McElroy.”
He chuckled. “You have a remarkable facility with English to say you are a Frenchwoman.”
“My father was English, as I am sure you are well aware—being a man who does such a thorough investigation.”
“You are correct, yet again. But I will continue to be perplexed about your attitude to your august connections. I’ve not met one of your kind yet who hasn’t felt the need to rub it in my face. I’m sure you must be wondering what Gareth makes of your connections. And let us be honest with one another, isn’t that your true object in burying yourself in the country and messing with dirt? Marrying a very, very wealthy man you believe you will be able to easily manipulate?”
Serena snorted. “You sound like you speak from experience, Mr. McElroy. Do you enjoy manipulating your friend?” She did not give him any time to respond. “I refuse to dignify your aspersions by defending myself to you, Mr. McElroy. I will say, however, that I believe you might not know your friend as well as you think you do. Or perhaps your own desires color your judgement.”
His eyes lost their amused glint. “Just what the devil do you mean?”
“I mean I have not spent a lot of time around Mr. Lockheart but certainly long enough to realize he has no interest at all in those things which others might value. He appears to treat society and his own wealth with equal disdain. Perhaps it is your own social aspirations you speak of so passionately. You speak on the matter with such heat I can only assume you have some personal axe to grind on the matter.”
To her surprise, he laughed.
“I am glad I amuse you,” she lied.
He shook his head, still laughing. “Thank you, Mrs. Lombard, you are certainly very . . . imaginative. But I am afraid it is you who misunderstand me. Gareth is not in search of an aristocratic bride because he wishes to acquire an arm ornament who will spend his money, sneer at his lineage, and stoop to warm his bed only so far as to provide him with an heir. No, my dear widow, it is for another reason entirely that he would suffer the condescension of your crowd. You see, unlike me, Gareth is concerned about more than just money. He wants influence with the people who wield it. He wants change—safer working conditions, shorter hours, age limits, decent wages. In short, he is concerned about the wellbeing of workers. To that end, he is willing to shackle himself to a spouse who has as much interest in him or chance of caring about his happiness as she might in flying to the moon.”
Up in the lighted window Mr. Lockheart paused, stilling the swinging leather bag with one hand and holding it while he dropped his head onto his forearm, his deep breathing obvious even from this distance.
“Perhaps you might take take a leaf out of your friend’s book and state your point in plain words, Mr. McElroy,” Serena said, not bothering to look at him.
Mr. McElroy moved until he stood between Serena and her view of the window, his face as hard as a granite carving, his eyes glittering dangerously. “Gareth Lockheart is the smartest man I have ever met. But, in a lot of ways, he is like a child. Because he is not motivated by greed or jealousy or envy, he does not take those emotions into account in his dealings with others. In addition to being the smartest person I know, he is also the most honest, generous, and kind.” He reached out and ran a finger along her jaw. “I, Mrs. Lombard, am quite another kettle of fish.”
Serena jerked her head away from his hand and took a step back. “What exactly—”
“I am good at reading people and can spot a liar or somebody who is hiding something from twenty paces. You, Mrs. Serena Lombard, are hiding something. I can smell it on you like other men might smell your perfume. If it turns out it is this blasted garden or some other scheme you have cooked up with Featherstone, I warn you, Mrs. Lombard, your august connections will not save you from me if I find out you are manipulating my friend. Good evening, ma’am.” He turned and walked away, leaving Serena feeling as if she had been slapped in the face.
How dare he?
She spun around to ask him just that, but he had disappeared into the darkness without a trace. Serena slumped against the closest tree, her mind whirling. What did he know? How could he know anything? Even Sandy didn’t know, although he suspected, with his own aptitude for lies and deception, that something was not quite right.
Should she leave? If she did, where would the money come from for the next payment? If she didn’t, would McElroy make good on his threat and she would find herself in an even worse bind? She had meant no harm to Mr. Lockheart, but it was hard to remember that with all the guilt and fear that surrounded her.
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br /> And if she had briefly entertained the thought of marrying Mr. Lockheart, and giving him the connections into the aristocracy he needed, could she really be blamed? Her first thought was for her son. She would do anything to protect him. Anything.
She looked up at the window, foolishly thinking there might be answers there. But it was now dark, just like all the others.
Chapter Eight
Mrs. Lombard was in the breakfast room before him, a roll of plans laid out across the large table while she ate her breakfast.
“Good morning, Mr. Lockheart.” She gestured to the drawings. “I will bring the plans with us today.”
“Very good.” Gareth didn’t need plans to know there was a problem, but he did not demur. She still had more than half a plate of food and had just poured a cup of coffee so Gareth ordered a pot for himself and proceeded to fill a plate.
He saw she was wearing a different riding habit—this one an unusual shade of burnt orange with dark gold piping, the style and cut somewhat old fashioned. Gareth had dressed in the clothing his valet, Chalmers, set out for him after learning of today’s plans: leather breeches, a dark brown clawhammer, and green waistcoat with narrow brown stripes. Chalmers was responsible for choosing and caring for his clothing, two chores Gareth found beyond fatiguing. His only stipulation was that the fabrics be comfortable and that the cut did not hamper his movement beyond good sense. His memory, all but faultless in most matters, seemed to develop a selective amnesia about clothing and the correct suit of clothing for different occasions. Chalmers did not dress or shave him, but the dour valet did administer Gareth’s haircuts, which seemed to be necessary ever more frequently.
She looked up from the plans when he sat across from her. “Mr. McElroy did not change his mind and decide to join us?”
Gareth paused in the act of opening his napkin. “Did he tell you he had changed his mind?”
Her cheeks, already somewhat rosy, turned an even redder shade. “No, I just thought he might have.”
Gareth had prepared for today by composing a list of conversational gambits and rehearsed responses. He’d found such lists helpful for those occasions when he expected to be in prolonged company with a person who was not Declan or a servant, the only people with whom he felt no social compunction to make pointless comments or idle conversation. Today’s list had been easier than usual as he seemed to have developed an actual curiosity about Mrs. Lombard and her son, an unusual development for him. It was not that he did not like people, of course, but he rarely wished to become any better acquainted with them.
A Figure of Love Page 9
