by Syrie James
The indignity and injustice of it burned like fire in her blood. Even though a queen sat on the throne of England, and had ruled the land longer than any monarch in its history, for the most part men had ruled the world throughout time—and they obviously had no intention of changing that.
It was totally unfair. Unacceptable. Kathryn had to talk to somebody about this, throw herself on their mercy, beg if necessary to make the RIBA board reconsider.
There was only one person she could think of who might help her.
George Patterson’s bushy dark eyebrows raised in surprise at the sight of her as Kathryn strode into his spacious office at his architectural firm, making sure to leave the door ajar.
“Miss Atherton!”
He was seated by the window in a wheeled chair, still recovering from the injuries he’d sustained over a month ago. His right arm and hand were in a cast and sling. One leg was encased in a cast. “I had no idea you were back in town,” he added. For some reason, Kathryn thought she detected a note of dismay in his voice.
“I finished the work at St. Gabriel’s Mount and returned last night,” Kathryn admitted as she approached him. “Just this morning I received word from the RIBA that, although I passed their exam with a score of ninety-eight percent, they are refusing to grant me a license.”
“Is that so? I’m sorry.”
“What more am I supposed to do to prove myself? To show that I’m qualified?” Kathryn paced back and forth before him, frustrated. “They claim it ‘goes against institute policy’ to give a license to a woman, but that’s ridiculous.”
“I did try to warn you that this might happen.” There was a nervous edge to his voice, and his eyes darted covertly to a set of architectural drawings spread open atop his desk.
Curious, Kathryn moved in that direction. “Yes, but I earned a nearly perfect score. Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“It should. But you are an anomaly, my dear. My guess is, they never expected you to pass. When you did, they obviously didn’t know what to do with you.”
She glanced down at the plans on his desk, recognizing them at once. Her heart went cold.
They were her plans for the new Lloyds Bank building. Her original design—the ones she had drawn up at home on her own time, as an example of her work. They were stamped with the word FINAL. And they had George Patterson’s signature at the bottom of them.
Kathryn’s mouth fell open and her stomach dropped for the second time in as many days. She whirled to face her employer as yet another awful truth suddenly became clear to her. “That’s why you hired me, isn’t it?”
“Pardon me?” Mr. Patterson squirmed in his wheeled chair.
“You only took me on because you knew I’d be cheap labor. Working my fingers to the bone, year after year, giving you great drawings and ideas which you could claim as your own.”
A guilty look dashed across Patterson’s face, but he quickly masked it and raised his good hand in a placating gesture. “There is no reason to get upset.”
“This is my design for Lloyds Bank. You said it ‘wasn’t what the client had in mind.’”
“Which I believed at the time. But as you know, I have been incapacitated. So I decided to let them take a look at it.”
“With your name all over it, instead of mine!”
“This is no different than anything else you have drawn for me since you entered my employ.”
“It’s entirely different!” Kathryn seethed. “Up to now, I was working for hire. Whatever I designed was yours, that was understood. I drew these on my own time, and you stole them without my knowledge or permission.”
He sighed. “Be realistic, Miss Atherton. Lloyds Bank would never build a structure designed by a woman, even if you did have a license—which the RIBA board has refused to give you. You should be happy with this turn of events.”
“Happy?”
“Yes, because something you envisioned is actually going to be built. If it’s your salary that is at issue, I will see that you get a raise.”
“I want more than a raise, Mr. Patterson.” Fury and indignation gave Kathryn the courage to ask for what she was due. “I want to be acknowledged and valued for my contributions. Either you tell Lloyds Bank that the design was mine, and give me credit for all the work I do going forward, or I quit.”
She stared straight at him, heart pounding, waiting for his reply.
Patterson shrugged. “I will be sorry to see you go, my dear. But if that is your decision, I accept it.”
White-hot panic surged through Kathryn’s chest. Dear God, what have I done? Is it truly over, just like that?
Apparently, it was. Mr. Patterson dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
Kathryn turned toward the open door of his office, still too stunned to take the first step.
Just then, the front desk clerk strode in and announced, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Patterson. A gentleman is here to see you. He says he’s the Duke of Darcy, and he’s come from Cornwall.”
Kathryn gaped in astonishment as Lance strode in.
He was impeccably attired, his long legs, chiseled features, and magnetic presence taking instant command of the room.
“Patterson,” he declared, his tone clipped and his eyes as cold as ice.
Kathryn’s mind whirred. What was he doing here? And why was the look on his face so dark and thunderous? Had he overheard her discussion with Mr. Patterson? He well could have; the door had been wide open.
If so, he knew she’d just lost her job. Mortification rose like firelight from Kathryn’s chest to heat her face. That ought to make him happy. He’d never expected her to succeed.
Lance’s gaze fell on her now. “Miss Atherton.”
“Lord Darcy,” she replied stonily. Giving him only the briefest of glances, she swept past him and out of the room.
“What the hell, Patterson?”
Lance had arrived in London late the night before, armed with Kathryn’s address in Grosvenor Street, which Hammett had noted from the tags on her luggage before she left St. Gabriel’s Mount. When he’d called there, the butler had explained that Kathryn had gone to the office to meet with her employer.
Now, as Lance stood over Patterson’s wheeled chair, it was all he could do not to punch the man in his smug, florid face.
“I have retained the services of your firm for a month,” Lance spat out. “Miss Atherton has performed her work with dedication and impeccable skill. You must have known she would, or you wouldn’t have sent her to Cornwall in your place. Isn’t that right?”
“It is indeed, Your Grace,” Patterson replied. “And might I say what an honor it is to meet you in—”
“So what is this I hear,” Lance interrupted venomously, “that you took credit for her design for a new bank building?”
“Well, er, Your Grace,” Patterson sputtered, “that is to say, I had no—”
Lance stopped him with a raised hand. “Don’t give me excuses, sir. I heard what I heard. You stole her design, then took the easy route out and let her go. Which makes you one of the greatest blackguards I have ever met.”
“Now see here, Lord Darcy,” Patterson said, his face turning an even deeper shade of red.
“Take care, Patterson. My family has friends in high places. A word from me could put you out of business in half a minute.”
Patterson went quiet at that, casting his beady eyes to the floor.
“You mentioned something about her being refused a license? What is that about? I know she was awaiting the results of an exam.”
“She . . . she received her score on the RIBA exam this morning.”
“And?”
“Er. Um. Well.” Patterson cleared his throat. “That is to say, I have not seen the results myself, but as I understand it, she earned . . .” His voice dropped until it was almost inaudible. “Ninety-eight percent.”
“Ninety-eight percent?” Lance echoed. He wasn’t a bit surprised.
Patterson
nodded ever so slightly, deliberately avoiding Lance’s gaze.
“And yet,” Lance added slowly, incredulously, “they won’t give her a license?”
“Apparently not.”
Lance crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw tightening with anger. “Who heads up the RIBA board? Do you know how to reach him?”
“I do, Your Grace.”
“Good. Because you’re going to give me his name and contact information. And a few other names as well.”
Why on earth did I open my mouth?
As the hansom cab rattled along the London street, Kathryn leaned back against the seat with stunned regret. What had possessed her to say those things to Mr. Patterson? What had made her think that she was due anything? That she could make demands?
She’d been lucky to have a job at all. With a few choice words, she’d thrown that job away.
Now, she had nothing. Absolutely nothing. No job. No architectural degree. No license. And no prospects of ever getting such. It had taken many long months to find a firm that would even hire her. Without Patterson for a reference, she might never find work again.
As if it wasn’t bad enough that she’d lost everything, Lance had to be there to witness it! Which made her humiliation complete.
What was Lance doing in town, anyway? He must have come, Kathryn reasoned, to find another prospective bride. As long as he was here, he probably figured he might as well meet with Mr. Patterson about the renovations to St. Gabriel’s Mount.
The timing couldn’t have been worse. She imagined the two men laughing together after she’d left. Confirming what a fool she’d been, trying to make her way in a man’s profession.
Oh, how she despised Mr. Patterson. He was a thief and a cad.
The Duke of Darcy was no better. He was a thief of hearts.
Despite herself, she couldn’t stop thinking about the moment when Lance had held her in his arms and said, I love you, Kathryn.
Tears burned behind Kathryn’s eyes as she struggled to wipe the image from her mind. It had felt so real when he’d said it. She felt like such a fool for saying it back.
The tears broke free and began streaming down her face. After a moment, Kathryn wiped them away and swallowed a sob. She wouldn’t allow self-pity to consume her again.
She reflected on everything she’d said to Lance, and was glad she had given him a piece of her mind.
On second thought, she was glad she’d stood up for herself with Mr. Patterson, too. What she’d said had been the truth. It had needed to be said.
Mr. Patterson had stolen her plans for Lloyds Bank and passed them off as his own. He’d been paying her peanuts, raking in good money off of her hard work for years, and taking all the credit. How could she have continued to work for a man like that?
So what if Mr. Patterson wouldn’t give her a reference? Kathryn had done excellent work for many of his clients over the past two years. He may have put his name on those drawings, but her originals were stored at the office, dated and signed by her.
She also had her originals of the Lloyds Bank drawings. She could show them to clients to try to prove the work had been hers. Hopefully, someone would believe her and be willing to give her a reference.
If not, she would just start from scratch. She’d done it before. She would pound the pavement again, visit every single architectural firm in London, including the ones that had turned her down two years ago, this time with a stack of new drawings in her portfolio.
If nothing turned up in London, she could try the smaller cities in England. She’d go back to New York if she had to. A building boom was going on in New York City. Kathryn had remained in London after university because she loved it and because it was closer to her sisters. She’d never actually tried to find a job in her own country. Maybe it was time she did.
It wouldn’t be easy. It might take a long time. But somewhere out there, a job was waiting for her. And she was going to make it happen.
In the meantime, to hell with Mr. Patterson.
And the Duke of Darcy.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lance strode into the private room at his club. The eight men he’d invited were assembled around the table, waiting.
Eight men whom he had never met in his life. Lance had dashed off notes to each of them earlier that afternoon, requesting that they meet him that evening at eight o’clock. Short notice, he knew. But he also guessed that these men wouldn’t miss an opportunity to meet with the new duke in town.
He’d been right.
Dukes had power. He’d held a similar kind of power as a captain in the Royal Navy. But people, he’d discovered, treated dukes with even more deference. As if they walked on water. As if they were somehow more important and more worthy than other people, simply by the station of their birth.
It was a ridiculous notion. But tonight, he was going to put that notion to good use.
Lance stopped by the empty chair at the foot of the table. All eight men rose in unison. The mustachioed, gray-haired gentleman to his right held out his hand and introduced himself.
Lance made his way around the table, greeting each man in turn. When the introductions were complete, he returned to the foot of the table and sat down.
Everyone resumed their seats and fixed him with intent gazes.
“I am sure I speak for all of us, Your Grace,” said the man to his right with a smile, “when I say that we are all very pleased to be here, and honored to make your acquaintance. But might I inquire as to what occasioned this rather unexpected meeting?”
“You may indeed inquire,” Lance replied with a terse smile. “We are here to discuss Miss Kathryn Atherton.”
The meeting, Lance thought with satisfaction at breakfast the next morning, had gone well. Extremely well. He had every reason to expect that his demands would be met, and in a timely fashion. With that taken care of, he could return to Cornwall.
Lance deeply regretted that his original intent in coming to town—to see Kathryn, to explain and apologize—had not been achieved. Or even come close.
When he’d walked in on her and George Patterson the morning before, she’d stormed out with barely a word. His attempts to call on her at Grosvenor Street had failed. She refused to see him.
It tore at his heart to think about it, but she must hate him now.
Lance hoped that what he’d done last night might help mitigate some of that anger. At least it should make her life a bit easier.
Well, Grandmother, I tried. He had no illusions anymore that he and Kathryn could ever go back to what they once were. That she’d ever want to see him again. Much less love him or want to marry him. He knew that was off the table for good.
He was still in debt up to his eyeballs. He had still lied to her about it. It wasn’t something he could fix with a meeting. It would take a magic wand.
But perhaps, just perhaps, his intervention would help pave the way for her to achieve a few of those dreams and goals that were so important to her. He hoped she would find her happiness. That would make him happy. And it would have to be enough.
He was about to ring for Woodston to inform him that it was time to pack when a letter arrived. The engraved notepaper announced that it was from a Lady Carnarvon with a Mayfair address. Yet another person he had never met in his life.
My dear Lord Darcy,
I have only just spoken to my dear friend Prudence Fowlington, whose husband Reginald, the President of Lloyds Bank, informed her of your presence in Town. Might I presume, my dear Duke, that—being an unattached gentleman recently come into a title—you might be seeking a wife?
Lord Carnarvon and I are hosting a small soirée at eight o’clock this evening. It would give us the greatest pleasure if you would attend. Although the Season is nearly over, there will be several eligible young ladies present, including one to whom I should particularly like to introduce you—Miss Imogen Russell, an heiress from Cincinnati with a sizeable fortune.
I look forward
to your favorable reply by afternoon post, and do hope to see you this evening.
With all due respect, I remain,
Lady Constance Carnarvon
Lance tossed the letter onto the table, his spirits sinking. The invitation didn’t surprise him. An unmarried duke was always in demand. Why, though, had Lady Carnarvon specifically mentioned a debutante with a fortune?
Was it possible that she had a hunch about the debts weighing him down? He hoped not. Hopefully, it was just standard modus operandi. Every peer in possession of a great house needed money these days, after all. Mentioning an heiress’s worth was understood to be part of the game. A title in exchange for a whole lot of American cash.
A month ago, he had intended to come up to town seeking just such a bride.
The idea of marrying someone for her money turned his stomach now.
Lance just wanted to go home. Back to St. Gabriel’s Mount. Where he would bury his sorrows in a stiff glass of whiskey.
But, he realized, St. Gabriel’s Mount wouldn’t be his home much longer if he did that. It wouldn’t be his grandmother’s home, either. Or the home of any future member of the Darcy family. Should his line actually continue, that is. Which at the moment was in grave doubt.
If he did nothing, the castle and all its holdings would be seized by moneylenders. And end up in someone else’s hands.
Lance took up the letter and read it again. An heiress from Cincinnati. With a sizeable fortune. He heaved a sigh. The family legacy was in his hands. He had sworn to do his duty by it.
He supposed he ought to meet her.
It was a soirée like all the other soirées Lance had attended over the years, whenever he had been on leave and had time to kill in town. A drawing room filled with overdressed people who were drinking too much and laughing too loudly.
Upon his arrival, Lady Carnarvon had descended on him, taken him by the arm, and introduced him to Miss Imogen Russell, the diminutive daughter of a Cincinnati merchant who had made his fortune in dry goods.
Miss Russell was reasonably pretty, but so young (she’d celebrated her eighteenth birthday just days before) that he felt like a lecher for even considering her as a prospective bride, and so slight she looked as if she might blow away in a strong wind. She was dressed to the nines in a pale pink gown studded with gemstones, a gown Lady Carnarvon assured him had been designed by Frederick Worth of Paris.