“We don’t need it, Father,” she said tersely.
“Oh, but we do,” he said sagely. “You’ve been saying so for months now. It was why we took on a new project, was it not?”
Rebecca squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, wishing that she could turn back the clocks to but an hour ago when she should have been more careful to not have been discovered. Or that she had told Valentine the entire truth so that it would never have come to this — him suspecting her of ulterior motives.
“Does it really matter that Rebecca was the one doing the work?” Jemima asked softly, entering the room now, and when she came to stand beside her, Rebecca nearly wept with the relief of having someone support her. “The design is what you both were looking for. I, for one, think it to be ingenious.”
“This isn’t what this is about, Jemima,” Valentine said angrily, slashing his hand through the air. “It’s about her deception.”
“Perhaps she was worried this is what would have happened, had you found out about it — that they would be turned away.”
“And lose the paycheck they so desperately need,” Valentine retorted, and Rebecca placed her hand on Jemima’s arm.
“Thank you, Jemima, but it’s all right. I understand.”
“It’s not all right,” her new friend said, and a small bit of Rebecca’s heart began to mend itself back together — until she realized that she would likely never be seeing Jemima again, not with the rift that had just been torn between Rebecca and the St. Vincents.
“It is,” Rebecca said, attempting to lift the corners of her mouth. “We should be going now. Come, Father.”
“Where are we going?” he asked, but Rebecca responded simply by taking her arm and leading him to the door.
“I shall walk you out,” Mrs. St. Vincent said, and Rebecca’s heart hardened.
“That is really not necessary,” she said tersely, though still politely.
“I insist,” she said, placing a hand on Rebecca’s back and nearly pushing her out the door when Rebecca attempted to turn to look back at Valentine. All was silent for a moment as they walked down the hallway.
“I know what you were here for, Miss Lambert,” she said. “The title of duchess is a high-minded one for any woman, but especially for a common one. I should know. Valentine, however, is already spoken for. You can look for his betrothal in the newspaper any day now.”
She stopped at the doorway, the slightest bit of regret touching her face.
“I apologize that it has come to this, Miss Lambert. But a mother must always put her children first, no matter what. Farewell, now. My best to you, Mr. Lambert. I hope you are well soon.”
And with that, Rebecca found herself deposited on the top of the lofty stairwell, her father at her side, her heart wrenched open, and her emotions frayed.
As she called a hack, she replayed the entire scene within the house, torn between guilt at Valentine’s words — she had deceived him, though not intentionally — and ire that he hadn’t stood up for her, hadn’t understood.
She stole a glance at her father, who was looking about him, admiring the view on either side of them in this most prestigious of London neighborhoods, and she swallowed back the tears that threatened, determined not to let them fall until she was alone. Her only current blessing was that her father was unaware of the depths of her misery.
All he had worked for was falling down around him, and he had no idea. For one word on his current state of mind and he would be finished. His legacy, his reputation would be destroyed. Rebecca would never work again.
And they would be sunk.
Rebecca had no idea just what she was supposed to do now.
24
The ledger of accounts sat on one side of the table. Her sketch pad sat on the other.
Rebecca knew which one she should be dealing with, for the other no longer mattered. And yet she couldn’t help but open up the pad to a blank sheet of paper. She released her mind from all of her tribulations and allowed the pencil to wander over the page. Left to freely roam, it began to draw the place where Rebecca always returned when she needed comfort — a little garden that had planted in her mind. She wasn’t sure where it had come from as she had never seen one quite like it. There was a stream that meandered over rocks, cascading down a hill that was filled with wildflowers. A stone arch crossed the water, leading to a tiny pond at the bottom.
Blooms of all colors laced the arch, then poured down into a beautiful flower garden below. She would build a little gazebo beyond, one in which she could set up an easel and work while the beauty of the outdoors surrounded her.
She sighed as she sat back and pictured it. If only such a reality could possibly exist for her. As she looked around her, however, she knew that the greater outcome for her life was one in which she would be removed from even this home. It wasn’t much — rooms she and her father had inhabited when not living elsewhere on a job — but it was much better than where they may be relegated to if they were forced to try to pay the debts that they owed from the Atticus Project.
Rebecca laid her head in her hands. Oh, why had Father been so insistent? Perhaps it was the beginnings of when he began to lose control of his mind. He allowed his aspirations to outweigh any judgment he had ever possessed. She massaged her thumbs into the back of her neck, and then jumped when she heard their lone maid call to her with a “Miss Lambert?”
“Oh! Yes, Hilda?”
“There are women here who have come to call. I put them in the drawing room.”
“Thank you, Hilda.”
Rebecca sighed, looking down at herself to assess whether she was fit for company. She supposed there wasn’t much she could do, at any rate, for they were already here and knew she was within.
She re-pinned her hair before leaving the solace of the study and entering the drawing room, taking a breath when she saw Jemima, Freddie, and Celeste.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” she said, fixing a smile on her face. “How lovely to see you.”
Jemima rose and took Rebecca by the hands.
“I am so sorry that my mother and my brother were awful to you. You didn’t deserve that. Come, sit.”
Rebecca dutifully sat.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I told Freddie and Celeste what happened. They are quite sympathetic to your plight.”
Jemima scrunched her nose in worry at sharing the secret, but Rebecca no longer cared. Mrs. St. Vincent was likely to tell all of their duplicity anyway, so what did it matter that these women knew the truth?
“It’s fine,” Rebecca said, with a sad smile for the other women who, as Jemima said, looked to be pitying her. “Thank you for your understanding. Though, Jemima, they had a point. I deceived them. They didn’t hire me. They hired my father.”
“How is he?” Jemima asked, furrowing her brow.
“He is fine today,” Rebecca said carefully. “Just this morning he was actually on a tirade about the loss of our commission, which is his usual self.”
“I am sorry about that as well,” Jemima said. “Mother has already begun suggesting other architects to Val, but he has ordered Mr. Burton to continue on with your plans, you will be happy to know — at least for Wyndham House in London.”
“I am happy to hear it, actually,” Rebecca said with surprise. “It will be a beautiful home.”
“It is a shame, really,” Celeste chimed in, “that your plans would be disregarded just because you are a woman. For isn’t it women who spend the most time running the household, who best understand what is required, and what other women would see as beautiful?”
“One would imagine,” Freddie said wryly, “but most do not think that way.”
“The thing is, Rebecca,” Jemima said slowly, taking her lip between her teeth for a moment, “my brother has the worst fear of disappointing people.”
“I gathered that.”
“Has he ever told you why?”
Rebecca thought back to the many nights spent t
ogether, lying in his bed at Stonehall. “Yes,” she said. “I know that you had a brother, Matthew, who was supposed to follow in the family tradition but that he died when he was mistaken for Valentine. Your mother has never quite gotten over it, and Val has never ceased blaming himself.”
“Yes,” Jemima said, looking down, and Rebecca felt like a boor for bringing up her brothers and all that had happened. Of course, Jemima would miss her brother just as much. “Matthew was the best of us. He always did what was expected of him, was intelligent, pleasant, and Father’s image in every way. Valentine is nothing like him and never has been, and my parents — especially my Father — made sure that he knew it. When Matthew died, they were distraught, although of course none more than Valentine. He has never forgiven himself and has spent his life since trying to make up for Matthew’s loss. Mother ensures that Valentine never forgets how much Father despaired of Valentine and his chosen profession and that Matthew would still be alive if it wasn’t for Valentine’s fights. Val now has a hard time forgetting that he need not be Matthew.”
Rebecca nodded slowly, understanding.
“Luckily,” Freddie said pluckily, “Our mothers have decided that I am the one he should marry. And I am never one to accept what others tell me is the truth. Valentine and I simply do not suit. He is an amiable gentleman to be sure, and I think that the two of you, Rebecca, would be quite happy together should he ever overcome his past.”
“If he does not marry you,” Rebecca said, tamping down the jealousy that threatened at even the thought of Valentine marrying another, “then his mother will simply find another young woman who is much more dutiful. Not that you aren’t — I certainly didn’t mean to suggest that.”
“It’s fine,” Freddie said waving a hand in the air. “Dutiful would not be a word to describe me, although my mother is lovely and I do my best to keep her happy. Marrying a man I do not love, however, will simply not do.”
“So the question is, Rebecca,” Celeste said, leaning forward with elbows on her knees, her wide green eyes seemingly looking through into Rebecca’s soul, “what can we do to help you?”
Rebecca looked at each of them in turn, the three of them all staring at her with such compassion, such concern. She did what she had been holding back from for weeks now. She began to cry.
“Oh, Rebecca!” Jemima said, looping an arm around her. “I am so sorry. We never meant to upset you.”
“It is not that,” Rebecca said, wiping at her eyes as she sniffed. “I just… I have never had anyone care for me in such a way before. Who are concerned that my own interests are met, who worry about how I feel and how to help things improve. But the truth of it is… I just don’t think anything can be done. If there could be, I would have attempted it myself already. But Valentine needs to come to his own conclusions. He knows how I feel about him.”
“But does he?” Jemima asked, tilting her head to the side as she considered Rebecca. “I wonder. He is being stubborn, and he is under the impression that you might have used him. If he knew how you truly felt…” she shrugged, “it might change things.”
Rebecca pressed her lips together, nodding slowly. “Perhaps. But despite that, he must marry someone with a dowry. I have only debt.”
“From the Atticus Project,” Jemima said, nodding, then quickly described the situation to the other women.
“You have not advanced your concerns?” Jemima asked.
“No,” Rebecca said, shaking her head. “No one seems to care, and we need Crown approval to hold a lottery.”
“It is a fine idea,” Freddie remarked.
“Thank you,” Rebecca said. “But it will remain just that — an idea — unless we can move forward, and I have simply encountered one brick wall after another.”
“Leave that with me,” Jemima said firmly, nodding at Rebecca’s skeptical gaze. “I cannot promise anything, but at least let me try.”
“Very well,” Rebecca said with a shrug. It wasn’t as though she had any other option. “Jemima, I hate to ask you this, but has your mother—”
“Shared anything about you? No,” Jemima frowned. “At least, not that I know of. My mother thinks she is doing what is best for us, what is best for Val, but sometimes she doesn’t quite understand how to go about it. She isn’t from the aristocracy, and now to be suddenly thrust into this life, she is trying to navigate it by doing what she feels is best, despite the fact that her thoughts might actually be to the contrary.”
“Don’t give up, Rebecca,” Celeste said with a soft smile. “Stars often shine brightest on the darkest night.”
“That’s very romantic,” Rebecca said with a small laugh.
“It’s the truth,” Celeste insisted. “I’ve seen it often enough myself.”
Rebecca reflected on those words as she said farewell to her new friends a short time later. Friends. She couldn’t remember the last time she could have attributed the word to any woman and truly meant it. It warmed her heart, and in all honesty, she did feel a great deal better than she had before they arrived.
If only they had actually been able to help change her situation. But the truth was, all remained the same.
Most hope was lost.
There was only one thing she could do, and that was take Jemima’s advice — and show Valentine just how she really felt about him.
25
“You know, I could find you a fight that would actually bring you in some decent prize money,” Archie said as he helped Valentine into his jacket.
“Not today,” Valentine said, buttoning it himself. “I feel like punching a lord or two instead.”
“Well, that will be oddly satisfying to watch,” Archie laughed as he found Val’s cravat. “I must say, you have well played the part of the brooding duke.”
“I am not brooding,” Valentine defended himself, to which Archie raised an eyebrow.
“Call it what you want,” Archie said, “but you are pining for Miss Lambert.
“I am not,” Val countered. “I am angry.”
“Because a woman designed your house?”
Valentine brusquely shook his head. “You would think that of me after all my sister does? Hardly. I am well aware that a woman’s intelligence can not only rival but best a man’s. No, Archie. It was the deception. She used me. Her own father admitted that they needed the money. She was worried that if I knew the truth, I would be rid of her, and so she distracted me, played me for the fool I am.”
Archie was silent for a moment as he chose a pair of cufflinks.
“Are you sure that was her aim?” he asked, turning around, earning himself a glare.
“Of course,” Valentine bit out. “This is why I choose to surround myself with only those I trust. I have learned my lesson now — the hard way. People take advantage of those in positions of power. Especially those like me, who are not cunning enough to see through others.”
Archie crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall.
“You’re a bit too distrustful.”
“You should be grateful — it’s why you have this job.”
Archie snorted. “Do you think I am here because I need your money?”
“Is that not why everyone is here?”
Archie came and stood beside him, looking into the mirror with him.
“I am here, Valentine, because you needed a friend.”
At that, Archie stepped away, clearing his throat. It was the most he and Valentine had ever expressed emotion to one another, and he was obviously done with the conversation.
“You also needed your second, although I can hardly play that role at Jackson’s. Best be going now, or else you will miss your match.”
Valentine gave a curt nod and was out the door, ready to be rid of his emotions the only way he knew how.
* * *
“You cannot be seriously considering following through with the house plans.”
Valentine wearily rubbed a hand over his face as he looked up at his mother,
who had insisted that he take dinner with her. Jemima, unfortunately, was nowhere to be found. He had already checked the conservatory which, he had to admit, was a stroke of genius with its conversion into a laboratory among the newly planted greenery. Her tables were empty of experiments, however, her liquids, instruments and everything else that he had no actual idea of what they were used for, were awaiting her return.
Finally, he’d found Dexter, who had told him that his sister had gone out.
So here he was, alone with his mother.
“We have a fine set of plans,” he said as patiently as he could while he speared peas onto his fork, forcing his bruised knuckles to grip the utensils tightly. “I see no reason to commission another to alter them once more.”
“But Valentine,” she persisted, banging the end of her fork against the table, “these were designed by a woman and a madman! Why, if word got out—”
“How would word get out, Mother?”
She hesitated. “These things always do.”
“Not if you do not say anything.”
“But—”
Valentine sighed as he looked around the dining room. The builders had yet to touch this room, but he could already see Rebecca’s ideas upon the walls, even if they had not been incorporated. She was everywhere throughout this house, and it was driving him mad. If he entered the drawing room, he saw her in the sea-green walls, the bold contrast of the vivid colors and the scenes from classical antiquity she had envisioned upon the ceiling. If he walked through the ballroom, there she was, right up to the depiction of him painted upon the ceiling as a pugilist. He couldn’t even go into the parlor, for he could see her bent over the desk, hard at work.
“Promise me, Mother, that you will not share anything about the Lamberts.”
She lifted her nose in the air, which annoyed Valentine. She was a physician’s wife as much as she was the mother of a duke, but she seemed to have forgotten that.
Designs on a Duke: The Bluestocking Scandals Book 1 Page 17