Designs on a Duke: The Bluestocking Scandals Book 1

by St. Clair, Ellie

  “Oh, Mrs. St.—“

  “Don’t be a fool, Miss Lambert,” she said pointedly. “Besides the fact that you are not of noble birth, you more than anyone should be aware of the costs of living the life we are expected to live. If we want the ability to pay anyone — which would include our architect — then we require funds to do so. Funds that would come from a dowry.”

  “Or a properly managed dukedom,” Rebecca returned.

  “That will be some time away,” Mrs. St. Vincent said, then narrowed her eyes slightly at Rebecca. “A woman from a family whose father has debts of his own would be the last woman who might make a match with my son.”

  Rebecca’s eyes widened. “How did you know?”

  “Do not underestimate a shrewd woman,” she said. “Return to your place in the corner, Miss Lambert. It’s where you belong.”

  Rebecca refused to do as she was told by this woman. She, however, was not going to make a scene.

  She looked around the room. Mrs. St. Vincent was right about one thing. This was not the place for her — she didn’t belong, and never would.

  So she left.

  * * *

  Valentine looked everywhere for Rebecca. She was not with his sister, nor was she upon the dance floor. She was not in the drawing room or conversing with anyone else. The last he had seen of her, she was with his mother, which was not a good sign.

  As he looked for her in the corridor outside the ballroom and then the parlor, Archie intercepted him.

  “Val,” he greeted him with a nod. “My apologies, I know I shouldn’t be seen around here.”

  “You are a much more welcome face than anyone else in that ballroom,” Valentine said. “Is something amiss?”

  “I thought you might be looking for Miss Lambert,” he said. “She just left, looking none too pleased.”

  “She left?”

  Archie nodded.

  “Damn it,” Valentine said, placing his hands upon his hips. “My mother must have said something to her.”

  “Something that would cause her enough chagrin that she would leave the ball where you are to find your wife?”

  “I’m in quite the pickle, Arch,” he said with a sigh, and his friend more than his valet grinned at him.

  “Don’t I know it. You’ve been in a pickle since the day you were born.”

  “We’re making progress, though, aren’t we?” Valentine asked him, desperate to hear someone speak positively about some aspect of his life.

  “You liked the man of business we interviewed, and you have a steward, so we are,” Archie nodded slowly. “Though I hate to say it, you will be saddled with some deep debts if you continue spending like you are without receiving a dowry to pay for it all.”

  Valentine dropped his arms and turned to his friend. “You know where we came from, Archie,” he said. “Is it so imperative that I prove myself? Do I need the most impressive homes, the finest garments, the most refined wife? Is my family to be ridiculed without it?”

  Archie clasped his hands behind his back.

  “You are a long way from respectable,” Archie said with a raised eyebrow. “But there is really just one question you need to consider.”

  “Which is?”

  “What is it that really matters to you?”

  * * *

  Rebecca wearily climbed the steps to Wyndham House two days later. Work had been suspended for a few days surrounding the ball, but they needed to check in now with Mr. Burton. Her father had already asked her twice on the carriage ride where they were going, which had Rebecca rather on edge.

  And then there was the fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about Valentine and his mother’s words. The woman knew that she and her father were deeply in debt. Rebecca didn’t spend overly long wondering how — it didn’t matter, really. The Atticus Project was on public record and the buildings were clearly sitting empty. For now. It might be different if Rebecca’s plan had worked, but she — or, that is, her father — had finally received a response from her repeated correspondence to the Crown.

  Her plan had not been approved.

  It hadn’t been rejected either; it was simply not considered anything of importance, apparently, and she was to wait for further review.

  Rebecca tilted her head from one side to the other in an effort to crack her neck and break up the many knots that had formed as she had spent more than one restless night hunched over her work. Sleep had eluded her, so she figured she might as well make use of the time awake.

  She was paying for it now, however.

  She sighed as she and her father entered the house, following Dexter who led them through to the drawing room, though they certainly didn’t need a guide. Dexter was pleasant as always, and Rebecca wished she could fall for someone like him — someone who did not have a complex past, present, and future. Someone who didn’t have a mother who always wished her son to be what she considered better than he was, but in reality meant that he should be someone he was not.

  She knew she had been something of a coward the other night. Rebecca usually preferred to confront her problems directly. But just like a building that was beyond repair, Rebecca had learned when it was time to walk away.

  She and her father would finish this project and then be gone.

  She hated giving in to Mrs. St. Vincent. But beyond the woman’s harsh words, there was truth. Her words were knowledge Rebecca had been aware of from nearly the moment she had met the half-dressed Valentine in his dressing room. She just should have been more careful about giving away her heart.

  They heard the pounding coming from the drawing room, where the builders were currently busy constructing shelving and painting the walls the lovely sea-green Rebecca had chosen.

  “This way, Father,” she murmured when he began to wander the other way.

  He turned to her, confusion on her face. “Where are we, Rebecca?”

  Her heart pained her. She hated these moments when he lost himself. She had no idea what caused these momentary memory losses to hit, but she only wished she knew what to do in order to bring him back to her.

  All that seemed to work, as far as she could determine, was time.

  “We are at Wyndham House,” she said quietly, placing a hand on his arm. “We are going to oversee the drawing room. Mr. Burton had some questions.”

  “Mr. Burton?”

  “Yes, the builder. Do you recall meeting with him?”

  When her father turned to look at her, his eyes were clouded with confusion, and Rebecca took a breath, reminding herself to have patience. It was no more her father’s fault that these episodes hit than her own. She was just facing despair as she had no idea what she was to do. She could hardly continue to try to keep up this charade in public. If Valentine or his mother were to come upon them right now, they would instantly know something was amiss.

  “Come, Father, let’s go into the drawing room,” she said quietly, leading him. She would do the best she could with Mr. Burton and then they would leave as quickly as possible.

  Fortunately, her father seemed content, for the moment, to settle himself on a chair and watch the builders and painters at work as Rebecca took a tour about the room.

  “It’s looking wonderful, Mr. Burton,” she complimented him when he came over to greet her.

  “Thank you, Miss Lambert,” he said. “It’s a smart design, taking what the original architect envisioned and incorporating the classical style. Once the furniture arrives, it should come together quite nicely.”

  “My father is interested to know how the shelving is coming along.”

  “Quite well,” Mr. Burton replied with a nod, “though I do have a question for him.”

  He looked over at her father and then back at her, and Rebecca had the sense that Mr. Burton had some knowledge of her father’s current state of mind, though he didn’t voice the thought aloud.

  “Perhaps if you put it to me, I can best explain it to him?” she suggested, and he nodded, look
ing relieved.

  “It’s the end piece,” he explained, showing her two samples of engravings in the wood. “We are unsure if we should finish it with rosettes or diamonds. In addition, we currently have the shelves meeting in the corner, but I thought perhaps they might be better placed on either side of the fireplace.”

  “An interesting thought, Mr. Burton,” she said, picking up the plans from the middle of the room. “My father and I will review them.”

  She collected her father and the two of them departed for their makeshift workplace in the parlor. While her father admired the view of the windows beyond, Rebecca began to make quick sketches, in an attempt to see the room from different angles and a different light.

  Perhaps Mr. Burton had a point, she considered. If the shelves were moved, the window could allow greater light to enter and reflect on—

  “Miss Lambert, just what do you think you are doing?”

  23

  Rebecca froze.

  Mrs. St. Vincent was peering over her shoulder, her voice just behind Rebecca’s ear. Rebecca had been so engrossed in her sketches that she hadn’t heard Valentine’s mother approach. She swallowed.

  “I am just making a few of the changes my father has suggested,” she said quickly, hoping that would appease Mrs. St. Vincent. The woman reached over Rebecca’s shoulder and snatched the papers up into her fingers. Rebecca stood quickly, whirling around to face her, but was helpless as Mrs. St. Vincent’s eyes roved over them.

  “What you just drew…” she began, looking from Rebecca to the paper and back again, “looks to be in the same hand as the rest of the drawings.” She looked at the papers spread upon the desks. “As all of the drawings.”

  “My father and I have a similar hand,” Rebecca attempted, looking her in the eye.

  “Is this true, Mr. Lambert?” Mrs. St. Vincent asked, her hands on her hips now as she took her focus from Rebecca to her father. Rebecca prayed he wouldn’t say anything incriminating.

  “Oh, hello,” he said with a pleasant smile. “Who might you be?”

  “Pardon me?” Mrs. St. Vincent said as Rebecca’s heart dropped.

  “Lovely to meet you,” her father said, holding out his hand. “Are you calling upon Lady Blackburn?”

  “Who the devil is Lady Blackburn?” Mrs. St. Vincent asked, turning round eyes onto Rebecca, who was panicking.

  “That’s enough, Father,” she said desperately. “Do stop teasing Mrs. St. Vincent.”

  “Mrs. St. Vincent!” he said, recognition flaring in his eyes and Rebecca released a sigh of relief.

  “I knew a Vincent once. Splendid dog, he was.”

  The relief fled.

  “Miss Lambert.” Mrs. St. Vincent turned toward her, her words clipped and her face beginning to turn a mottled red. “Just what is the meaning of all of this? Your father seems to be addled in the head!”

  “He’s not, Mrs. Vincent, he really isn’t,” Rebecca said, shaking her head, both wishing that Mrs. St. Vincent would forget all of this while at the same time feeling the need to defend her father. So a man forgot something now and again. That didn’t mean that he should be sent to Bedlam.

  But Mrs. St. Vincent was no longer listening to her. She was turning in circles around the parlor, a hand upon the side of her head.

  “Please,” she said, closing her eyes and shaking her head, “please tell me that you have not been the one designing my homes all this time. That your father, a man renowned over all of England, did not lose his mind as you began to work on the magnificent homes of the Duke of Wyndham.”

  “I have not been the one designing the Duke of Wyndham’s homes,” she said, emphasizing his name, for, as much as Mrs. St. Vincent seemed to have taken over the design, it was still her son’s home. Rebecca only wished he would act like it was. “Not alone, at any rate,” she added, unable to completely lie.

  “This is unacceptable,” Mrs. St. Vincent said as she resumed her frenetic pacing, not even seeing when the door opened and Valentine walked in. “Unacceptable. Why, if we are found out, we will be the laughingstock of all of London. Even more than we already are. New duke, the former pugilist, hires a fraud. Oh, for goodness sake, I—”

  “What is happening here?” Val asked, looking back and forth between Rebecca and his mother. Tension began to radiate in the back of Rebecca’s shoulder blades, which then wound their way up through her muscles to the sides of her neck.

  “What is happening?” Mrs. St. Vincent said, stopping and pointing a finger at Valentine. “What is happening is that I am being proven right. As I always am. You have hired a fraud, Valentine. A fraud! Collect your silly sketchbooks, Miss Lambert, leave this house, and never come back. Do not send an invoice as you will most certainly not be paid!”

  “Mrs. St. Vincent, I—”

  “Will someone tell me what in the blazes is going on here?” Rebecca had never heard Val raise his voice in such direct anger before, and she flinched.

  “From what I can ascertain, it seems as though Mr. Lambert here has not had the capacity to actually complete any of the designs of your homes himself. Instead, he has been relying on his daughter. These drawings aren’t from the hand of the architect whose name is renowned over all of London. Oh, no, Valentine, they are from her. A woman with hardly any education to speak of, with no experience, and no idea of what the results of her little sketches will be. I can hardly believe it.”

  Rebecca took slow, deep breaths as Mrs. St. Vincent talked, willing away all of the building resentment. The woman was looking out for the best interests of her children, she reminded herself, though her anger burned hotter than her patience.

  “How are we supposed to become respected members of the nobility if we have the worst-designed house in all of London?” Mrs. St. Vincent continued.

  Valentine ignored his mother now, his gaze focused intently on Rebecca.

  “Is this true?”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment as she simply stared back at him, wishing that she could run to him and that he would enfold her into her arms and tell her that everything was all right.

  But she feared that he would never be telling her that again. Rebecca knew what his reaction was before he said a word. For the look he gave her was filled with such disappointment, anger, and melancholy that his response was evident.

  “Is this true?” he repeated, giving each word a sentence all to its own.

  “Yes,” Rebecca said, louder than she originally intended. Despite the deception, she was proud of what she had done. Her work was good. So good, in fact, that Mr. Burton hadn’t even questioned it, nor had Valentine when he had previously reviewed the plans. “Did you like them?”

  She knew they did, but she wanted to hear them say it.

  “You lied to me,” Valentine said instead, ignoring her question. “This entire time… you deceived me. Made me out to be a fool.”

  “No,” Rebecca said firmly, her heart beating quickly now, her blood pumping through her veins as panic ascended into her throat. “Never, Valentine. That was never my intent. I— I have been working with my father for some time now. He is still involved in the designs, he always has been. It’s just… well, some days he can do more than others.”

  She looked back and forth between Valentine and his mother, noting that Jemima had stepped into the doorway, her eyes wide and her expression sympathetic.

  “I am no amateur,” she said, defending herself, realizing that while she understood Valentine’s dismay, she needed him to be supportive of her, to not downplay all the work that she had done simply because she was a woman. She needed the man she loved to support her, her work and her passion, to believe in her and her capabilities. “I have spent my life learning from my father. He is a master architect and he has passed on all of that knowledge to me. How many times did I hear you say how impressive our design was, Valentine? Do you like your lady’s maid’s new proximity to your chamber, Mrs. St. Vincent? Do you like the openness of the library with t
he way the doors permit light to enter, the way the mirrors project the greenery around the room? I know you do, Valentine, for you have said so yourself.”

  She looked intently at one of them and then the other.

  “Yes,” she said, holding her head high. “Yes, these are primarily my designs. I am proud of them, and you will be proud of your home once they are all implemented.”

  “You are done here,” Mrs. St. Vincent said, lifting her nose and turning from Rebecca to show just how finished she was with her and with the conversation. “You may leave now. Take your things. We will hire a new architect.”

  “You can’t!” Rebecca said, desperation clawing at her throat now at the thought of all of their progress being destroyed. “We are near halfway through completion. This house has already seen the work of two different architects. It would devolve into anarchy if you bring in a third.”

  “I believe that is for us to determine, Miss Lambert,” Mrs. St. Vincent said, and Rebecca turned to Valentine, imploring him to say something, to stand up for her, to agree with her.

  But he shook his head.

  “I knew something was amiss,” he muttered. “Since you arrived at Stonehall, I was aware that something was not as it should be, but I couldn’t quite determine what it was. You distracted me. Used me. Ensured that I wouldn’t discover what it was you were hiding.”

  “It was nothing like that,” Rebecca said, anger now completely overcoming her fear. “If that is what you think of me, then you know nothing of me at all.”

  “Apparently, I don’t,” he said. “My mother is right. You should go.”

  “Valentine!”

  “I will pay you for your work if that is what you are so concerned about,” he said dejectedly, and Rebecca balled her hands into fists at her side.

  “Don’t be despicable,” she said. “Keep your money.”

  “Oh, we have been waiting for our payment, have we not Rebecca?” her father finally chimed in, rising from his place on the sofa. His timing, nor his words, could not have been worse.