“Yes,” she admitted, surprised by the question. “But never anything as large as this.”
“What would you do if it were yours?”
Now that was an interesting question, and one she had never been asked by any other client, most of whom had had their own ideas, many of them quite bad.
“I would lay out a parterre directly off the orangery. Beyond it, I would leave things as they are. I believe the terrain on the south side, with its gentle slope, is similar to Badminton and would be perfect for a Brown-like lake, which could be achieved by some clever damming of your stream. Right now there is an old wooden footbridge over the stream. I would replace that with something more interesting.” She smiled. “Naturally I would recommend something in stone. If you wish for a folly there is a nice rise on the far side, and once you’ve created a lake it would be a lovely situation with the addition of a few trees. A rose garden, with a walk to the woods on the east side. You have the two cour d'honneur that face the drive and they could be given greenery, a fountain, more roses, intimate seating areas. Of course I did not inspect anything beyond the immediate area and could see more of the estate, more quickly, if I had a horse.” She paused. “But those are my first impressions and what I would consider if it were mine.” Serena took a sip of claret and never took her eyes from her host, whose expression had not flickered while she spoke. He was not an easy person to talk to; he gave no facial or physical cues to put the speaker at ease. He sat silently for a long, uncomfortable moment, as if considering her words, and then nodded.
“It sounds perfect.” He turned to Sandy, who again had his glass raised to his lips. “Will you recall everything Mrs. Lombard said, Mr. Featherstone?”
Sandy gulped down a mouthful of brandy, coughed, and set down his glass. His eyes slid in Serena’s direction and then snapped back to his employer. “If I do not, I’m sure Mrs. Lombard will be able to tell me in greater detail.”
Mr. Lockheart turned back to her. “You have several ideas I approve of, ma’am. Would you be able to implement such plans without further consultation with Mr. Beech?”
Serena’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you asking me to design your gardens and park, Mr. Lockheart?”
“Yes.”
“But haven’t you an agreement with Mr. Beech?” Serena would hate to gain a reputation for poaching commissions.
He continued to regard her with his flat, disorienting gaze. “I have not engaged Mr. Beech, but asked for his bid. He would not go uncompensated for the work he has done. Is Mr. Beech your only objection to accepting such work?”
“I have no experience with anything this large.”
Still he did not speak.
And I’m a woman, or don’t you care? Or haven’t you noticed. Good Lord! Design an entire estate’s grounds? Why, that would be—
“Do you think you could accomplish what you described, ma’am?”
Serena felt a flutter of anticipation at the thought of being paid to experiment with such interesting concepts at someone else’s expense. It would be a creative endeavor that would be beyond her dreams—and also one that would be a glorious fit with her talents. She could design a garden to showcase her work, rather than the other way around.
She looked up at his impassive face. “Yes, Mr. Lockheart, I believe I could.”
***
Gareth could hardly believe his good luck. He could dispense with Beech’s irritating presence and deal only with the woman. True, he thought, spooning soup into his mouth and casting a glance across at her, she was rather odd. Oh, she was not odd looking. Indeed, she was attractive, if one discounted her wild mass of hair which seemed in danger of escaping its moorings and her worn, unflattering green gown. But it was not her appearance so much as the entirety of . . . well, her. She belonged to a type of person who had always mystified him: good-humored, quick to smile, laughing easily, but obviously not unintelligent for all her humor and easy ways.
And then there was the fact she was a woman who worked with not only plants, but stone. Gareth did not know of any other woman who did such a thing. Of course he did not know any other sculptors. He had, however, met more than a few stone-cutters in the course of his business dealings, and none of those were women.
She appeared to have no trouble readjusting her expectations according to a change in circumstance. In Gareth’s experience such boldness—such fearless independence and fluidity of thinking—was not common in his dealings with women. Although Gareth would be the first to admit his dealings with women had been shockingly few during a life that spanned three and half decades.
Lastly, and this was something that he was realizing over the course of the meal, she was rather . . . opinionated. Right now she was bickering with his factor-cum-secretary as vigorously as any man in a pub, and on a subject usually considered a male purview: horses.
Featherstone was quite heated and his face had turned a dull crimson at something she just said. “You are hardly an expert on such matters, Serena, for all that you are willing to share your opinions so freely. Well here is my opinion: Leeland is one of the best breeders in Yorkshire.”
Mrs. Lombard gave an unladylike snort and took another mouthful of soup before deigning to answer. “No doubt. But we are speaking of his horses, not the man himself.”
Gareth froze, his spoon a few inches above his soup. Had she just said what he thought she said? He looked across at her. She met his stunned gaze, a tiny smirk curving her lips before she took another mouthful of food.
Even Featherstone couldn’t help laughing, a braying sound as irritating as his voice. “You haven’t changed a whit, Serena. You still have no governor on what comes out of your mouth.”
She shrugged, unperturbed by what was obviously meant to be insulting.
Gareth looked from one guest to another, something occurring to him which should have occurred much earlier—if he paid attention to such things. He lowered his spoon. “You two have a prior acquaintance?”
“Yes, Mrs. Lombard and I are cousins.” Featherstone punctuated this statement with a slurp of wine and a footman stepped forward to replenish his glass. Gareth had never noticed before what a prodigious drinker the man was.
“My husband was his cousin, twice removed,” the woman corrected in her low, accented voice, daubing her wryly smiling lips with her napkin.
“You do not agree that Mr. Featherstone’s cousin’s horses are of good quality, Mrs. Lombard.”
She turned away from Featherstone, who was openly glaring at her now. “Mr. Featherstone is correct, Mr. Lockheart—I am not an expert on horses of any sort. I should not speak so forthrightly of Leeland Bowles. I have not seen him for quite a few years and I have never visited his stud farm in Yorkshire.”
“Where would you purchase horses?”
The woman slid an uneasy gaze toward Featherstone. Gareth looked at his factotum and noticed there was an uncharacteristic tightness around his eyes. This time there was no mistaking the look of hostility he shot the woman.
A suspicion was beginning to form in Gareth’s mind, but he placed it to one side for examination later. He looked from his red-faced secretary to the woman and deliberately changed the subject.
“Tell me, Mrs. Lombard, how is it that you came to become a sculptor in addition to landscape gardening?” Even Gareth, with his woeful ability to read the expressions of others, could see the relief on her face.
“I was trained as a sculptor in France. My father, Peter Veryan, was an Englishman. He went to France before the troubles to work under a well-known French sculptor, Jean Favel. My mother was Henriette Favel, his daughter. My mother died giving birth to me, so I was raised in a rather unconventional household—two artists who saw no harm in teaching me their craft.”
“And the landscape gardening? Did you learn that in France?”
She laughed. “No, I’m afraid neither my father or grandfather knew anything about plants or gardens. I first discove
red my interest in gardening when I was living with my mother- and father-in-law. They wished to make changes and I happened to be living in their home at the time. They wanted a sculpture from me, and I was allowed to design the setting, as well. I worked with the man they employed, who said I had an aptitude for such work. When I moved to London, I took care of the neglected garden in the house where I still live.” She shrugged and gave him a smile that made his stomach clench for some odd reason. “Next I helped a friend, and then their friends saw what I had done. Within a few years people seemed to find me and ask me to design their gardens. I’m sure you know how it is?”
Gareth had no idea how it was. Nobody had ever asked him to design a garden for them. But he thought he knew what she meant. She had slowly worked her way into her current position. A difficult thing to do for anyone, and probably doubly difficult for a woman.
Featherstone came out of his sulk and took charge of the conversation. For once, Gareth was glad of the garrulous man’s empty natterings. He was content to look at the woman and consider the interesting tale she had told him.
Chapter Three
It had been an exhausting night, but Serena could hardly recall a more interesting one. The three of them had retired to the library after dinner, Lockheart apparently having no idea of the impropriety of skipping after dinner port.
Serena had looked at the plans Beech provided and realized that, here again, was another man intent on abusing Lockheart’s trusting nature.
She’d never met anyone quite like the wealthy young merchant prince. He appeared to be completely without interest in human beings, without a sense of humor, and utterly focused on whatever business was at hand. Not only that, but the entire time she spent with him, she couldn’t help feeling she only had a part of his attention. She suspected a greater part of his brain was churning away and functioning on some other—higher?—plane. Indeed, he had the appearance of an artist in the midst of a creative frenzy. Serena had seen the same expression on her artist friends’ faces and felt a similar near-euphoria when visited by the muse, herself. Although Lockheart had not manifested any of the outward signs of artistic obsession—dishevelment, absentmindness, forgetfulness, irritability—he’d maintained the distant stare of a person whose mind was engaged elsewhere.
But, after dinner, that stare had sharpened quickly as they’d begun to study Beech’s oversized sketch of the estate.
Indeed, Lockheart had proved to be a fascinating conspirator on the landscaping plan, even though he had no interest in the results themselves. No, what he had liked had been the mathematics and engineering aspects. Questions of water flow and volume had, in particular, seemed to fascinate him. They had spent most of their time examining the best place to dam and build the lake.
At least two hours had passed before they looked up from Beech’s plans and noticed Sandy had fallen asleep in a chair by the fire.
Lockheart’s silky brown hair stood in furrows, like a freshly plowed field. He ran a hand through his disheveled coif yet again as he surveyed the room—Sandy, the fire, his watch—through distracted gray eyes.
“I had no idea it had grown so late. I believe I have been very uncivil to not offer you tea.”
Serena did not mind. “Perhaps we might order some now and continue with our plans?”
He nodded abruptly and strode to the double doors, his voice a low murmur as he spoke to one of the footmen she’d seen stationed outside the room. His house was staffed like a duke’s. Better than a duke’s actually. Serena’s father-in-law had not enjoyed the luxury of footmen outside his study in several years.
When he returned, Serena was studying an inset drawing of a temple. “They will bring our tea to the document room.” He gestured to a part of the library she had not yet seen. “I should hate to disturb Mr. Featherstone.”
Serena chuckled, and then realized Mr. Lockheart was not laughing. Instead, he was regarding her quizzically, as if wondering why she was laughing. “I daresay artillery could not wake Mr. Featherstone.”
“Ah,” he said, as if suddenly enlightened.
“Do you dine with one another most nights?”
“Not if I can avoid it.”
Serena bit back a smile as she followed him toward a room lined with glass-fronted cabinets. He was dreadfully honest and blunt. She could not imagine the havoc he would wreak in a London drawing room or a room full of debutants, if what Sandy had said about him being on a hunt for a wife was correct.
Serena forgot all about Mr. Lockheart’s awkward manner when she stepped into his document room.
“My goodness.” Her voice naturally dropped to a reverential whisper. Dozens of cases filled the room and huge candelabra hung from long chains above each to illuminate the contents. The room blazed with light. She approached the largest case, which sat on a pedestal in the center of the room. Inside the beveled glass case was a very ancient looking leather-bound journal. The writing was in a language Serena knew to be Latin—not that she could read it. But the drawings—oh, they spoke for themselves.
Serena turned to Lockheart who was watching her with an impassive stare, his hands clasped behind his back. “Is that . . ?”
His cool, flat gray eyes swung from her open-mouthed face to the journal and back. “It belonged to Leonardo da Vinci. It is one of his many journals.”
Serena’s breathing had become difficult, as if she was inhaling hot steam.
“Good God.”
He blinked.
“You have Leonardo’s journal—in your house.”
“Yes, that is what I said.”
“But . . . how?”
“I bought it.”
“Who would have sold it to you? Why would anyone be so mad as to sell such a thing? Why would anyone part with such a treasure?”
“For money, Mrs. Lombard.” He said the words with a certainty which gave her a chill. They also put her back up.
“You say that as if money can buy anything, Mr. Lockheart.”
“Everything has a price.”
“That is what I said.”
“No, you said you thought I believed money can buy anything. That is not what I believe. Some things require a different currency, but everything has its price and everything can be bought.” The expression in his eyes was as cool, hard, and knowing as that of an executioner. “What is your price, Mrs. Lombard?”
“My price?”
“Yes. I wish to employ you to design my gardens and supervise and manage all aspects of its construction.”
Serena had believed there was nothing that could have surprised her more than finding Leonardo’s journal. “I thought you only wished me to design it?”
“But then I should need to employ another person to carry out your designs. And, in the process, some of what you have created would be altered. There will be misunderstandings, mistakes made.” He shook his head, a moue of distaste on his beautiful mouth. “No, that all sounds very . . . untidy, very cluttered.”
Serena thought his words were an odd choice.
“So,” he continued. “I should like to hire you to manage the entire process. As well as any stonework and statuary you deem necessary.”
A small, breathless laugh escaped her gaping mouth. “Do you have any idea how long that would take?”
“I am in no hurry.”
The door opened and a maid bearing an enormous tea tray entered.
“Please put the tray on the table nearest the fire, Mary.” Lockheart turned to Serena. “Would you do the honors, ma’am?”
“It would be my pleasure.” She walked toward the tray in a trance, her mind awhirl.
Serena took comfort in the predictable ritual, her hands making tea and arranging biscuits on plates with no help from her mind. Only when the tea was ready did she look up. Lockheart was watching her with the steady, flat look she was beginning to understand was characteristic of him. He appeared to be a man utterly devoid of emotion.
“How do you like your tea?”
“Strong, with milk.”
She poured her own and let the tea steep a little longer before pouring his and preparing it. He came to take his tea and plate. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Serena watched him furtively as he seated himself. He really was gorgeous, his legs in their buff, clinging pantaloons long and muscular and his shoulders surprisingly broad for his slim build. He wore no jewelry, no seals, and his clothing was almost starkly elegant. Unlike his flamboyant house, he seemed to choose his garb and accouterments only to please his own tastes. For all that he had built this cathedral to wealth and excess, he did not come across as a man who took much personal interest or pleasure in the trappings of wealth. Why, then, did he work so hard, if not for money and what it could buy?
“You mentioned the project would take a long time. Can you be more specific, Mrs. Lombard?”
She took a sip of tea and considered the question. “I would have to sit down and give it a great deal more thought, but the grounds themselves I believe could be done in under a year, and that would be with trips back and forth to London and also with—”
“I would wish you to remain here if you accept the commission. I do not live here and I believe a project of this magnitude would require full-time supervision.”
She put down her tea cup and saucer with a rattle. “You mean live here?”
“Would that present a problem for you? I would only come to consult and observe progress at various intervals.” He frowned, as if an unpleasant idea had only just that moment occurred to him. “You mentioned your in-laws. I suppose your husband would not care to have you away from him for long periods of time.”
“I am a widow, Mr. Lockheart.”
His eyes flickered slightly, but his expression remained bland. He did not, like everyone else she had met, offer any words of condolence.
“So you might relocate here for the duration of the project without overmuch upheaval.”
“I have a child.”
A Figure of Love Page 3