“He actually attempted to flirt with me. Some nonsense about the sin of ugly shoes on a lovely woman.”
“My God, not that!” Clara crossed her arms over her chest in mock indignation. “The fiend.”
“It’s not amusing, Clara.”
“Oh, but I suspect it was.”
Miranda stared for a moment, then grinned. “Well, perhaps it was a little amusing. He is obviously the type of man who expects women to fall at his feet when he directs that wicked smile of his toward them.”
“Oh?” Clara’s brow rose. “He has a wicked smile, does he?”
“A very well-rehearsed wicked smile. I would wager the man practices in the mirror.”
Clara laughed. “I assume you put him in his place.”
“Not in so many words, but I had work to accomplish.” Miranda shrugged. “And he was being bothersome. Annoying, really.” Even so, she might have been a bit harsh toward him, but she had wanted to appear serious and professional. It would not have done at all to respond to his flirtation, for him to think her frivolous. Not that she had flirted at all in recent years and, upon reflection, his flirtation had been minimal. The oddest thought struck her that he certainly could have made more of an effort. Not that she cared. “Although, to give the man his due, he was not expecting a woman. He was obviously taken aback by my arrival.”
Clara’s brow furrowed. “Will that be a problem?”
“Not for me.” A satisfied smile curved her lips. “He was nonplussed, but I quite enjoyed it. I think the key to handling Lord Stillwell might well be to keep him off balance and somewhat confused.”
“Do we really want to confuse a client?”
“This one we do.”
“Still—”
“It’s not as if we are going to recreate the Taj Mahal in place of Fairborough Hall.” Miranda waved off Clara’s concern. “We’re going to give him exactly what he wants for the most part, with a few improvements that will ultimately make his house and his life better.” Miranda thought for a moment. “It’s all a matter of, oh, bringing the horse to water as it were.”
“And then what? Holding his head under?”
“If necessary.” Miranda grinned, then sobered. “But this is a great opportunity for us, Clara. The largest project we have undertaken thus far. It might well be a model for everything we do in the future. A model of... modernization.”
“Which brings me back to my original question.” Clara studied her closely. “Is Lord Stillwell a progressive sort?”
“Lord Stillwell is—”
“Don’t say a twit,” Clara warned. “We have already established that.”
“I wasn’t, although it does bear repeating. I was going to say Lord Stillwell is—or rather appears to be—a bit old-fashioned. Although, admittedly, my opinion is based on little more than his desire to recreate the manor precisely as it once was and his reaction to my presence. I could certainly be mistaken. However . . .” Miranda grimaced. “I am fairly certain he would withdraw his commission at once were he to learn that a woman was behind the designs for the building.” She met the other woman’s gaze. “He could well ruin us.”
“Then we shall have to take every precaution to ensure that does not happen,” Clara said staunchly.
“Indeed we shall, and Lord Stillwell has handed us the way to do exactly that.”
“He has?”
“He has indeed.” Excitement bubbled up inside Miranda. “He has given me a brilliant idea.”
“Oh, I do love your brilliant ideas.” Clara leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Don’t keep me in suspense. What is it?”
“When I told him that John had passed on, Lord Stillwell wanted to speak to Mr. Tempest, who he assumed would be designing the hall.”
“Because of the name of the firm?”
“Exactly.” Miranda nodded. “I couldn’t very well tell him there is no Mr. Tempest. Or at least not one anyone here has ever seen.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him Mr. Tempest never meets with clients as he is a bit eccentric, considers himself an artist and lives in fear of alienating his muse or some such nonsense. In fact, I said I’ve never even met the man, which is entirely true.”
“And he believed you?” Doubt sounded in Clara’s voice.
“Every word.” Miranda couldn’t resist a smug smile. “So I propose we continue to allow him to believe his architect is the elusive Mr. Tempest and . . .”
“And?”
“And this is the brilliant part.” Miranda leaned forward in her chair and met her friend’s gaze firmly.
“Go on then.”
“And we allow clients in the future to believe that as well.” Miranda finished with a flourish.
“We do?” Clara said slowly.
“Of course we do.” Miranda’s words came faster with the rush of her thoughts. “When I wasn’t occupied with the plans themselves, this idea that Lord Stillwell set in motion has been fermenting, as it were, in the back of my mind. It makes perfect, and dare I say, brilliant sense.”
“Then be so good as to explain it to me.”
“We have never had anyone specifically ask the name of our architect. Indeed, Mr. Clarke has dissembled on that point, on more than one occasion attributing our work—”
“Your work.”
“The work of the firm to, oh, a joint effort, as it were. But if we allow people to believe Mr. Tempest is the chief architect, a man who never appears in public—”
“My God, that is brilliant.” Clara’s eyes widened. “We should have thought of it years ago.”
“I can’t believe we didn’t.” Miranda grinned with triumph. “If we lead people to believe Mr. Tempest is the architect no one will ever suspect the truth.”
“And the danger of—wait.” Clara stared. “But what of the real Mr. Tempest?”
Miranda shrugged. “What of him?”
“I daresay he would not approve of this.”
“I daresay he will never know.” Miranda ticked the points off on her fingers. “The man has never stepped foot in this office. John never met him. I have never met him. Whoever he is, he’s not known in society. Why, we have no idea who the man really is. His name might not even be Tempest for all we know. He is, and always has been, a silent investor.”
“There is that,” Clara murmured.
“As long as we continue to meet our monthly financial obligation to him, I see no reason why he would object or interfere. Besides, and I do think this is the most important point, the only caveat to his investment—aside from repayment—was that Tempest be included in the firm’s name. Which leads me to believe he would not be at all averse to allowing the world to think he is the architectural talent at the heart of Garret and Tempest. Well?” Miranda held her breath. “Do you agree?”
“It does solve a lot of problems. It would certainly make life less difficult if we could defer to Mr. Tempest rather than avoid specifics as much as we have had to,” Clara said thoughtfully.
“Exactly.”
“All in all, I have to agree.” Clara grinned. “It is brilliant.”
“I thought so.” Miranda stood, stepped up to the drawings, dipped a pen in ink and signed the drawings Tempest with a flourish and a satisfied smile. “And we have Lord Stillwell to thank.”
“From what you have said, I can’t imagine he would want our thanks.”
“Oh, I suspect Lord Stillwell wants any number of things he doesn’t know he wants yet.”
Clara glanced at the drawings. “Are you talking about the hall?”
“For the most part.”
“Need I remind you that no matter what you are in private, in public you remain the very respectable widowed Lady Garret?”
“Of course not.” Miranda scoffed. “I could never forget that.”
“Then what—”
“A man like Lord Stillwell is used to being in charge or thinking he is. He is also obviously used to being on the winning end o
f a proposition.”
“And?” Caution sounded in Clara’s voice.
“And I was not amenable at all to his attempts to be charming. I daresay it was most disconcerting for him.”
Clara’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”
“Therefore, when next we meet, I am going to be more, oh, shall we say willing in my dealings with him from now on.”
Clara gasped. “You’re going to allow him to seduce you?”
“Don’t be absurd.” Miranda brushed away Clara’s comment. “I am simply going to allow him to think he is making progress in that direction. Allow him to think his flirtation might well bear fruit. It has been my observation that there is nothing easier to manage than a man who thinks he is moments away from getting you into his bed. A man who is confident of his own success thinks he is in control.”
“You can’t possibly—”
“Oh, but I can. Or at least I think I can. I never have, but I fully intend to.” Miranda nodded firmly. “You must admit this is almost as brilliant an idea as that of giving substance to Mr. Tempest.”
“I suspect its brilliance is yet to be determined.” She thought for a moment. “It doesn’t seem quite fair to use his arrogance as a weapon against him.”
“Perhaps not, but one could say if he was not overly arrogant to begin with, there would be no weapon to use.”
“Regardless, do take care with him. Overly charming men with wicked smiles are not to be trusted.” Clara’s fiancé had been charming with a wicked, irresistible smile. Unfortunately, Clara was not the only one he had cast his dubious charms upon. As it happened, the man had two other fiancées as well as a marriage of questionable legality.
“Oh, I would never trust him.” Miranda’s gaze strayed back to her rendering of Fairborough Hall. “But I do hope to gain a modicum of his trust. And convince him to accept—no, embrace—progress, the way of the future.”
“As long as progress is all he embraces.”
“Believe me, Clara, I have no interest in Lord Stillwell as anything other than as a client.” Although Miranda did concede, if only to herself, the man was indeed quite dashing with all that dark hair and those blue eyes that flashed with annoyance or amusement. And what woman didn’t appreciate a man who was tall and broad-shouldered and spoke of his family home with affection and pride. Then, of course, there was that wicked smile of his, which Miranda could see, under the right circumstances, might well be lethal. Even to a woman of business. “But I am determined to prepare Fairborough Hall for the future and bring Lord Stillwell along with it.”
“Kicking and screaming, no doubt.”
“If necessary.” Miranda paused. “If I do it correctly, he’ll think it was his idea.”
“Perhaps.” Clara studied the drawing. “I daresay he’ll go along with the improvements in plumbing and heating, but this . . .” She tapped the drawing with her finger. “This might be rather more difficult.”
“Admittedly, convincing him will be a challenge, but I have no doubt even an old-fashioned sort of man will ultimately see that if one does not move forward, one will surely be left behind. A grand old lady like Fairborough Hall does need to keep up with the times, and this is the perfect opportunity. I intend to help her do just that, even if it means allowing Lord Stillwell to think he has me in the palm of his hand, figuratively of course. When we are finished, Fairborough Hall will be restored to her original grandeur and prepared for the future with modern improvements including plumbing and heating and, best of all . . .” Miranda grinned. “Electricity.”
Chapter 5
“Electricity?” Win couldn’t recall ever having stared at a woman as if she was insane before, but then he had never before met a woman one could truly call insane. Until now. “Electricity?”
“Yes, my lord, electricity,” Lady Garret said as calmly as if she were discussing something of no more significance than whether to paint the entry hall green or blue. She glanced at the drawings and plans she had laid out on the large burr walnut table in the Millworth Manor library. “You have heard of it, haven’t you?”
“Of course I have heard of it,” he said sharply. “It’s a natural phenomenon. A force of nature.”
“My apologies, of course you have. I simply meant that perhaps you were not aware of its practical applications.” She smiled pleasantly as if she hadn’t just questioned his intelligence.
“I am not uninformed about such things. Indeed, I consider myself quite up-to-date on innovation and invention and the like. But because I am amused by a parlor trick, and indeed I have seen several employing the powers of electricity, does not make me wish to run out and have it in my house.”
“How very interesting,” Gray murmured, studying the plans. Win’s parents had gathered around the table to peruse the designs Lady Garret had presented.
“One must look toward the future, Lord Stillwell,” she said primly, her resemblance to a governess apparent once again. “One cannot be mired in the past. One must either move forward or . . .” Again she smiled that pleasant smile, as if she were smiling at one who understood neither the topic nor the language. “Step aside.”
“I have no intention of stepping aside,” he snapped.
Someone—either his father or his cousin—snorted with amusement.
“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.” Win shot a scathing look at his relations. “Indeed, I consider myself extremely progressive.”
“My mistake, my lord.” Lady’s Garret’s eyes widened innocently. “And I do apologize once again. But surely you can see how I might think you were not especially concerned with modern amenities as you wanted the house rebuilt exactly as it was originally, some three hundred years ago. I simply assumed you were happy with the building and all that goes along with it.”
“I am happy,” he said in a firm tone. “I am exceptionally fond of this house and I want it put back the way it was. I don’t think that is too much to ask.”
“Not at all and we shall do our best although that may be something of a challenge.” She shrugged. “It is not easy to replicate antiquated plumbing and insufficient heating.”
“Oh dear,” Mother murmured.
“Blasted plumbing,” his father muttered. “Never does work right.”
“I don’t want antiquated plumbing and insufficient heat! My God, I am not an idiot.” Although he certainly felt like one at the moment. It was entirely her fault. She made him feel this way and he didn’t like it one bit. “Certainly, the mechanical systems of the house should be modernized.”
“Excellent.” She beamed at him. “Electricity it is then.”
He stared at her in disbelief. “I didn’t say that.”
“It does seem to me that this is an opportunity we should consider carefully,” his father said. “One can embrace tradition without being trapped by the past.”
Win’s gaze snapped to his father. “You are the most traditional man I have ever known.”
“Indeed, I do value tradition and Fairborough Hall embodies the heritage of this family. I don’t see that improvements and bringing it up-to-date would be detrimental to that tradition. We do have to live here, after all, as do generations to come. However . . .” His father met his gaze directly. “I am leaving this in your hands. You are the next caretaker of Fairborough and it should be your decision.”
“Lord Salisbury has installed electricity at Hatfield House,” his mother said helpfully.
“Lord Salisbury is an idiot!”
“And yet he is prime minister,” Gray said in a casual manner.
“I believe you have made my point.” Win snorted. “I hear he has trained his family—even his children—to throw cushions at the sparks his electricity creates to stifle potential fires. If I recall correctly, I heard as well about an unfortunate incident regarding the electrocution of his gardener.”
“Oh, I should hate to lose the gardener.” His mother’s brow furrowed. “He has such an excellent way with the roses.”
“I do not wish to rebuild only to have the house burn down again.” Win met Lady Garret’s gaze directly. “Am I clear on this?”
“Most certainly.” She bit her bottom lip in a nervous manner. “I shall relay your concerns to Mr. Tempest. He will, of course, have to make some changes to the plans. It might take him some time . . .”
“Oh, but, Lady Garret, there really is no time to waste. The work must begin as soon as possible. We have a ball to arrange, you know. And the queen might possibly attend, which would be lovely. One always hopes for a visit from the queen, even if it is usually a great deal of trouble.” Mother smiled at the other woman in a companionable manner as if they both belonged to some sort of secret, female club, then turned to her son and straightened her shoulders. “I, for one, quite like the idea of being at the forefront of progress. Therefore, I vote for electricity.”
“I did not call for a vote!” It was hard to believe the woman who had given him birth had now turned against him. “This is my decision. There is no voting about it.”
“I vote for electricity as well,” Gray added.
“Et tu, Brute?” Win glared at his cousin.
“I just think she’s right.” Gray shrugged. “I think it’s the way of the future.”
Win snorted. “Or it could be a passing fad.”
“Parts of London as well as New York are already lit with electricity,” Gray said mildly.
“Father?” Win turned to the earl. “Do you intend to vote against me as well? Not that we are voting,” he added.
His father shook his head. “I have no intention of voting. I said this was your decision and I meant it.”
“Well, that’s something, at any rate.” Win looked from his father to Gray to his mother and finally to Lady Garret. “As much as I think it’s wiser to bide our time and see where electricity may lead us . . .” His jaw clenched. “I will consider this and make my decision by tomorrow.”
“Good.” His father glanced at Lady Garret. “I, for one, quite approve of what your Mr. Tempest has done here. I look forward to seeing these plans come to fruition. Now, I have other matters to attend to. Good day.” He turned and strode from the room. In the back of his mind, Win noted with more than a little relief how much more vigorous his father now appeared than he had in the days after the fire.
The Importance of Being Wicked (Millworth Manor) Page 5