by Allison Lane
He could no longer trust himself.
The only way to survive a week at Westcourt was to avoid her. If she was nearby, he would do something unforgivable, dishonoring a lady and himself. Forming a tendre for someone so far above him was stupid. He could not allow it.
Chapter Five
Richard has engaged Reynolds to paint our portraits. His will easily be the most handsome in the gallery, for his ancestors are a motley lot, though I ought not write such things, even here…
Duchess of Westfield, May 1784
Despite a restless night, John rose early, as was his habit. It was clearly not a habit practiced at Westcourt, though. Even the butler remained abed.
“Why am I surprised?” he muttered, staring at the empty breakfast room. Lord Chester was the sort who expected full service, so the staff would have to wait up for him. At their ages, that wouldn’t be easy. The entire household probably shifted its hours to accommodate his schedule.
Postponing breakfast, John set to work.
He’d spent much of the night banishing yesterday’s obsessions. If he hoped to hold them at bay, he must avoid Miss Harper. She was far too delectable. Aside from the obvious danger – if he remained in her company, he would soon hold more than her hand – she scrambled his wits. Lack of concentration would lead to mistakes, compromising this job and jeopardizing future ones. So he would finish his inspection alone and take evening meals elsewhere so he didn’t intrude on the family.
His libido tried to protest, but he ignored it. He could not afford to endanger his reputation. Nor could he insult her by revealing his infatuation. No lady would consider it a compliment. He knew his place.
As for the Office of Works, this setback was good for him. So far everything had gone smoothly, advancing his career at lightning speed. But life was full of disappointments. It was time he learned to deal with them. An architect could not afford arrogance, and he would never remain successful without patience.
There were other routes to a seat at the Office of Works. Even if it took several more years, he would still be the youngest member. And in the meantime, he could save Westcourt.
That obsession was even stronger today. The house had whispered through last night’s dreams, begging for aid. Now it cocooned him in a warmth he could not explain, especially given its monstrous style and deplorable condition. It was trapped in limbo, all but forgotten, desperate to resume its role as a showplace worthy of a king. Only he could make it happen. And if he did…
Would accomplishing that be enough for the Office of Works?
Stop it, he ordered himself. Goals were laudable, but becoming a slave to them made it impossible to enjoy the journey. What difference would it make if he won a seat at thirty-six instead of thirty-three? Or forty, for that matter. There were enough projects being discussed to keep the office busy for decades.
His immediate concern was Westcourt. He had to serve the house, even if doing so retarded his career. Lord Chester spent so little time in the country that John could mitigate the worst of his taste without him noticing. It wasn’t exactly ethical, but…
Never do anything that reflects poorly on you, his mother had often counseled. Soane had been harsher. Raising brows will hurt your career. Even a mild scandal can destroy you, and failing to meet a patron’s demands is the most scandalous thing an architect can do. Those who wield power have long memories, so never disappoint them.
“But I must do what is best for Westcourt,” he murmured as he headed outside. “I have no choice.” And he would not push hard enough to create a scandal. There wasn’t an architect in England who wouldn’t drool to get his hands on this place. He would make sure that his results drew compliments from all who saw it. All he had to do was avoid Miss Harper, and there would be no problem.
Turning Westcourt into a showplace presented the greatest challenge of his life, starting with the contract, which must be worded to let him do the job right while convincing Lord Chester that the result was what he’d requested. Not an easy prospect.
Despite an overcast, it was light enough to see, so John studied the portico. It was even worse than he’d feared. Shaking his head, he set to work.
Two hours later, he spotted Miss Hortense striding toward the village. Breakfast must be out.
But it wasn’t. Wondering if a man could starve to death in a week, he collected the floor plans he’d drawn last night and began tracing leaks.
He didn’t usually make scaled drawings this early in the inspection process, but after two hours of touring bedrooms with Miss Harper, he’d needed an exacting occupation to distract his libido. So he’d drawn each floor on thin onionskin. When he stacked the layers, he could trace walls from attic to cellar. Today he would mark the damage more precisely, letting him follow the water back to its source. The process also offered clues to hidden damage where water had not yet soaked through to the surface.
To avoid disturbing the residents, he began in the east wing, which housed the duke’s apartments. He’d already confirmed that the tower’s walls remained plumb, so repointing should restore its integrity. But that solved only one problem. The wing held extensive water damage unrelated to the tower leak.
Beginning in the attics, he worked downward, moving furniture and rolling up carpets. Walls. Floors. Ceilings. All were badly compromised.
One problem was that each wing used different roof sheathing – tile, slate, lead. Leaks occurred wherever the different materials met, but some of the leading had also split. It was a common problem in old houses, which was why it was imperative to check the roof frequently. But Westcourt’s staff hadn’t. Now the attics revealed dozens of minor leaks and three major ones.
By the time he reached the duchess’s apartments two floors below, he had a good idea how the water was spreading inside the walls, fanning out as it trickled lower. Two of those fans should converge in her bedroom.
Immersed in his puzzle, he didn’t feel the warmth until he stepped fully into her room. Frowning, he returned to the hall.
Cold.
He stepped back inside.
Warm. Comforting. As if loving arms had suddenly wrapped around him.
He shook his head. The fireplace was empty, with no hint of recent use. Even Adam’s décor should not make this room more welcoming than others. Yes, Adam had worked here at the peak of his skill. But his hallmark was elegance, not warmth. So the warmth must linger from the duchess.
He’d always been sensitive to atmosphere, though yesterday he’d been too distracted by Miss Harper to notice it. Now it smacked him between the eyes.
Everyone claimed that the duchess had loved her husband to a scandalous degree, and he could now believe it. Their passion had seeped into the walls – which contradicted the image of a cold, unfeeling monster who could discard her son without a backward glance.
The idea infuriated him. While his own mother would never have abandoned him – she’d worked hard to give him advantages many of his peers lacked – he knew many parents who had. Some did it acceptably, leaving their offspring to a cadre of servants while they enjoyed London society. Others abandoned children entirely, selling them to sweeps or brothels or leaving them to fend for themselves. So why was he shocked that the duchess had sent her son to be raised elsewhere? And why was he now relieved to discover that she’d been capable of love?
Frowning, he moved farther into her space. The blue walls were fading quietly to silver, though the lush draperies retained most of their color. Heavily gilded moldings and picture frames remained on the walls. The soggy carpet mirrored the sculpted ceiling. All very Adam. But blue was a cool color. It wouldn’t incite warmth.
No obvious trace of the duchess remained. Her brushes and bottles had long since been packed away, leaving the Chippendale dressing table bare. Two tarnished candlesticks and a silent ormolu clock stood forlornly on the dusty mantle. Ironically, the driest spot in the room was the water jug and basin. Yet there was something…
The wa
lls brightened into shimmering blue velvet. A shaft of sunlight hit the gilding, blinding him with its brilliance. The clock chimed as voices echoed. Love … always … safe… Laughter followed, then a vivacious girl with glowing auburn hair exploded from the tower, chased by a dark-haired young man who scooped her into his arms and tumbled onto the bed—
John shoved his imagination back into its cage, glaring at the faded walls. Visualizing a room’s possibilities was never comfortable, but this…
The house was taking over his mind. It had to stop.
But it wouldn’t stop. The warmth increased until sweat trickled down his spine. Fire crackled in the grate. Happiness rolled over him in waves. Barking echoed from the hallway. When the door opened—
“Enough!”
He strode to the window and flung open the casement. Staring at the cloudy sky, he gulped air until his senses settled.
Walls absorbed emotions from the people they enclosed. Even as a child, he’d been sensitive to such feelings, though it wasn’t something he could admit aloud lest he find himself in a padded cell. The first time, he’d been eight and forced to listen as two men beat a third unconscious by the foot of his bed. His mother swore it was a dream, and he’d eventually let her think so, though he knew better. Dreams lacked such clarity.
At least it didn’t happen often, though the worst commission he’d ever accepted had been at an asylum in Kent. Walking through the building had nearly driven him mad. He’d avoided asylums and hospitals ever since.
But even the asylum had not engendered visions.
At least this room’s warmth arose from the duchess’s love for the duke, with no trace of insanity. That didn’t explain why she’d abandoned her son, but it wasn’t his affair…
Irritated at himself, John moved furniture so he could examine the walls.
Damp. Mold. Trickling water.
Another year would compromise the structure too badly to save it. Furious, he turned toward the tower room—
—and tripped.
“Mreow!”
As he grabbed a cabinet to regain his balance, its door flew open, dumping him on the floor. For a moment he thought it would fall on top of him, but it settled for covering him with mildewed towels before rocking back into place.
John let loose a stream of curses that would do a teamster proud, then glared at Esther’s cat.
It glared back from its perch on the bed, then executed a cut that would make a harridan proud, and settled in to wash one paw.
“Odious creature,” he muttered. He hated cats. Sly beings. If people had to keep pets, why not an amiable dog?
He stuffed the towels back in the cabinet and froze.
The top shelf held a rag dog so dilapidated that few would deign to touch it.
He gingerly lifted it out, a lump blocking his throat at he examined its worn ears and mended foot. Someone had cherished it once. And the duchess—
“She loved him.” His whisper echoed, as if the house again spoke.
Proof, if he needed it. This must be a favorite toy. There had been no madness here. Grief, yes. For the duke, and especially for her son. She had rued his loss every day of her life.
So why had she sent him away?
The grief intensified. Pain stabbed through his stomach. Fear followed. And hope, fury, heartache—
“Stop it!” he growled, shoving the dog in the wardrobe. “You are here to fix leaks, not solve puzzles!”
Shaking his head, he slammed the door, then concentrated on walls, stone, and water.
* * * *
By the time John finished the east wing, breakfast was laid out. He found the colonel tackling a mountain of ham, eggs, kippered herring, pudding, tomatoes, and mushrooms. Toast heaped with preserves filled a second plate.
“Eat hearty,” the colonel advised. “It’s the only edible meal you’ll get today.”
John had never liked herring, but he helped himself to the rest “How can Cook make good breakfasts yet mangle dinner?”
The colonel sighed. “Cook can’t manage a full day on her feet. Kitchen maid makes breakfast.”
“Why not pension off the cook and hire a new one?” he asked, keeping his tone one of mild curiosity.
“Impossible.” The colonel studied him a moment, then nodded briskly. “Have you agreed to renovate this place?”
“Not officially. My present contract covers inspecting the damage and devising solutions. Once the trustees decide which proposals they want to pursue, we will draw up a contract for the measured drawings the builder will need.”
“That is not how it will work.” He glared. “You need to understand the chain of command, Lascar. Chester wields more authority than the usual steward. The trustees know the title should be his, so they don’t question his decisions. He thus runs Westcourt, lock, stock, and barrel. Don’t argue with him, and never ignore him. If you bypass Chester and call on the trustees, your reputation will shatter. Chester makes a formidable foe.”
“As does any lord.”
“Not like Chester.” He waved a slice of toast. “Most lords are secure in their power. They know who is above them and who below. But Chester doesn’t. Everyone knows he’s the duke, but he can’t exercise a duke’s power. Very touchy on the subject, he is. Especially here. Under law, he is no better than Catherine. The others hope the title remains in abeyance, for they think things will muddle along as they are if it eludes him. Never happen.”
John raised his brows, for Miss Harper had uttered the same sentiments, including the colonel among the blind.
The colonel paused to swallow. “Three possibilities,” he said at last. “If that investigator turns up a living duke, who knows what will happen?”
“Obviously.” A stranger who had ignored his responsibilities since coming of age could do anything.
“I doubt he will, but a good soldier plans for all contingencies. The other outcomes will change our lives for the worse.”
“Both possibilities?”
The colonel nodded. “Chester as duke is bad enough. But if this search leaves the title in abeyance, the trustees will remove all constraints on Chester.”
“Giving him all the duke’s authority.” He frowned, not seeing the point.
“Except a seat in Lords. In the eyes of his peers, he will still be a commoner, which will make exerting authority here even more important. He won’t let us stay, which is what the others refuse to see.”
“But what has that to do with Cook?”
He sighed. “She is an example of what happens to those who annoy Chester. Except for one maid, all the current servants were hired by the seventh or eighth dukes. Both men were sticklers for detail, so their staff kept them apprised of everything that happened on the estate.”
“Addressing small problems prevents large ones.”
“Most of the time. But they reported on people as well as repair problems. I did not know Chester when he was a lad, but I’ve heard tales. Trouble abounded in his vicinity.”
“Careless?”
“Tantrums. He demanded constant attention and resented anyone who favored his father or brother above him.”
“But he wasn’t the heir.”
“No. Some people need be the center of all eyes. I dealt with a few in the military. Chester is another. He might wear a mask of rectitude in town, but his nature is clear to anyone who looks closely. Younger sons are not treated like heirs. Yet Chester took offense at every difference, retaliating by playing pranks or spreading lies that blamed others for his own misdeeds. He never forgets a grievance, and he never forgives. Ponder that closely.”
“Why did the staff not leave, then?”
“Loyalty.” The colonel drained his ale. “After the eighth duke died, they protected his duchess. When the trustees tried to beat the truth from her, they interfered. If the trustees had been able to replace them… But they couldn’t, so they returned to town, and the duchess became a recluse.”
Colonel Parker again paus
ed to eat. “That was how matters stood when I arrived – the duchess and staff against Chester and the trustees. After her death, the staff swore to guard Montrose’s inheritance until he returned. The trustees accepted the vow, assigning responsibility for the house to Baines, Mrs. Baines, and Cook. But they never forgot that earlier interference. Even after they sent several other relatives here, they refused to increase the household budget.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Of course not, but Chester had ingratiated himself with the trustees by then. He insisted that raises and pensions would reward the servants for fighting the men the duke had set in charge of his affairs. The staff should have left. They could have found other positions. But they trusted the duke to set things right when he finally returned.”
“But he never did.”
He nodded. “By the time they realized the truth, it was too late. They have no savings and nowhere to go. Chester has hated many of them since they reported his misdeeds in childhood. The moment the trustees release the last rein, he will toss everyone out without a second thought.”
“Even if he has no title?”
“Especially if he has no title. He believes that if the staff had not interfered thirty years ago, Montrose’s fate would be clear. If Chester can’t flaunt a title before the world, fury will overcome the last vestige of kindness. The staff will go. We will go. As for you, if you can’t follow his orders to the letter, then leave. If you displease him, he will see that you never work again. He’s the most vindictive man I’ve ever met.”
John stiffened. Should he leave?
But it was already too late. He could survive a public dispute over whether his work was acceptable or not. Most people would side with him, especially when they learned what Chester wanted. But walking away after he’d agreed to fix the roof would give Chester a genuine grievance. People would reject an architect known to have broken a contract. Besides, how could he betray the house?
And he had no reason to trust the colonel, either. Not only did the man openly dislike Chester, but his discourse ignored one of the basic rules governing the aristocracy. “What happened to the concept of preserving property for future generations? I thought it was a duty every aristocrat learned from birth.”
