by Allison Lane
“Are all the floors this uneven?” he asked to cover his rapid breathing. Holding her added urgency to his lust, tightening his groin. His hand shook until he nearly dropped his pencil.
She inhaled deeply, then nodded. “The flags have shifted badly from the damp.”
“Something else that needs attention. Servants have a hard enough life without risking their necks every time they carry loads along a corridor.”
Her smile raised his temperature another notch. “I mentioned that very point to Chester, but he prefers to spend his coin where his friends will see the results.”
“But leveling the floor is a necessary part of repairing water damage. I will insist on it,” he said smoothly even as his fury at Lord Chester increased. It was wrong to blame the man for exhibiting the arrogance of his class, but he did.
Miss Harper led him around a corner. “These are the larders we currently use. The meat safe is on the end.”
He dragged his eyes from her neck so he could expand his sketch of the cellars. Since it was easier to keep his eyes on his notes if he could hear her voice, he asked, “How did you become the duke’s ward?”
“The usual way.” She shrugged. “My parents died, naming him as guardian.”
“Someone who has been missing since before you were born?” He met her gaze.
“Papa didn’t know that.”
“Why?” When she didn’t respond, he smiled. “I admit it’s none of my business, but I’m curious. So tell me the story. Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess…”
“Hardly.” She glared.
He softened his smile and let his eyes plead.
“Oh, very well. But you started in the wrong place.” She sighed. “Once upon a time there was a clumsy boy who was the butt of every joke at school. Only one classmate ever stood up for him, a powerful wizard who wouldn’t let others belittle the lad just because he was small for his age and not very bright.”
“A wizard?”
“A duke, actually. The eighth Westfield. As a bona fide duke rather than an heir, he was the highest ranking student at Eton, and he used his power to help the lowest when they were unfairly persecuted – Papa was merely the younger son of a baronet. The two were never friends, but the duke was a fair-minded lad who hated bullies and took pains to control them. Thus many years later, after Papa begat children of his own, he named his old protector as their guardian. He knew that the duke would treat us fairly despite our inferior breeding.”
“Wasn’t the eighth duke dead by then? You said he died thirty years ago.”
“Papa bought colors at sixteen. Some years later, while home recovering from injuries, he fell in love with his sister’s governess. His father refused to consider the connection, in part because she was ten years his senior, so they eloped. His father disowned him. Her father condemned them to hell. They sailed for India shortly afterward.”
That explained the ivory elephant.
“He wrote his will when George was born,” she continued. “Because he remained furious at his family, he named as guardian the only man he trusted. Westfield died the following year, but Papa didn’t hear about it. News from England never interested him. Thus he never revised that will. And since he named the Duke of Westfield without further clarification, the guardianship follows the title.”
“And your brother?”
“Dead. Fever swept the compound twenty years ago. I was the only one from my family who survived.”
“With the duke still a child, I’m surprised the trustees didn’t return you to your family.”
“They tried.” She frowned, making him sorry he’d asked. “Papa’s brother had died a year earlier, childless, though his father refused to let Papa come home to take up the heir’s duties. By the time I reached England, his father was also dead, passing the baronetcy to a distant cousin in dire financial straits who won’t house anyone for whom he has no legal responsibility. Mother’s family also refused. Her father was a vicar who felt shamed by her behavior and couldn’t accept anyone raised in a heathen country.”
“So you came here, to waste away in perpetual spinsterhood,” he growled.
“Don’t blame the trustees,” she protested. “The duke was supposed to return eleven years ago. It is no one’s fault that time drifted when he did not arrive.”
It was, but he’d already pried too deeply into personal matters. He owed her an apology for reviving memories of past traumas, but one would not form. Even as a child he’d been quiet, turning most of his thoughts inward. He wasn’t very good with words.
He wondered at her calm acceptance, though. She might have had food and shelter at Westcourt, but her attachment to the servants proved she’d received no respect. Did she know anyone of her own class outside this household?
He was suddenly glad to be male. He’d also been orphaned young, but he’d been able to direct his own fate. Hard work had raised him from the working class to the professional class, letting him control his destiny and pursue a career he loved. He wasn’t constrained by the aristocratic focus on duty above all else.
She pulled him from his thoughts by returning to business. “We had a rather nasty problem with flies in the meat safe last summer. Can you remedy that?”
“Screening,” he said automatically. “There are several styles of metallic mesh that will keep insects and rodents away. When was maintenance last done down here?”
“I doubt anything has been done beyond sweeping the chimneys since 1697.”
He poked his head in the door of each storeroom, estimating dimensions, then glanced up as laughter echoed along the corridor.
She smiled. “The kitchen is ahead, but dinner will be served shortly. Join us in the blue parlor at half five. We will conclude the tour tomorrow.”
“Very well.” A bark sounded in the distance. “You keep dogs indoors?”
“They turn the spit.” She must have noted his surprise, for she added, “The kitchen is very traditional. Cook swears her mother’s cottage has better facilities.”
John made another note.
Chapter Three
When Mother explained wifely duties, the marriage act sounded disgusting. But with Richard, it is delightful. Under his tutelage, I’ve become quite wanton and would gladly remain abed forever…
Duchess of Westfield, May 1784
After changing for dinner, John headed downstairs. Eating with the family was unusual, but then Westcourt’s household was far from typical – understaffed, ill-maintained, and he had no idea why a duke’s ward had been pressed into helping the housekeeper. Or why she’d agreed to do so.
It cast new doubts on this commission. If he wasn’t so attached to the house, he would be on his way back to town. That he wasn’t…
I am not losing my mind, he insisted as he donned the mask of a deferential professional and pushed open the door to the blue parlor. Five people and a cat were already inside.
It was a more intimate space than the drawing room. Also shabbier. The blue silk covering the walls had faded until it matched the silver hair of the elderly lady hunched over a tapestry frame near the fire. Frayed seats made age-darkened chairs look dreary, except for the half dozen that sported fresh covers. A seventh took shape in the frame as the lady’s needle flashed in and out of the canvas.
The only occupant he recognized was the young gentleman who had stomped angrily out when John had checked his study for leaks. Now the fellow scowled fiercely, then turned away in a pointed cut, staring raptly through the window as if fascinated by the deepening twilight outside.
John bit back a curse. He hated cuts at any time, but especially when administered by popinjays. This one was a dandy of the foppish sort. The bright green coat with excessively padded shoulders looked absurd on his slender frame. Exaggerated shirt points had nearly pierced his eyes as he executed his cut. And John had never understood the lure of Cossack trousers. They bagged as full as a skirt around the fellow’s legs. A plethora of lace didn’t
help. Nor did the canary yellow waistcoat embroidered with butterflies. In John’s experience, idle dandies delighted in tormenting anyone they considered inferior.
The rest were a motley bunch, shabby genteel at best. Yet they were ducal dependents, so he could hardly introduce himself. No butler or footman had been in the hall to announce him. Until Lord Chester or Miss Harper appeared, he could only fade into a corner. Approaching the fire would be too bold.
It would be a long, cold wait, though. Two middle-aged ladies murmured softly, ignoring his presence. A straight-backed old gentleman gazed into the fire, pointedly oblivious to new arrivals. Only the cat acknowledged him, staring haughtily as if daring him to step closer. John clasped his hands behind his back and studied the threadbare carpet.
Five minutes dragged by before the old lady jammed her needle into the tapestry and rose, leaning heavily on a cane. Despite unfashionably high hair and a spot of rouge on each cheek, she looked frail enough that a slight breeze should knock her down. But her blue eyes remained clear, giving her a formidable air. And though she was a foot shorter than he, she stared down her nose as she approached, muttering imprecations at the butler for dereliction of duty.
“I am Lady Catherine Brubeck, widowed sister of the seventh duke,” she announced haughtily. “Who are you?”
If she didn’t know, then he was wrong about her clear mind, but he played the game by bowing deeply. “John Lascar, architect, my lady. I am here to address the leaks.”
“About time.” She scowled. “Not that I expect much. My nephew spends money only on himself. Never yet saw him hire anyone competent.”
“The trustees approved my commission.” He forced calm into his voice. “You will find my credentials more than adequate for Westcourt’s needs.”
“I doubt it. Fools, the lot of them.”
Her deliberate provocation sparked his temper. “Maligning a man without evidence can prove embarrassing, madam. I have won Italy’s medaglia dorata, the Royal Academy’s Gold Medal, and the design competition for Portsmouth’s records hall. I’ve yet to encounter a dissatisfied client, including Mr. Coulter, one of your neighbors.”
“Upstart!”
“Socially, that is true. His fortune derives from coal. But he has definite ideas about architecture and was satisfied with my design. Lord Whitfield had very different ideas, but he was equally satisfied.”
“Perhaps.” She pursed her lips, then puffed out air in what a less haughty personage would consider a snort. “We haven’t the staff to handle trays. Since you’re above the servants, you will have to dine with us.”
John bowed stiffly. He preferred to avoid social gatherings with those of the upper classes. Especially those who begrudged sharing the same air.
She gifted him with the barest of nods, then thumped toward the fireplace. The gentleman turned, revealing a hook strapped to his right arm. His left gripped a cane. Close-cropped iron-gray hair framed a ruddy face that had seen years of sun.
“This is Colonel Parker,” announced Lady Catherine. “His maternal grandfather was my father’s younger brother. Mr. Lascar, Colonel. The architect.”
The colonel inclined his head a fraction of an inch while studying John from head to toe. “On the young side,” he announced.
“But well-regarded.” John snapped his mouth shut. He had already defended himself once. Repeating his credentials would appear over-eager. Lady Catherine could still banish him to the servants’ hall. She was haughty enough.
Colonel Parker frowned. “Did you design the pavilions for the victory celebrations in ’14? Harum-scarum job. No substance and less style.”
“Nash received that commission, sir. And they were meant to be temporary.”
“What about that Indian folderol at Sezincote? Some youngster did that, I hear. Rubbishy place.”
“Cockerell was in charge. It’s his uncle’s estate.”
“Ahh. But you cannot deny your youth.”
“I am thirty-three, sir. In your line of work, I’d be a colonel by now.”
“Hmm. Look younger.” That hard stare again moved from head to toe. “Do you work hard, boy?”
“Very. I—”
“Good. What are your plans?”
“It is early days yet, sir. I’ve barely glanced at half the house.”
“Should be enough. Place is a wreck. Inexcusable laxity in the staff. In my regiment—”
“Yes, yes,” said Lady Catherine, interrupting. “We know your men were perfect, and it was your leadership that made them so.”
John nearly smiled.
The colonel waved his hook. “Hard work and discipline are what count. If I’d been commanding in America, those colonials would have toed the line right enough. Never would have come to this. Wretched showing the first time and worse the second. No discipline these days. None here, either. Westcourt needs discipline, boy. Apply the proper discipline and we’ll have no more trouble.”
“I will do so.”
“See to the chimneys, too. Mine don’t draw right.”
Lady Catherine thumped her cane to silence him, then moved on. “My nieces, Miss Hortense Willowby and her sister, Miss Esther Willowby. Mr. Lascar, girls.”
“Ladies.” John again bowed, fighting to control inappropriate levity – calling them girls was eccentric even for the aristocracy. They looked as old as Lord Chester.
If Lady Catherine hadn’t called them sisters, he would not have suspected it. The cat in Miss Esther’s lap glared daggers, but the woman smiled vaguely, keeping her eyes on his waistcoat even when she raised her head. Tippets fluttered from a spinster’s cap that hid nearly all of her yellow-gray hair. Bony shoulders peeked out from a voluminous shawl.
In contrast, Miss Hortense could anchor a warship in a hurricane. No spinster’s cap for her. An uncompromising knot pulled her black hair tight against her head. Black eyes blazed from under black brows. Black bombazine rigidly encased her sturdy figure from neck to toe. She looked more like a housekeeper than a duke’s niece. A book on animal husbandry lay in her lap.
“Don’t look old enough to know a hammer from spoon.” She shook her head. “But Chester never spends a groat more than he has to. I’ll be patching leaks again before the year is out.”
So she was responsible for the amateur roof repairs. John clenched his fists. Before he could respond, Miss Esther tugged on her sister’s arm. “Do be quiet,” she begged sotto voco. “Chester will turn us off if you question his decisions. Then where will we go?”
“Somewhere better than this ruin,” snapped Hortense, but she inhaled deeply. “My apologies, Mr. Lascar. I meant no insult. We have long begged for repairs lest the house collapse around our ears, but Chester would rather laze about town than spend a farthing to benefit others. Not that it matters to you. Can you really fix this place?”
“Of course.”
“Do forgive us,” begged Miss Esther, flushing. “She meant no disrespect.”
He nodded as Lady Catherine dragged him away, this time toward the young man still staring out the window.
“Mind your manners, Reginald,” snapped Lady Catherine, thumping her cane. “I won’t tolerate sulking.”
Reginald reluctantly turned, his eyes hard and cold.
John wondered why Reginald lived at Westcourt. Spinsters and widows he could understand. Most country houses sported at least one. A retired military officer he could understand. Even a ward. But Reginald was too young for retirement and seemed hearty enough. Another aristocratic wastrel, if John was any judge. The idle too often held themselves superior to those who kept occupied.
“This is Mr. Simmons,” said Lady Catherine briskly. “His maternal grandmother was my father’s sister. Mr. Lascar, Reginald.” Her cane jabbed his foot.
Mr. Simmons reluctantly bowed. He was opening his mouth to choke out a greeting when Miss Harper arrived. “You’re late,” he snapped petulantly, rushing to her side. “How dare you! First you run off with that filthy tradesman, then yo
u ignore my summons. I won’t have it! How am I to finish my epic without my muse at hand? Fair is she, a rival to the sun, the charm that opens hearts and minds—”
“Thinks he’s a poet,” scoffed Lady Catherine as Baines announced dinner. “Don’t let him spout verse at you, or your head will split.” With that, she thumped her cane twice, then hobbled briskly away, giving him no chance to offer his arm.
Colonel Parker followed, his own cane beating a rapid tattoo as he overtook her in the doorway, passing her without a backward glance. The sisters followed, Miss Esther twittering like a demented bird.
“Go, Reginald.” Miss Harper shooed him toward the door. “Dinner is ready.”
“But you must listen—”
“I said go!” she hissed. “I must see to our guest.”
“He’s not a guest and should eat in the kitchen with the other servants,” snapped Mr. Simmons, grabbing her arm. “How dare he intrude on his betters? You must help me. There is something wrong with the meter.”
“Later. I am far to busy to bother with it now.” Slapping his hand aside, she approached John, her face twisted into apology. “Forgive them for rushing away. We are unaccustomed to entertaining. Dinner is ready, sir. If you will step this way…”
“Should we not wait for Lord Chester?” But he held out his arm. The surge of heat that skittered along his skin as she laid her hand on his sleeve proved he’d not fully leashed his baser instincts. Cursing, for a meaningless touch should not addle his brain, he worked harder. Reginald’s antagonism sounded suspiciously like jealousy. The man must have sensed John’s interest.
Miss Harper shook her head. “Chester has little patience for family. He eats at the village inn, but don’t join him. He likes his peace and can be quite irritating when annoyed. You won’t see him again until tomorrow, probably about four. He will have broken his fast by then and be in as pleasant a humor as is possible.”
Reginald still hovered in the doorway.
Miss Harper frowned. “You are blocking the way, Reginald. Catherine won’t be pleased. Do you wish to delay everyone’s dinner?”
