by Allison Lane
“You needn’t apologize to the staff,” she’d murmured as they’d left the library.
“Why not? It costs me nothing, yet recognizes that she is a person little different from me.”
“But you are an architect.” She’d regretted the protest instantly, for he’d smiled, turning her knees to jelly.
“I wasn’t always an architect,” he’d explained as they entered the next room. “I’ve held gentlemen’s horses for half-pennies, carried messages, delivered packages.”
“Were you poor, then?”
“No. While I knew boys whose earnings meant the difference between a full belly and starvation, Mother’s income supported us. But I needed drawing supplies the way most people need air. They come dear.”
The words had sent shivers down her spine, for she could so easily have faced a similar dilemma. Without the duke—
Wrenching her thoughts back to the attic, she pointed to a door in the corner. “Access to the roof.”
“Good. You needn’t accompany me. It is dangerous for those hampered by skirts.”
She nodded, grateful for a few minutes alone so she could uncover a chair and rest her hip.
“This will likely take half an hour,” he continued. “I can meet you downstairs if you prefer.”
“Why not leave the roof for morning? The light is already going, and we cannot finish the tour before dinner.”
“I can finish these wings, then start on the Tudor wing this evening.”
“Not in the dark,” she informed him. “The Tudor wing is dangerous. It’s been locked for years.”
“Then Westfield should remove it. It is an eyesore.”
“I know, but you’ll lose that battle. The trustees won’t authorize any destruction.”
“Trustees?” His blue eyes locked on hers. “Just where is the duke, Miss Harper? Still at school? Mr. Denning told me he would be here. It’s all very well for Lord Chester to claim authority, but I’ll need more than a steward’s signature before committing further time.”
Faith sighed. “Lord Chester likely is the duke.”
“He doesn’t know?”
She cursed Chester’s arrogance for claiming a title not yet his own when dealing with tradesmen. “Chester is the ninth duke’s heir. No one has heard from the duke since the day he left Westcourt. Once we prove he is dead, Chester will assume the title. In the meantime, the trustees installed him as steward, retaining control only over the dukedom’s finances.”
Mr. Lascar frowned, then crossed one ankle over the other and leaned against the door, the relaxed pose at odds with the fingers tapping steadily against his thigh. “I don’t wish to pry, but if I accept this commission, I must know who I am working for and what authority he holds. There is no point in designing changes that will not be implemented. Replacing the roof and repairing the water damage will be expensive, and that doesn’t include any renovations. Unless I know the workmen will be paid, I cannot continue.”
“Of course.” Faith limped toward a dusty window to hide her surprise. No gentleman cared a whit about underlings – which underscored Mr. Lascar’s inferior breeding. Yet she applauded his concern. “The situation is rather odd. While the trustees can be overly cautious about expenditures, once they approve a project, they pay accounts promptly.”
“Have they authorized these repairs?”
“Chester would not have brought you here without their consent, but I doubt they know how bad the situation is. I tried to bring the leaks to their attention two years ago, but Chester allows no one to infringe on his authority, and he despises any reminder that others hold the purse strings. He keeps financial negotiations private, especially from ducal dependents.”
“But I am not a dependent, and I will not design repairs until we agree on the cost.”
She nodded, her heart light. Mr. Lascar could help Westcourt better than she ever could. Chester wanted his expertise, and the trustees respected his profession judgment. They would listen to him. But Chester would never forgive her if he learned that she had encouraged Mr. Lascar to act on his own. So she chose her words with care.
“A prudent man would submit a full list of repairs and an explanation of why they are necessary to both Chester and the trustees. Prudent trustees would inspect the damage themselves before committing to the expense – none have called since I moved in. Travel might prove impossible, though. They are elderly men and may well suffer from it – another reason they put Chester in charge of the estate. The old steward ignored the house.”
Mr. Lascar nodded. “How is it that no one knows the duke’s fate? Did he disappear in battle?”
“No.” She paused, but there was no reason to hide the truth. Society had already dissected the scandal twice and would do so again when the current search ended. “It is a story more suited to a fairy tale than to real life.” She inhaled deeply. “Once upon a time there was a kind and generous duke, who lived with his beloved wife and son in a wonderful castle. The depth of their love scandalized a society that considered emotions vulgar, but they didn’t care, for they had each other. Then tragedy struck, killing the duke and shattering the duchess’s happiness. Her grief could tolerate no reminder of their love. So she sent their son to be fostered out of her sight.”
“What? That’s mad!”
“Not really. They fell deeply, passionately in love when she was fifteen and he barely nineteen. The archives contain the letters they exchanged during the two years until they could wed. Very intense. Their devotion scandalized society, of course. She was barely twenty when he died. I can understand why grief hit her so hard.”
“I cannot believe that anyone sane could send a child away,” he snapped. “All she had to do was avoid the nursery. This place is certainly big enough.”
“Many people agree.” She sighed. “They call her mad, then cite her behavior as proof that emotion is dangerous. Part of that is guilt that they didn’t stop her – the boy was gone before anyone suspected her plans. That was thirty years ago. The scandal rocked society, and not just because she send her son away. She entrusted him to her French maid, who took him home to be raised in obscurity. He was barely two at the time.”
“My God!”
She nodded. “The maid swore to see him properly educated and to send him home when he came of age. But by then we were at war with France. Hope ran high after Napoleon’s first abdication, but the duke didn’t return. Nor did he appear after Waterloo. No one has heard a word of him since the day he left Westcourt. The accepted verdict is that he perished in the early years of the revolution. Now that France is again open to travelers, the trustees hired an investigator to discover the duke’s fate. But after all this time, he is unlikely to be successful. In the meantime, the house is suffering from neglect.” She kept her voice light to hide her fears. Proving the duke dead would be a disaster for her. Never could she tolerate Chester as her guardian.
“Is it Lord Chester who plans to wed, then?”
“That’s the first I’ve heard of it, but I must assume so.”
Mr. Lascar’s eyes narrowed in consideration. “How much work did the trustees actually approve?” he finally asked.
“Only Chester can answer that, for I do not correspond with them. But the leaks must be stopped. It will be up to you to determine how. The water damage must be repaired if the house is to survive. The public rooms need work, and modern amenities are desirable. Despite Chester’s reluctance, I would definitely include improved kitchen facilities on that list. And the servants’ quarters make dungeons look cozy. I hope you can make a strong case for improving them, for Chester will balk. But Westcourt is isolated enough that finding servants is difficult. Without a duke in residence, no one calls, so the staff has few opportunities for earning vails. Even if Chester gains the title, there will be little entertaining, for he prefers town. So improving the servants’ wing is something I will insist on.”
“What authority do you wield?”
“None,” she
admitted, leaning against a sheeted cabinet to lighten the tug on her hip. “But the housekeeper has been failing for some years, so managing the house falls to me. If I don’t protect her, Chester will toss her out without a pension. Others, too.”
He raised a brow, but though his eyes seemed darker than they’d been even a moment ago, he said no more on that subject. “What about ducal crests and other decorating details.”
“Only the trustees can answer that question. Frankly, I find Chester’s taste vulgar, so I would hesitate to give him free rein until he has the title in hand. But I have no authority, of course. You might figure the costs with and without those changes, then let him deal with the trustees. They might approve, for they believe he should exercise the full authority of the title. He has run the dukedom since Waterloo. By the time you finish the roof, he might have the title. If I know him at all, his first act will be to replace the Tudor wing with new ducal apartments, which can only be an improvement.”
“I see.” He shook his head. “I have more questions, but I need to survey the roof before dark. Do I meet you here or downstairs?”
“Here.”
Once he disappeared through the doorway, she settled into a chair, praying yet again that time and war would obscure the ninth duke’s fate. She had always felt oddly close to him. When she’d arrived at Westcourt, the duke’s elderly dog had been more arthritic even than Baines. But Buster had taken to her immediately, comforting her grief and offering a willing ear when she railed at fate, as she’d done too often in those days. His death a year later had added a new loss to her life. But without him, the move to Westcourt would have been much harder.
Buster’s friendship had made her curious about the duke, so she’d read everything she could find about him, which had led to studying his parents and other family members. That in turn had convinced her that Westcourt was better off in the limbo of no duke at all.
Chester would make an abominable duke. He was a dissipated profligate, selfish to the core, who would begin his reign by turning off the elderly staff and poor relations currently living on the estate. None would receive a pension, for he begrudged every groat that went for their upkeep. The moment he was officially her guardian, he would settle her in the most degrading position he could find. Their mutual dislike was too engrained to expect more.
Which was why she would never tell him what she’d learned from studying the family archives…
But speculating about the duke could not divert her for long. Mr. Lascar filled her mind. He was a surprisingly sensual man. Most people gauged their surroundings with their eyes, but not Mr. Lascar. He brushed walls with his fingertips, making her insides quiver as she imagined those fingers feathering across her skin. He sniffed the air, his nose leading him unerringly to the dampest spots. And his tongue often stroked his lips, seeming to taste trouble.
How would he taste?
Tearing her thoughts free, she lurched to her feet, lifting covers to check furniture and trunks for damp. Everything was in fine shape. Somehow this room had escaped the water that permeated the rest of this wing.
True to his word, Mr. Lascar was back in under half an hour. “Cellars next,” he announced, following her to the door.
“Did you find the source of the leaks?”
“I was forming overall impressions this time. The roof is the biggest hodgepodge I’ve ever seen. Repairs have made it worse. Water pools with no provision for drainage.”
“Our builder claims that nothing short of replacing it will do the job.”
“Because the only fix is replacement. And with a different design. Replicating what is there won’t work.”
“Then definitely send the details to the trustees. Chester swears that a good architect can repair it, saving the cost of replacement. He accused the builder of trying to feather his nest at Westcourt’s expense.”
* * * *
John fisted his hands as he followed Miss Harper down the winding servants’ stairs. He couldn’t believe that merely speaking with her could incite his body to riot. But her husky voice coated him like sweet honey, seeping into his pores. When he’d returned from the roof, she’d looked so sad that he’d nearly pulled her into his arms – which underscored just how dangerous she was. No one had threatened his control in years.
His mother had worried about the high spirits that too often destroyed his control, urging him to curb them for his own safety. No good ever came from showing the world what’s in your mind, she’d preached. If people know your thoughts, they can twist you round – like Sammy, she’d added, naming a neighbor. He’s weak-willed and let’s everyone know it. Never saw a body who invited so much abuse. You mark my words, that boy’s for the gallows.
She’d been right. Not that Sammy had died on the gallows. He’d been killed for peaching on his accomplices in a botched robbery. But the lesson remained clear. So John had built a façade of calm, competent rationality, carefully burying emotion in the darkest corner of his mind. And he’d learned to weigh schemes carefully before participating.
It worked. His friends knew him as an unemotional man who dealt efficiently with problems and always kept one eye on his goals. They wouldn’t recognize the stumbling wreck he’d become in a few short hours. Westcourt and Miss Harper proved how thin his shield really was.
He fought free of the sensual haze. “Why has Lord Chester allowed the family seat to deteriorate so badly?”
“To be fair, he’s been steward less than two years so hasn’t had an opportunity to do much. He temporarily patched the worst spots while studying the broader problem. Now he’s ready to address the whole.”
“What happened to the old steward?”
“He died – no great loss. He was both lazy and incompetent. Since the trustees never visited or even sent an underling to check his books…” She let her voice trail off, then glanced over her shoulder. “Chester is more methodical than I would like, taking months to consider options before making a decision. But he gets there in the end. At least this time events speeded the process.”
“What happened?”
“The latest leak is above his bed. His is the largest suite that is livable, so he had to choose between making repairs or accepting inferior accommodations.”
He nodded. “You said events. What else?”
“He brought several friends out here last month. They are mostly boorish louts with little discernment and no awareness of their surroundings. Yet two of them referred to Westcourt as a moldering pile. Their disdain forced him to finally look at the house. Embarrassment is not something he tolerates. It is the only reason he addresses responsibilities at all.”
John nearly cursed, but managed to halt the words. This commission was becoming stranger by the minute. He ought to swallow his pride and follow Lord Chester’s orders to the letter. It would put him first in line for ducal patronage once the investigator found his evidence. Yet the house demanded more than what a self-centered lord with no taste would approve.
If he wanted to turn Westcourt into an elegant seat, he must court support from several elderly trustees, then convince Lord Chester that the results were his own idea. If Chester didn’t accept that, John’s career could suffer a permanent decline. But the house demanded his best efforts. And manipulating Chester and the trustees into doing what was right would prepare him for the Office of Works, which was answerable to Parliament, the Regent, and a variety of government officials, all with conflicting ideas.
Miss Harper hurried down another flight, her auburn hair glowing in the light of his lamp.
He had remained in her room longer than any other, in part because his eyes kept straying to her possessions. He’d never seen a lady’s bedchamber so Spartan. No perfume bottles decorated the dressing table. No jewelry box. She had no dressing room and only a small clothes press. Which made the ivory elephant surprising.
Ladies rarely owned such things, yet it had been the only object on her dressing table aside from brushes and a
dish of hairpins. He wanted to ask where she’d got it and what significance it held, but the question was too personal.
So he stifled memory of her room and followed her silently to the cellars.
The hallway at the bottom made him shudder. Dim. Dank. Dingy. There was no excuse for keeping servants in such dismal surroundings. It was a wonder they hadn’t all died of consumption.
“The kitchen is this way.” Miss Harper moved down the flagged passage, then pointed to her right. “If you need to inspect the wine cellar, talk to Baines. Only he has the key.”
John nodded, noting the wax seal covering the lock. At least the butler was up to snuff in this area.
She pushed open a door across the hall. “This used to be the root cellar, but we had to move the vegetables to reduce spoilage.”
John raised his lamp, then handed it to her so he could write. Water dripped down the outside wall. “This is ancient.” He stared up at the vaulted ceiling.
“We’re under the state wi— You know that.” She gestured to his book. “The park originally belonged to a monastery that burned in 1357. The fourth earl acquired the property –that was before the family gained the Westfield title. He built a fortified manor, incorporating the old cellars.” She returned to the corridor. “We’ve had to abandon all the rooms on this side due to damp, but the kitchens occupy a seventeenth-century service wing, so—” She tripped on a flagstone.
John caught her before she could fall, pulling her back against him. Heat exploded from head to toe. Her hair smelled of lavender, raising images of fragility, of summer gardens, of laughter and…
He was trying to bring an elusive memory into focus when he realized that she was struggling not for balance but for freedom. His arm was banded across her bosom.
He released her so fast she nearly stumbled, then hurriedly backed away. “Pardon me, Miss Harper. I feared you would fall.” His voice was husky. He could only pray she would attribute it to something other than desire.
“Of course.” Embarrassment crept up her neck, clashing with her hair.