Stroke of Genius

by Marlowe Mia

  The lane wound on past lush meadows, past green hillsides dotted white with sheep, past crofter’s cottages. A barefooted goose-girl shooed her honking flock out of the carriage’s path. The equipage rattled over a stone bridge arching above a brisk stream. Crispin noticed a mill snugged against the water’s edge at the next bend.

  Lord Dorset’s land had every appearance of prosperity.

  Perhaps his home is about to tumble down around him and he needs Grace’s dowry to prop it up, Crispin thought with guilty hope. He might be able to lure her away from a business arrangement of a betrothal, but if the visit to Clairmont resulted in a love match? That was a different kettle of fish.

  “Oh, my!” Mrs. Makepeace said when they caught a glimpse of Clairmont, Dorset’s ancestral seat perched on the next hill.

  The massive home didn’t seem in bad repair, but distance could be deceiving, Crispin decided. Any woman, for example, was beautiful if one simply stood far enough away from her.

  As they neared the end of the long lane, Crispin realized the Dorset manor house was as splendid as its first sight promised.

  Lots of English country homes were a mishmash of hundreds of years of architectural tinkering with very little thought to style and even less to substance. This home couldn’t have been more than seventy-five years old, classically Georgian in style, with brick arches and columns and space for over a hundred rooms, judging from the number of multi-paned windows winking at the sunset.

  “God Almighty,” Homer Makepeace swore softly. “It’s bigger than the new State House.” He tossed a guilty glance at his wife. “Sorry, Min. I know you abhor blasphemy.”

  “That’s all right, dear,” his wife said. “I was thinking the very same thing.”

  Crispin was thinking, with a growing knot in his gut, that the reason Lord Dorset was courting Grace had nothing whatever to do with the size of her dowry.

  Chapter 27

  For years, Pygmalion had shunned the company of others. When he found himself set aside not by his choice, solitude was not so pleasing a thing as he’d believed.

  “His lordship is occupied at present,” the stiffly formal butler said after he informed them his name was Addison. “However, Lord Dorset gave instructions that your every need should be attended, so if anything should be amiss, please bring it to the attention of the staff.”

  Hook-nosed, sunken-cheeked with only a wisp of hair on his head, Addison reminded Crispin of a very old turtle.

  “The marquess wished to be notified of your arrival and I shall do so.” Addison ran a vaguely disapproving eye over each of them in turn. “In the meantime, Jenkins will show you to your chambers and you can refresh yourselves from your journey. Dinner is served at eight. Jenkins, if you please.”

  A very handsome footman appeared wearing powder blue livery and a startling matching powder blue wig. Jenkins made a leg before them and invited them to follow him up the grand curving staircase.

  “Oh, not you, Mr. Hawke,” Addison called after him, his heels clacking on the marble floors. “The cottage has been prepared for you.”

  It came as no surprise to Crispin that he’d be relegated to the status of a visiting servant, but the slight still rankled him. He considered doing a little statue of Lord Dorset as Pan, the cloven-hoofed god, having his way with a stray nanny goat, in token of his thanks. Crispin could donate it to White’s where it would be sure to be seen and appreciated.

  The thought of shaming the marquess thusly gave him much less pleasure than he’d hoped. The illusory power he wielded over the high and mighty through his art really wasn’t much when compared to the real power emanating from a marquessate.

  He couldn’t raise his eyes to see what Grace might make of all this. He didn’t want to see himself shrink in her estimation. He had very little capital to expend in that regard.

  “Thank you,” Crispin said, determined to put the best face on things for the sake of the Makepeaces, but his teeth involuntarily clenched. “I understood a space separate from the main house would be available for my studio.”

  “Quite,” Addison said. “Your man Wyckeham has set everything to rights for you there.” His lip curled slightly, a bit of disdain he wasn’t quite equal to concealing. “One is sure you understand that it would be highly inappropriate for you to stay as one of the guests in the main house.”

  “Why?” Homer Makepeace backtracked down the staircase to stand beside Crispin.

  Addison blinked in surprise. Crispin figured most of the marquess’s guests were so in awe of Dorset’s power, prestige and obvious wealth, they wouldn’t question his decrees.

  “You’ll have to forgive him, Addison. Mr. Makepeace is an American,” Crispin said. “They have little notion of how easily our aristocracy feels itself contaminated by its inferiors.” He clapped a hand on Homer’s shoulder. “It’s all right. It’s the way of things. And in any case, I prefer privacy. I’m certain the cottage will be fine.”

  Homer frowned. “If you’re sure. We’ll see you at supper, then.”

  Addison cleared his throat. “Actually, one feels Mr. Hawke will be more comfortable dining in the cottage. Cook will send round a plate of something.”

  “Who is it you’re talking about who’s doing all this feeling?” Mr. Makepeace rounded on the butler. “Is this how Lord Dorset makes his guests feel welcome? We’ll see Mr. Hawke at supper or my family and I will leave right now the same way we came.”

  “Sir, might one suggest that there are certain standards which his lordship’s household is constrained to uphold,” Addison said.

  “Standards which obviously can’t make room for a Yankee trader or his daughter.”

  “No, no, sir. That was not implied at all. Oh, dear.” Addison turned to Crispin, obviously hoping for more help since he’d given so easily on the question of his accommodations.

  This time Crispin wouldn’t budge. Damned if he’d settle for a “plate of something” while Dorset paid court to Grace over his dining table.

  Addison’s jaw worked under his skin for a moment. “An extra place will be laid for Mr. Hawke.”

  Mr. Makepeace smiled. “Thanks, Addison. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Tell Lord Dorset we appreciate his hospitality. See you at supper, Hawke.”

  Crispin nodded and listened with half an ear to Addison’s directions to the cottage. He chanced a glance at Grace who was still waiting for her father on the first landing of the grand staircase. She sent Crispin a quick smile, then turned to follow Jenkins to the upper floors of the marquess’s mansion.

  Very good, milady. Toss the rabble a crumb. Crispin turned and forced himself not to limp as he strode back out the tall double doors.

  * * *

  Claudette greeted Grace at the door when she arrived at the sumptuously appointed room she’d been assigned. “Vraiment, it is a palace, I tell you. Is this not fine, mam’selle?”

  The chamber was worthy of a marchioness. The rosewood bedstead and matching vanity were polished to rich brilliance. The counterpane was of costly damask and shot through with threads of gold. A carved ivory fireplace was flanked by a pair of yellow chintz-covered chairs with matching ottomans apiece.

  An onyx and jet chess set was arranged for play on a burled oak table between the chairs. A selection of books was propped on the mantle.

  “The marquess seems to be signaling he recognizes that I possess a mind,” Grace said as she ran her fingertips along the mantle.

  Three Palladian windows opened onto a view of the garden and a set of French doors led to a narrow veranda. With Claudette babbling happily behind her, Grace wandered out onto the balcony.

  Which was so far above the garden below, no one could climb up without a rope ladder attached to the granite railings. Crispin couldn’t—

  She mentally kicked herself for imagining such a wicked thing.

  Beyond the formal garden, there was an exercise yard between a long row of stables and outbuildings. A girder-and-glass green house was situated
near a duck pond. A large willow draped itself into the water.

  But Grace couldn’t see anything that remotely resembled a cottage.

  “And through here,” Claudette said as she shepherded Grace back inside and into one of the anterooms, “Le voila! Your own water closet. There you see, a drain, she is built right in the floor. I only have to haul the water up for your bath, not the down also.” Claudette’s eyes sparkled. “Oh! From now on perhaps I shall not even have to do that when there are so many footmen running about this place. That Monsieur Jenkins, he has tipped me the eyes more than once and—”

  “What about Mr. Wyckeham?”

  Claudette snapped her fingers. “This I give for Monsieur Wyckeham.”

  “But I thought you said you liked him because he knew what to do with his tongue.” Grace felt her cheeks heat because now she had a much better inkling of what a man’s tongue might accomplish.

  “Oh, la! And now he is using that tongue to try to tell me what to do.” Claudette straightened the already tidy pillows propped on Grace’s bed and pummeled them into submission. “Non, I will not have it.”

  Grace wondered if her maid were imagining Mr. Wyckeham’s ornery face on the cushions she was flagellating.

  “You seem upset,” Grace observed. “What is it Mr. Wyckeham wants you to do?”

  “It is not what he wants me to do.”

  “But I thought you said—”

  “It is what he wants me not to do.” Claudette bustled over and began undoing the row of buttons marching down Grace’s spine. “Come, mam’selle, the bath, she is ready now. You will want to look your best for Monsieur le Marquess, non?”

  She didn’t wait for Grace to answer, which was a mercy because Grace really wasn’t sure how to answer the question. She’d tolerated his lordship’s attention and basked in her mother’s florid approval of it, but there was no flutter in her belly, no desire to please the marquess especially. If she was actually contemplating marrying the man, surely there ought to be.

  As her maid helped her undress, Grace realized why she liked Claudette so much. The Frenchwoman was perfectly capable of carrying both sides of a conversation without obvious effort. Which gave Grace freedom to think her own thoughts unhindered.

  “This person I shall not speak to,” Claudette said vehemently. “That one I may not look at. I should not allow another one to turn his eyes to me.” She rolled her own delphinium blue ones at Grace. “As if I can help if a man’s eyes go this way or that!”

  “It sounds as if Mr. Wyckeham cares a great deal about you.”

  “Hmph! Non, I tell you who he cares about. He cares about Wyckeham.”

  Grace allowed herself to be shooed into the water closet and stepped into the bath. It was still blessedly warm and began to unknot all her travel kinks.

  “He thinks to make me a thing,” Claudette complained. “A trinket. A bauble he hangs about his neck or puts in his pocket. Non, I belong to me.”

  Claudette soaped up the washcloth and began to scrub Grace’s back with vicious efficiency.

  “Monsieur Wyckeham can go chase himself. I will be no one’s thing!” Claudette declared. Then she handed Grace the soap and cloth and left her to finish the rest of her ablutions in peace, as Grace preferred.

  But as she soaped her body, it occurred to Grace that a marchioness might well be considered a ‘thing.’

  Chapter 28

  Galatea didn’t understand Pygmalion half the time and was puzzled by him the other half. But then she made a discovery that began to shed light on his soul.

  “Flower Arrangement Made Easy, The Complete Guide to Housekeeping or The Thrifty Matron, and A Brief History of Tatting.” Grace read the titles of the books on her mantelpiece aloud. “Perhaps Lord Dorset doesn’t admire my mind as much as I supposed.”

  “Perhaps not, mam’selle.” Claudette surveyed her handiwork and stepped closer to tuck one of the hair pins back into Grace’s elaborate do. “But he knows little of you yet and you give him plenty of other things to admire until then. You are lovely and I am brilliant with your coiffure, non?”

  “Yes, you are,” Grace admitted. “No one else has ever been able to bring such order to the chaos on my head.”

  Claudette loved to be praised whenever she managed to wrangle Grace’s locks into a fashionable style. And as difficult as Grace’s fly-away tresses were, she deserved every accolade.

  Grace decided to wear the gown Crispin had helped choose for her. The uniquely well-suited colors gave her confidence and she wanted to send him a subtle message with her choice. She deplored the way he was shuffled out to a distant cottage as if he weren’t the greatest living artist in all Britain.

  And she intended to speak to Lord Dorset about the inequity at the first opportunity.

  She headed for her chamber door.

  “Mam’selle, it is not yet time for the supper,” Claudette said.

  “I know. I want to find the library before we dine. Surely they must have one in a house this large. Perhaps Lord Dorset has a collection on mythology I’ve not yet seen.” Grace gathered up the sorry offering of books on the mantle, intending to return them to their rightful place. By title alone, they earned the right to catch dust somewhere else. “Besides, you deserve a rest Claudette.”

  “Merci.” Her maid dropped a curtsey. “Tres bien. My little room, she is adjoining yours, right through that door. The bellpull by your bedside rings for me there. Bon soir, mam’selle.”

  “I’ll try to have a good evening,” Grace said. Whatever else the night held, she suspected there would be fireworks of some sort at supper. With Crispin and her mother and Cousin Jasper at the same board, how could there not?

  She slipped into the corridor and retraced her steps down the long staircase to the imposing foyer. Surprisingly, she didn’t find anyone at the door from whom she could ask directions to the library. So she set off on her own exploration, books tucked under one arm, a small kerosene lamp lifted from a side table in the other hand. If she failed to arrive at the dining room at the appointed time, someone would launch a search party.

  They’ll need one, along with a knowledgeable guide, she decided after traversing several parlors and a music room, where a butterfly grand piano squatted in one corner and a full-sized harp in another. The rooms rolled into each other as if they were waves, cresting in succession.

  And surprisingly, the rooms were illuminated by wall sconces flickering gaily even though no one was in them. Grace felt foolish carrying the lamp, but felt certain that as sure as she set it down, she’d run out of well-lit spaces.

  “Someone needs to read The Thrifty Matron,” Grace muttered. She wondered if the marquess was merely showing off for his guests by having so many needless lamps burning or if this was his usual wasteful mode.

  She decided to assign the most charitable view to the waste. The marquess’s home was so grand he probably expected his guests to explore a bit.

  Then she entered a smaller space filled with oddments from exotic places. Chinoiserie screens vied with medieval tapestries. A disgruntled water buffalo head glared down at Grace from above the small fireplace. A Hindu goddess with several spare pairs of arms writhed on a side table, but the ottoman fashioned from what appeared to be an elephant’s foot struck Grace as most unusual. The marquess, or someone in his ancestry, was an intrepid world traveler.

  Then after wandering unimpeded through the grand spaces, she finally came to a closed door.

  It wasn’t locked so she pushed it open a crack to find the first dark room she’d encountered.

  I knew I’d need the lamp sooner or later. She eased the door completely open and it protested with a long screech.

  Then she realized the room wasn’t completely dark. At the far end—and the end was truly far for the room was enormous, dwarfing all the ones she’d previously visited—there stood a solitary woman with a lamp similar to the one Grace held. She was looking up at a painting on the tall wall, lifting her lamp a bit
as she scrutinized different portions of the huge work.

  “Come in, if you’re going to or else close the door behind you,” the woman said without a glance in Grace’s direction. “But have the goodness to make up your mind quickly. If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s indecision.”

  Grace had to go in then, if for no other reason than to learn who she was. As Grace drew near, threads of gold sparked in the woman’s elegant gown and several jewels winked on her uplifted hand. Her hair was white, but it was swept up in the latest style as if she were a debutante. She held herself perfectly erect, defying time by sheer dint of will.

  Based on her age and mode of dress, Grace suspected she was Lord Dorset’s mother, the current Marchioness of Dorset. She’d be the dowager marchioness once her son married, so Grace dropped a curtsey in deference to her rank.

  “If you’re going to be in here, at least do me the courtesy of holding your lamp steady. You’re casting the most awful shadows,” the marchioness said without a flick of her eyes in Grace’s direction.

  “I ask your pardon, my lady,” Grace said reflexively and lifted her lamp to aid in the marchioness’s perusal of the art.

  Grace looked up at the larger-than-life portrait. An ornate monogram was centered at the foot of the work with a large CRS emblazoned amid gilded curlicues and loops. A polished Hessian rested atop the monogram. Grace lifted her lamp higher so she could see the man’s face clearly and gasped.

  “Oh, yes, he had that effect on the ladies all his philandering life,” Lady Dorset said coolly. “A handsome devil, what? May I present my husband, Christian Sinclair Royce, seventh Marquess of Dorset, Earl of Umber, Viscount Siddon, and Baron something-or-other—oh, I do find those ancillary titles so tedious! And of no use whatsoever to someone who, if there be a God in heaven, is roasting in hell as we speak.”

  Grace flinched in surprise.

  The marchioness turned a shrewd eye on her for the first time, peering up at Grace. “And you must be the Makepeace chit. He said you were tall. He failed to mention you were a giantess.”