by Allison Lane
“And stay away from Faith,” growled Reginald.
“I told you to leave,” she reminded him. “I’ve no time for sulky boys today.”
“Sulky—”
“Exactly. If you cannot behave like a gentleman, then stay out of my way. I need no protection.”
Reginald opened and closed his mouth several times, then stomped off.
Baines coughed. “Lord Chester wished to see you in the morning room as soon as you returned, sir.” He gestured toward the door.
“Thank you.” He stood back so Faith could precede him, but she shook her head.
“I have errands that cannot be postponed if we are to have dinner.”
* * * *
John’s coat was peppered with cobwebs, but they proved he was hard at work. So he nodded to Baines and let the butler announce him.
Lord Chester’s eyes were even redder today, and he held his head stiffly as if to keep pain at bay. He’d also knotted his cravat into a loose coachman, hinting at a queasy stomach. John wondered how much of his dinner had been liquid.
The morning room was another time-worn space, though more comfortable than the office where they’d met yesterday. It had originally been painted a sunny yellow. Years of soot dulled the walls, but colorful ceramics kept informality alive. He was mentally shaking his head over an arrogant rooster when the light suddenly changed.
Dark. The sort of dark candles couldn’t penetrate. The crackle as Chester shifted in his chair disappeared into a hollow buzz. Before John could pull himself back, voices battered his ears.
Where is he?
I don’t know.
Of course you know. Where is he?
Slaps echoed, one after another, then the solid sound of fists hitting flesh. Where is he, bitch?
“Have you finished your inspection?” Chester demanded, breaking his trance.
John pulled himself together with an effort, for the phantom voice was Chester’s. Sitting prevented his knees from betraying their sudden weakness. “The roof is unsalvageable.” He described its condition in detail, then added, “I have mapped the worst damage. It will take a week of study to devise solutions, and I can guarantee that additional damage will turn up when we remove plaster. There are too many leaks to assume that all the damage is visible.”
“Once the plaster is down, repairs cannot be postponed.”
“Exactly, which is why I cannot learn everything now. The contract will include contingency clauses to cover hidden damage. I won’t start demolition until we’ve agreed to terms.”
“While you are devising solutions, I want to study the contract.”
“Impossible. My contracts are unique to each job. We will draw it up after I devise solutions to Westcourt’s problems so it incorporates exactly what you want done.”
“Very well, but work fast. I want to start repairs as soon as possible.”
“I should have estimates in a week. But I can already tell that repairing the damage will take at least a year. Not only is Westcourt huge, but it’s been allowed to deteriorate for decades. That sort of abuse cannot be rectified overnight.”
Chester frowned. “I had hoped it could be finished faster.”
John said nothing.
“I must return to town on business. I will expect your report next week.” He started to rise.
John refused to budge. “Since you won’t be here, we must discuss the other renovations now. Which rooms should I address, etcetera?”
“Miss Harper has that information, and you can surely see Westcourt’s detriments for yourself,” snapped Lord Chester.
“I do not trust underlings to remember every detail. Exactly how much work do you want done?”
“Everything! The last four dukes were care-for-naughts who ignored their consequence. The house has nothing to recommend it. Nothing!” He launched a diatribe against his ancestors’ taste and the shocking way they wasted money on ungrateful peasants even as Westcourt decayed into a laughingstock. He seemed especially incensed that his brother had eschewed the pomp to which he was entitled, even as he replaced several tenant cottages.
Chester was determined to change that. But as he laid out his requirements for turning Westcourt into a house that would dazzle visitors, John’s heart sank. Miss Harper was right. The man had garish taste and no sense. If offered three alternatives, he would choose the most vulgar, then add features that made it worse. Even his most rational suggestions were awful. With him in charge, Westcourt would suffer. Badly.
John would not erect a monument to Chester’s vulgarity, yet despite the colonel’s warning, he couldn’t abandon the house. Since his reputation would suffer no matter what course he chose, he might as well do what he could to save Westcourt. Perhaps some would applaud him for trying.
Chester finished describing the decoration he wanted in the duke’s apartments. “I know it will come dear, but it is necessary. To keep expenditures under control, we must take care elsewhere. You are certain there is no way to repair the existing roof?”
“Positive. It is not just the joints between lead sheets that are broken, but the sheets themselves. And the design guarantees trouble. Starting over will save considerable money in the long run.”
Chester nodded. “At least a new roof will let the house dry out. Most of the bedrooms will serve visitors of little consequence, so need nothing beyond paint to cover the water stains. And don’t let Miss Harper twist your priorities. Servants cannot expect opulence.”
John nearly protested. But the time to argue was when he presented his estimates. He must make sure that doing the job right looked cheaper than doing it wrong.
Lord Chester was a typical miser, squeezing pennies in ways that would cost more in the end. Installing a bathing pool without a system to collect and heat water demanded an army of footmen and placed a ridiculous burden on the kitchen staff.
Then there was the question of taste. Installing features society derided would reduce Chester’s credit. And John would never compromise on quality. He would resign rather than accept substandard materials or shoddy workmanship.
“Cook has long complained about the kitchens,” finished Lord Chester. “And rightly so. But she cannot expect to work in a palace. She may have her Rumsford stove and her smoke jack. But no more.”
We’ll see about that.
But John merely nodded. He had a week to craft a proposal that would appear to meet the requirements, yet do the job right. And if, as he suspected, Lord Chester considered anyone from the lower classes stupid, Chester might be susceptible to manipulation. He wouldn’t expect it.
Not until he left the morning room did John wonder if Chester was equally underhanded. Since no one else spoke with the trustees, John had only his word that they had authorized more than maintenance. Was cutting corners a way to stretch the budget to include what Chester wanted? Would the trustees really step aside if the duke’s fate remained unknown? It wasn’t legal for them to do so. A manipulative man might take the power he craved while convincing the trustees that they remained in charge. And if the trustees were too old to think clearly…
Miss Harper was right. He must send his report to the trustees. And his proposals must include both Chester’s demands and his own assessment of how society would react to them.
He didn’t like Lord Chester and resented being trapped in a battle. But he had no choice. Westcourt deserved his best efforts..
In the meantime, he headed for the roof. Working up there would keep him away from Miss Harper.
Chapter Seven
Who would have thought marriage could be fun? Certainly not Mother. But she knows only duty, and Papa is cold while Richard is not. I love him so…
Duchess of Westfield, July 1774
Three days later Polly stuck her head into the still room where Faith was working on a tonic for Lady Catherine. “Mr. Lascar has more questions.”
Faith sighed. Every time she tried to stay away from him, he thwarted her plans. Cursing C
hester for ordering her to cooperate, she set aside her dried herbs and wiped her hands. “Where is he?”
“State bedchamber.”
Faith headed for the state apartments, as furious at herself as at Mr. Lascar. There was no excuse for a racing heart and fluttering stomach. It was past time to exert control over her body. If she wasn’t careful, he would notice her infatuation.
He wouldn’t welcome it. His own demeanor was entirely professional. He hadn’t repeated that odd kissing of her hand or done anything else that might be considered personal. The last thing she wanted was his pity. If he ever suspected…
She would die of mortification.
She might anyway. How many times had she relived his every touch – soothing her bruises in the dairy, treating her sting, brushing her hip as he escorted her through a door or her shoulder as they bent over plans? Infatuations died from neglect. Instead of feeding this one with air dreams, she should be working to banish it. It was ridiculous to form an attachment for a man who would be gone in days.
Twisting his moments of kindness into personal interest proved only that she’d lost her mind. It would be better to heed the lesson she’d learned from studying the duchess. Passion eventually led to pain. Thus she could not afford to fan its flames.
A smart woman would have refused to assist him once Chester left for London. Chester would be furious, but her days at Westcourt were numbered anyway, so it no longer mattered. Yet she cited Chester’s orders whenever Reginald complained that she was living in Mr. Lascar’s pocket. And she dropped what she was doing whenever Mr. Lascar called.
Her feet flew up the stairs.
Reginald was becoming a serious problem. His pouting—
In truth, his behavior went well beyond pouting, she admitted, threading the maze of corridors on the second floor. Not only had he adopted a poetic case of jealousy, but he’d arranged at least one prank that could have had lethal consequences. She was still seething.
Two days ago Mr. Lascar had asked her to fetch his sketches of the north wing from his room. She’d found Reginald inside, an empty jar clutched in one hand. The other prodded a bee that was trying to escape out the closed window.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, smashing the bee with a book.
He flushed bright red. “It’s time he left. He has no business monopolizing your time. I cannot write without my muse.” He reached for her.
She stepped away. “Are you mad? A sting would kill him.”
“Nonsense. He only said that to make himself interesting. Never saw anyone so namby-pamby. If he’s frightened of bees, he should stay in town.”
“You are behaving like a child.”
“Child!”
“I’ve seen boys of ten with more sense – and more control over their sensibilities. Shall I report this to Chester?”
“You’d peach on me?” He drew back his fist before mastering his temper. “Of course you would,” he snapped. “That filthy tradesman has bewitched you. How can you lower yourself to even speak with him? It’s time to remember your breeding, my dear. I’d meant to wait until my epic is published, but we’ll announce our betrothal at dinner. That should remind him not to forget his station.”
“He never— What betrothal?”
“Ours. You know I cannot write without you.”
“I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life.” Her outburst twisted his face into confusion. “I will not wed you, Reginald. We would never suit. And you cannot support a wife in any case.”
“Why? We’d have to move into larger rooms, of course, but this place has plenty.”
“No one can be this stupid,” she muttered, then shifted to keep a table between them. “It’s time you faced the truth, Reginald. Chester will toss all of us out the moment he gets the title. You know he hates us.”
“Never. He has a duty—”
“Chester cares nothing for duty. I know his plans – as would you, if you listened to what he says instead of walking around with your head in the clouds. Unless you want to starve most poetically, you will have to find a position.”
“Is that why you’re dangling after Lascar?”
“I’m not dangling, nor does Mr. Lascar consider me more than a source of information in Chester’s absence. He is a professional so immersed in work that he sees only walls and beams. His questions address maintenance issues.”
“Nonsense.” He crossed his arms. “I’ve seen how he looks at you.”
“You wouldn’t know truth if it bit you on the ankle – but we won’t argue further. Take yourself off. And no more pranks. I’ll see you transported or worse if you harm a guest in this house.”
Reginald had stuttered and wailed, but in the end he’d left. She’d removed evidence of the bee, yet the incident added one more worry to her shoulders. Reginald’s temper remained black.
He did not seriously want a wife. She doubted he would know what to do with one. But he did want an audience for his verse. If she had to listen to much more of it, she would go mad.
It wasn’t his jealousy that bothered her – he would forget it the moment Mr. Lascar left. Her real fear was that he’d noted her infatuation. Reginald rarely paid attention to others, but he occasionally startled her with surprising insights. If she was transparent to Reginald, then Catherine must also suspect. It would give the woman a new grievance.
Catherine’s spite had doubled in recent days, as had her vitriol. Faith almost wished the investigator would prove the duke dead so Chester could put Catherine in her place. If Faith wasn’t honor-bound to protect the staff, she would leave today.
Yet Faith wasn’t Catherine’s only target. Fear of the future was stripping civility from everyone in the household. Catherine’s sniping kept the colonel’s nerves on edge. It drove Hortense out of the house for hours on end. Esther’s eyes were permanently rimmed with red. Reginald grew more petulant by the hour.
Concentrate on your own problems. You owe them nothing, for they aren’t your family.
Good advice, she admitted as she turned toward the state apartments. It was time to deal with her infatuation. It had started in an instant, reminding her too sharply of how the duchess had described her first meeting with the duke. But Faith had no hope of even a momentary happy ending. The duchess had been beautiful, desirable, well-born, accomplished, and perfect. Faith wasn’t. There would be no marriage in her future. She’d accepted that truth years ago, so it was ridiculous to entertain dreams now.
Yet she couldn’t control her emotions.
She wished she could blame Mr. Lascar, but it wasn’t his fault that excitement stirred whenever they shared a room – some days she could barely breathe when he was nearby. He was a model of propriety, better behaved than most gentlemen. How frustrating that a man from the lower orders could stir her senses so easily. Since the moment his eyes had first met hers, she’d been intensely aware of him. Touches he didn’t even notice burned her skin. Her breath often froze in her throat, turning her voice into a startled squeak or a thick rumble. He was quite unlike Chester’s rakish friends.
She had to admire his taste. Every day he described how he wanted to finish various rooms, then asked for suggestions on how to convince Chester. Flattered as she was, she couldn’t help him. Nothing swayed Chester. All she could do was wish Mr. Lascar success. He loved the house as much as she did.
Which was why he asked about the Willowby family. Who was heir after Chester? How many others were in line for the title? What were their interests? Would Westcourt hold children soon or should he leave the nursery floor alone once necessary repairs were done, letting the parents of the next occupants address changes?
Faith knew that some of his questions had no bearing on the renovation, yet she never dampened his curiosity. Answering kept her at his side. And she enjoyed discussing those whose lives she knew so well. It was an opportunity that rarely arose, for the family didn’t discuss private matters with people like her. And Lady Catherine refused to admi
t that any of her ancestors had been less than exemplary. To hear her talk, one would think every Willowby man had been a saint and every woman a goddess.
Mr. Lascar’s questions grew less pertinent every day, though. Yesterday he’d asked how the unseasonal heat that had blown in overnight compared to her childhood home in Bombay. She understood his interest in the land where his father had died, but she should not have indulged either of them in private, for it fed dreams she had no business entertaining.
Yet it had been the most pleasurable hour of her life. His probing revived humorous memories she’d all but forgotten. The agonizing grief that had plagued her for so long had waned when she wasn’t looking, so in a small way, he’d restored her family to her.
Her heart stumbled in gratitude, then galloped so fast she feared it would burst. She was in worse straits than she’d feared. And he was far more dangerous.
Another pleasurable interlude had occurred in the drawing room where she’d unaccountably related a droll account of how the competition between the draper’s son and a tenant’s son over the blacksmith’s daughter had erupted into fisticuffs in the confectioner’s shop. A scandal they would not soon live down, though they at least had the excuse of being barely seventeen…
Today she would concentrate on business, then excuse herself to finish Catherine’s tonic. And this must be the last time she helped him. Severing further contact was the only way to prevent pain when he left. For he would leave. And soon. She could not go with him. She was as unsuited to his world as to Lady Catherine’s and could never make an acceptable wife in any case.
Wife?
Faith paused at the entrance of the state apartments. So that was where her heart was heading. Preposterous! Though on the surface her breeding might be acceptable to a tradesman, she was unmarriageable. Even those who didn’t know her darkest secrets agreed. Her advanced age alone made her ineligible, as did her limp. No one liked deformity. A scar could be hidden, but her limp was there for anyone to see. She was only accepted at Westcourt because she worked as an upper servant rather than demanding recognition as a lady. She was never welcome in the drawing room when Catherine received callers. Nor did she sit with the family in church.