The Duchess's Diary

by Allison Lane

  The Duchess’s Diary

  (Portland Chronicles #2)

  Allison Lane

  Chapter One

  I’m in love! I’m in love! I’m in love! Yet my heart breaks. He is far too young for marriage and would never choose the daughter of a minor baron in any case. So I will die a spinster. How can I wed another when my heart is no longer mine?

  from the diary of 15-yr-old Eleanor Brentwood, upon meeting the 19-yr-old Duke of Westfield, May 1782

  April 1817

  The carriage bounced across two deep ruts as it passed between Westcourt Park’s stone gates. Architect John Lascar barely noticed. He leaned forward, anticipation roiling his stomach.

  “Relax,” he ordered himself. “Be calm.”

  But he couldn’t. His hands trembled. His ears buzzed. His mouth felt caked in dust. Too much depended on this commission.

  For a man who took pride in a practical, stoic nature that exhibited little emotion even with the most condescending patrons, his current state was puzzling. Even earning his first commission hadn’t made him dizzy.

  For ten years he’d pursued and won increasingly prestigious patrons. Now, finally, he’d found the one who could install him at the Office of Works. Once the Duke of Westfield recognized John’s architectural genius, he would support John’s bid for a seat on that powerful board. The years of study and constant care for his reputation would finally pay off. He could hardly wait. With the war finally over, the government was turning its attention to constructing new public buildings and expanding old ones. The Office of Works needed professionals with vision and style.

  Perhaps banishing this unseemly excitement would be easier if he indulged it for a moment while no one could see.

  With the thought, he perched on the edge of his seat, nose pressed to the window, and waited for a glimpse of the house. Grounds designed by Capability Brown guaranteed that the first view would be spectacular.

  Westcourt Park occupied a rolling valley, protected from cold north winds by a forested ridge. Specimen trees dotted open parkland, and pockets of woodland provided shelter for the fallow deer currently dozing beneath a massive cedar of Lebanon a hundred yards from the drive. Drifts of daffodils carpeted the turf, dancing merrily in a brisk breeze. Sunlight glinted from a distant lake – typical of Brown landscapes. A hint of green lurked among last year’s reeds, but their graceful curves barely registered on his mind. Nor did the Ionic temple perched picturesquely on the far shore.

  He quivered in anticipation.

  “Soon,” he murmured as they crossed the Palladian bridge spanning the lake’s outlet. Very soon … the first glimpse should be just beyond…

  “Dear God!” He thrust the window open to better see the image shimmering in the distance.

  The house was ugly as sin, perched above the park like a gargoyle. Yet even as his mouth sagged open in shock, the structure thrust stony fingers into his chest and confiscated his heart.

  It needed him.

  Heedless of the icy air whipping through the coach, he collapsed on the seat, panting. Never had he felt such a powerful connection to a building. And to feel it for a monstrosity…

  John shook his head.

  “What the devil were the dukes thinking?” he grumbled, forcing shock aside to cast a professional eye over the façade.

  A lord’s seat should radiate power, majesty, and wealth. Westcourt didn’t. Why hadn’t Brown fixed it? The man had designed more than landscapes.

  Some houses blended multiple styles into a fascinating whole that commanded awe, but not Westcourt. A child combining bits from several builder’s models would produce something that better pleased the eye. And the roof! Half a dozen styles jumbled together, their junctions so tangled it guaranteed leaks.

  He shuddered.

  The walls weren’t much better. A baroque façade overpowered a Palladian portico that belonged on a building half Westcourt’s size. A tower reared oddly from the right front. An oriel sprouted at the left center. The Tudor wing to the west seemed ready to collapse, its stucco sloughing off in unsightly chunks.

  At least it had plenty of windows, but the—

  A grove of trees obscured his view.

  Sighing, John closed the window and rubbed out his nose print. Excitement returned, dampening his palms. This could be the largest commission of his career, for the house needed far more work than he’d expected, offering a fabulous opportunity to exercise his talents and win the patronage he so badly needed. Surely the duke would agree.

  Or would he? How often did the duke visit his seat? So far John had dealt solely with Westfield’s secretary. Derring had understated the house’s size to a remarkable extent – which raised warning flags. While Derring had hinted at extensive renovations, John’s contract covered only leak abatement. And now that he’d seen the house…

  Questions crowded his mind. Why had the duke allowed his seat to deteriorate so badly? Was he in debt? Was he a miser? Was he too selfish to care about aught but his own pleasure? If so, John would be unable to rescue the house and would have no hope of patronage.

  Pain sliced his chest.

  It was insane to feel so strongly about a building he’d not yet entered, but he couldn’t help it. Though he could find another patron, there would never be another Westcourt. Surely the duke would listen.

  The house returned to view, closer now.

  A few external changes would unify its design. John’s fingers itched to try. He could make it more impressive than Blenheim, warmer than Chatsworth, more desirable than any other estate in England. With a little effort, Westcourt would raise envy even in the royals. He had to do it. Had to.

  Every nerve tingled with awareness. Panting, he fought his body under control. This was no time to acquire an artistic temperament. Unless he displayed calm competence and fawning deference, he would accomplish nothing. Aristocrats took advantage of any eagerness to serve. And they disdained emotion.

  Steady, he warned himself as trees again blocked the view.

  His master, Soane, taught more than design and engineering. He also made sure his students learned proper demeanor. An architect must always defer to patrons, even those who were social equals. It was possible to lead a stubborn owner into making reasonable choices, but only if he thought the ideas were his own.

  John had learned the lesson well, though he hated deferring to idiots. But he’d not had an emotional stake in the outcome until now.

  The drive twisted, offering a longer look at the house.

  It was sited atop a low rise, providing an excellent view across the park. If he had a free rein, he would heighten the tower, give it a more interesting parapet, then duplicate it on the left corner, removing the oriel in the process. That tumbledown wing had to go, and not just because of its condition. It destroyed Westcourt’s symmetry. The portico needed replacing, as did—

  “Water damage first,” he reminded himself. Stopping the leaks would likely require a new roof. If the damage was as extensive as the current roof suggested, it might be cheaper to tear the place down and start from scratch.

  Disappointment screamed through his head. The house deserved more respect.

  But if anyone could save it, he could. He reveled in projects that challenged his creativity. Solving puzzles provided hours of pleasure. If he could do that with structures that didn’t stir his senses, how much more could he accomplish with one that had already burrowed into his soul?

  The battle to wrestle his emotions under control lasted to the doorstep. But even his enthusiasm dimmed as he mounted the stairs. Westcourt was in serious disrepair, with peeling paint and crumbling mortar. Either the duke was clutch-pursed in the extreme – postponing maintenance always cost more in the long r
un – or he was in debt.

  Neither condition boded well. Before John broached the subject of renovation – or even committed himself to repairs – he must learn more about the duke’s finances. Lords were notorious for ignoring bills, so John refused any commission that might leave the laborers unpaid. Few of them had savings they could draw on in lean times. Thus he must first judge the duke’s sincerity. Since lords were exempt from debtor’s prison, no threat could force them to meet their obligations. Appealing to their honor rarely worked because in their eyes honor applied only to their peers…

  He stifled memories of the invoices he’d been sending Lord Moxley for eight years now and concentrated on his upcoming meeting with the duke. Discovering a lord’s financial condition was tricky in the best of times. Most took pains to conceal any lack, and all of them considered questions to be impertinent. So he must step carefully. A duke who could advance his career could also destroy it.

  His knock drew no response. No one had appeared to help his coachman, either. Yet he was expected…

  He was raising his hand to try again when the door opened, revealing an ancient butler in a threadbare coat and scuffed shoes.

  “Mr. Lascar, by appointment, to see His Grace,” John announced, raising his voice in case the man was hard of hearing.

  “His Grace is not at home,” the butler announced, starting to close the door.

  John’s arm shot out to halt the motion. “Nonsense. We have an appointment for two o’clock.”

  The butler frowned as if deep in thought. “I do not recall—” His head shook as he backed to let John step inside, keeping hold of the handle to steady himself. “I will see if you be expected.” Leaving John in the hall, he shuffled off, muttering.

  John inhaled sharply. Something was seriously wrong.

  Relax, he repeated, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The butler seemed unlikely to recall his own name, let alone orders about expected callers.

  He checked his coat for dust, examined every inch of his hat, used his handkerchief to buff his boots, then concentrated on his surroundings. He hadn’t been this nervous since he’d approached Soane about an apprenticeship at age thirteen.

  The hall was large, with the ornately painted ceiling typical of baroque decor. But the painting was too encrusted with smoke to discern its subject, and the linenfold paneling was more appropriate to a seventeenth-century manor house than a ducal seat. The fireplace had not been lit for some time, leaving the air dank.

  He was squinting into a high corner when the butler returned. John followed him to a small office.

  “Mr. Lascar, sir,” the butler announced.

  John stepped inside, keeping his face blank though he nearly passed out from the unexpected heat. The duke might not squander coal elsewhere, but he didn’t stint on fuel for his own comfort.

  The man put artisans firmly in their place, though. The office was tiny and stark, probably where the steward met with tradesmen, for it was hardly suitable for a duke. Yet here the man sat behind a battered desk.

  John froze in his tracks, terror balled in his throat as he fought the urge to flee. What was wrong with him today?

  Westfield was a study in contradictions. Despite the laugh lines that marked him as a genial man, he stared down a haughty nose, making no attempt to rise. Iron gray flecked thinning brown hair. Signs of dissipation were everywhere – florid complexion, sagging jowls, and a bloodshot gaze that spoke of considerable brandy last night. The depths of his amber eyes were cold enough to send shivers down John’s spine.

  Curses burst through John’s head. Westfield had lived hard and recklessly, probably squandering fortunes on every vice available to men of power and leisure, for he was utterly selfish.

  Westfield’s thin lips pursed, then announced, “I am Lord Chester Willowby, Westcourt’s steward.”

  “Lord Chester?” John quickly shuffled his impressions, stifling fury that he’d again been passed off to an underling. The urge to flee increased tenfold, but he ignored it. “Has His Grace been delayed?”

  “My nephew isn’t here, not that it matters. I run the estate.” Lord Chester took in John’s appearance with a slight frown.

  “I see.” He didn’t, though he could hardly demand clarification. Lord Chester might be Westcourt’s steward, but he was also an aristocrat. The social gulf separating them prohibited personal questions.

  Would he ever meet the duke? Did it matter? There was no evidence that the duke cared for his property or his responsibilities. Such a man would never exert himself to help others. So John could bid any hope of patronage goodbye.

  Disappointment weakened his knees.

  Lord Chester was on the shady side of fifty, so the duke was likely young, which boded ill for the question of payment. Aristocratic cubs gamed far too much, often with disastrous consequences.

  Yet the house called, louder than ever, practically screaming in his ears. Even the little he’d seen strengthened his need to address its problems.

  And perhaps his instincts were wrong for once. Lord Chester might raise John’s hackles, but he seemed amiable. As steward, he would know what was due the duke’s consequence, so he would surely rectify Westcourt’s problems. And he might even convince Westfield to support his aspirations. All John needed was a letter requesting that the government consider him for a post with the Office of Works. Soane was already a member, so half the battle was won…

  “I trust your journey was smooth.” Lord Chester relaxed.

  Curbing his impatience, John responded with the social banter the upper classes used to fill any silence. He hated the pretense of friendliness, especially when Lord Chester kept him standing, hat in hand, as if he were a supplicant.

  “Derring explained the problem, I presume,” Lord Chester finally said.

  “He mentioned leaks, but offered few specifics. I would prefer to hear the details from you to prevent misunderstandings.”

  Lord Chester nodded. “Water damage is a continuing problem, but there is no point in making repairs until the leaks are corrected. The local builder is incompetent. He suggested I hire an architect.”

  “When did the problem begin?”

  “No one knows.” He shrugged. “Much of the house is closed, some of it permanently. Some of the damage dates back five years.”

  John bit back a sigh. No wonder the west wing was buckling. It had likely been under siege for a decade or more. “How many leaks do you know about?”

  “Three. One each in the north wing, east wing, and Tudor wing.”

  “There are likely more. Small ones go unnoticed until they create extensive damage. I must study the roof before I can determine the scope of the problem. Identifying all the damage in a building of this size could take days. The repairs will likely be extensive. Have you considered other renovations?”

  Lord Chester nodded.

  “It will cost less to address everything at once. From what I’ve seen, it appears the house has not been redecorated in some time.”

  “True. My mother did the public rooms sixty years ago, but nothing structural was done then. My grandfather added the portico, but the last serious renovation occurred in 1697. Westcourt will see more use once the duke weds, so the public rooms must be updated.”

  “Will his wife not address decoration?”

  “He wants it done now so it will be ready. He also wants to add several water closets and two bathing rooms. And his crest must appear prominently in all the public rooms.”

  “What about the kitchens?” If Westcourt had not seen improvements in decades, they would be hopelessly out of date.

  “Cook’s problems are mostly water, so addressing the leaks will solve them. A bell system would be good, though, reducing the number of footmen we must employ.”

  “How many rooms do you wish to include in such a system?” John frowned at this hint at pinching pennies. Bells were useful, but few households cut the staff when they were installed. Footmen had too many o
ther duties.

  “The duke’s apartments and all the public rooms. Perhaps more.”

  “Very well. That detail can wait until later, as can the specifics of decoration. Once I know the general layout of the house, I will need several days of close study before I can produce suggestions and estimates. At that point you can decide which changes you want implemented.”

  “Excellent. Westfield’s ward understands his desires. She will conduct your tour and answer any questions. We will speak again tomorrow.” He gestured to a woman sitting in the corner. “Show him everything, Miss Harper. We want no more trouble.” His tone terminated further discussion.

  John stiffened, for he was unprepared to meet a lady, especially one he hadn’t realized was there. Forcing a passive expression onto his face, he turned. An architect must reveal no interest in the females of the household, either family or servant.

  But he nearly staggered as Miss Harper stepped into the light. Not now! he silently cursed as electricity sizzled between them, more powerful than the jolt he’d received from the house.

  The fates ignored his plea. Lust rolled through him in a powerful wave. Totally inappropriate lust. Damnation! He couldn’t think about women when he was working. What had he done to deserve this?

  He’d battled a powerful libido from his earliest days with Soane. An architect could not afford a reputation as a rake, for few would allow such a man in their homes. He couldn’t even satisfy his needs in a brothel, for the clean ones were patronized by potential patrons, and he wouldn’t risk the others. Over the years he’d enjoyed a series of discreet widows, but the most recent had begun eyeing his income rather than his body, so he’d had to dismiss her. He’d yet to find a replacement.

  Now he would pay for his procrastination. Lust would put him through the torments of the damned. Relieving it was impossible. Even the duke’s servants were off limits. A ward was as high as the duke himself.

  London would not consider Miss Harper a diamond, but she was arresting, with huge green eyes made larger by high cheekbones and a pointed chin. Her crowning glory was rich auburn hair that made his hands itch to touch. Absolutely fascinating. He’d always had a penchant for auburn hair.