If a Lady Lingers

by Anna Harrington

  Her eyes gleamed with amusement. “Best woman, you mean.”

  “Second best woman, after Daisy.” He shot her an apologetic look. “No offense.”

  “Absolutely none taken.”

  “Miss Daring,” he murmured to himself as he looked out the window but saw nothing except Daisy’s glittering sea-green eyes and her golden hair, the bright and excited glow of her face when she’d talked about her sketches. She lit the world from within.

  He had six months to win her heart. The most perfect woman he’d ever met and…him.

  His brow pulled into a frown. He might be a dandy, but he wasn’t a dullard. He knew exactly how difficult his courtship of her would prove in the end. And exactly how daring she truly had to be in order to love him back.

  A flash of movement on the footpath caught his attention. He pounded his fist against the ceiling.

  “Stop the carriage!” he shouted at the coachman, then bounded to the ground before the wheels had stopped rolling.

  In front of a bakery, a man in a soiled apron with white flour graying his hair and beard held a small slip of a boy by the scruff of his neck. He smacked the boy alongside the head with his large hand in an angry and brutal attempt to box the boy’s ears. The child struggled and twisted to get away, crying out in pain and terror yet keeping a death grip on the half-eaten meat pasty in his hands.

  “Let go of him!” Whitby charged up to the man. “Let go of him this instant, I tell you!”

  The baker sneered at Whitby and struck the boy again. This time he drew a small trickle of blood from the boy’s left ear, and the boy cried out in pain. “This is none of your damned business, you peacock!”

  “You’re beating a child.” Which made it everyone’s business. Whitby grabbed the man’s arm before he could strike the boy again. “Why don’t you beat on me instead?”

  The man laughed. The beefy brute lowered his arm but didn’t release the small boy who continued to cry in pain. His little hand clamped over his bloody ear to protect it, while his other retained its grip on the pasty.

  “Hell, guv’nor,” the man laughed. “This child could put up more of a fight than you, ye scrawny thing!”

  Whitby ignored that insult if not the sting of it. He could hold his own in fights, despite how slight he appeared. He’d taken private lessons in fisticuffs from Gentleman Jackson’s salon for years, building on what his six older brothers had taught him from the time he was just a lad. They’d had to. The other boys at school had delighted in tormenting him, and his brothers had grown tired of always having to fight in his defense. The problem was that while Whitby knew that other solutions were usually available that didn’t involve bare knuckles, swords, or pistols, he also knew that children should never be beaten, regardless of the reason.

  It was time to fight. Gritting his teeth, Whitby clenched his fist and drew back—

  Mariah darted between the two men and grabbed his arm. “What did the boy do?”

  “Caught the little urchin attemptin’ to steal from me, my lady,” the baker explained, giving a nod of deference to Mariah and a hard shake to the child by his collar for good measure.

  The pasty flopped in the air, but the boy’s fingers held tight. It was his prize. He wasn’t giving it up.

  “He was probably hungry, the poor little thing,” she scolded the baker. “Where is a child like him supposed to get money for food?”

  “Don’t know.” The man spat on the footpath. “Don’t care.”

  “And you’re beating him for trying to keep from starving?” Whitby accused.

  “That’s right. Givin’ him a good pummelin’ ’fore I take him to the authorities so he’ll think twice ’bout doin’ it again.”

  Whitby couldn’t let that happen. At worst, the boy would be sent to gaol or have his palm branded for theft, and at best, he’d be sent to a workhouse, where he would be farmed out for labor to pay the parish for his keep. Either way, his young life would be over before it began.

  “I’ll pay for the pasty.” Whitby reached into his pocket for the loose coins he kept there. “How much?”

  The baker slid an assessing gaze over him. “Half a crown.”

  Whitby’s arms fell to his sides in exasperation. “Tuppence at most.”

  “Half a crown,” the brute repeated, “or I drag him ’fore the magistrate right now.”

  Whitby grimaced. Resentfully, he handed the coins to the baker.

  The man snatched them into his large hand. He dropped the boy onto the stone footpath, then kicked him for good measure as he turned to stomp back inside his bakery.

  The boy shoved the remaining pasty into his mouth.

  “Wait here!” Mariah ordered, then rushed inside the chophouse next door.

  As they waited, Whitby looked down at the boy. The child glared back at him with an insolent gleam in his eyes, as if waiting for Whitby to strike him just as the baker had. Most likely because he was used to being beaten by every adult he encountered on the streets. Whitby’s chest tightened with grief. The boy couldn’t have been more than six, but his young existence was already bleak and brutal.

  Mariah returned with a small package wrapped in paper and string. She bent down to the boy who was still chomping away at the pasty that filled his entire mouth and plumped out his cheeks like a chipmunk’s. Or the king’s.

  “This is for you.” Mariah held out the package to the child who eyed her suspiciously. “For later. Some bread, cheese, and meat…and a sticky bun.”

  He didn’t take it, but swallowed down the last bite and struggled not to choke. “What fer?”

  “For you,” Whitby interjected. “So when you get hungry again, you won’t have to steal.”

  The boy nodded and slowly took the package, then looked quickly around to make certain the gift wasn’t some kind of trick, that the baker wasn’t going to come running back out, this time to beat him with a rolling pin.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He climbed to his feet and wrapped his arms around the package as if it were more precious than gold. But then, Whitby decided, to the boy it was. Gold wasn’t edible.

  Whitby bent down onto his heels to look the lad in the eyes. He reached into his pocket, removed one of his cards, and held it up. “If you ever get in trouble again, show this to a hackney driver and tell him to take you here.” He tucked it into the boy’s jacket pocket. Then Whitby fished out his handkerchief and wiped gently at the trickle of blood at the boy’s ear. “I’ll help you.”

  The boy nodded and mumbled his thanks. Then he scrambled away as fast as he could.

  Whitby watched the boy dart out of sight into a side alley. Maria put her hand reassuringly on Whitby’s shoulder.

  “It’ll only be a matter of time before he’s caught stealing again.” She’d said what they were both thinking.

  “Perhaps.” Whitby folded the soiled handkerchief and put it away, then squared his shoulders and looked up at her. “But maybe he won’t.”

  Silently, Mariah slipped her arm around his and gave him an affectionate squeeze. Nothing more needed to be said.

  2

  Month Two

  “Here they are, Mr. Whitby.”

  Daisy traced her fingers over the house sketches she’d rolled out across her father’s drafting table. Her chest swelled with pride that the plans were now completely finished. Only her half signature on the bottom corner dampened her spirits, but just slightly. While she could never claim complete recognition for them, she let Whitby believe that the great Elias Daring had taken her ideas and made them into reality, while only the interior decorations had been left to her.

  In truth, the entire house was hers. From attic to cellars…all her floor plans, all her interior ideas, all her innovations. All hers.

  Her first house! She could barely believe it.

  “Congratulations.” Excitement percolated inside her, and she beamed up at Whitby. “Your house plans are finished.”

  “Deuces, I hope so! The builders have al
ready broken ground.” He returned her grin with a toothy one of his own. “Too late to stop now.”

  “Indeed.” She’d sketched out the initial plans two weeks ago, then sent word on behalf of her father to the builders who had promptly begun excavating the basements. There had been no need to wait to start on those while the floor plans for the house above were being finalized. “You’re the proud father of a great big hole in the ground.”

  He let out a hee-haw laugh, and she had no choice but to giggle at his happiness. His laughs were always like that—loud, boisterous…infectious. In the four weeks they’d worked together, she’d come to appreciate that joyful quality in him. Whitby had a way of lighting up a room when he entered. And not only because of his colorful clothes.

  “A hole in the ground that will some day have a lovely house standing over it,” he corrected, scanning his eyes over the plans. “Thanks to your father.”

  Her father. Not her.

  His words hurt, but she didn’t let her smile waver. She had no choice but to continue the ruse that Elias Daring was the architect while she was only the wallpaper. Certainly, Whitby seemed intrigued by her sketches and ideas, but the gap was huge between finding her innovations interesting and actually letting her build his house. If he ever learned that the plans were actually hers and the builders taking orders not from Papa but from her, he might stop the project right then, demand his retainer back, and hire another architect to finish the house. Then her family really would be headed for the poorhouse if anyone found out. At best, no client would ever hire them again. At worst, their past clients could cry fraud and demand their money back. She didn’t dare believe that any of them would be willing to empathize with why she’d lied to them, not once society began to ridicule them for trusting the Elias Daring Architectural Firm, or be unwilling to take them to court to claim restitution.

  He added quickly, as if afraid he’d offended her, “And to you, too, of course. A house without interior details is…well…”

  “Still a house?” she prompted with wry amusement.

  “A hollow shell of a house,” he amended. “One that isn’t at all a true home.”

  “Well then, Mr. Whitby.” She tapped the sheet and drew his attention back to it as she corrected her earlier statement, “Congratulations. The plans for your hollow shell of a house that will some day be a true home are now finished.”

  He thrust out his chest with pride. “Indeed they are!”

  Now, during this morning’s meeting, she would take down his thoughts and opinions on any last changes that absolutely had to be made and walk the plans downstairs to hand them over to her father. Papa would look over them and discuss a few details with Whitby to make it seem as if he’d been working on them all along. Then Daisy would make corrections herself after Whitby had left, and in the morning, she would turn everything over to the lead builder, with instructions forged in her father’s handwriting. The house would be on its way, and no one would be the wiser about whose mind had actually created it. Including Whitby, who after today she would have no reason to see again for several months.

  Disappointment panged oddly hollow in her chest.

  Since he’d given them the commission, he’d dropped by nearly every day. First, he’d stopped by to bring the retainer money himself, and then he came frequently after to check on the plans’ progress, even on the days when she’d had nothing new to show him. He would look at the plans, nod, and then engage her in conversation that had nothing to do with architecture or his townhouse. As if he’d come purely for a social call.

  He’d visit with them for hours some afternoons, talking not only to her but also with her father whenever Papa felt up to accepting visitors. With Whitby, her father seemed always eager to chat. The two men had even taken short strolls together when the weather cooperated, which led to long debates over some peculiar issues…whether members of Parliament should wear matching uniforms, if theatre should be allowed in non-licensed venues, and which was better on boots, buckles or tassels? But the exercise had done Papa a world of good, and he’d begun to look forward to Whitby’s visits—and to their odd little walking debates—with excitement.

  So she couldn’t tell Whitby to stop visiting.

  Nor could she tell him to stop bringing her gifts. Besides the fact that she didn’t want to offend him as a client or be a presumptuous goose for assuming he wanted to court her, she had no idea what to make of them. These weren’t the normal gifts a man would give to a woman. Not flowers or ribbons or little things for her hair—but a new sketch pad, a set of high-quality drafting pencils, a book by Palladio that she’d coveted for years but simply could not afford, an unusual door knocker in the shape of a turtle. A door knocker, for heaven’s sake! What man gave a woman gifts like these?

  Whitby did. And every one of them unique to her and her interests.

  “When will we start on the interiors?” he asked, leaning back against the table beside her and crossing his arms.

  “When we have walls,” she answered dryly.

  He cheekily arched a brow at her. “I mean when do we start discussing them? Because I can’t wait to hear all of your ideas.” Seriousness suddenly gripped his face as a thought struck him. His emotions were as easy to read as a book. “But we’ll keep them secret, all right? I don’t want Mariah to know what special things we’re planning.”

  He said that as casually as if he and Daisy were best friends who often conspired together like allies instead of architect and client. As if he were simply enamored with her and could give her his complete trust.

  But Daisy wasn’t quite so sure of him.

  Sometimes, she didn’t know exactly how to take his boisterousness and unchecked mannerisms, his flamboyant clothes and hats, or how he’d often break into laughter over the smallest things. He was the exact opposite of her, someone who didn’t like attention cast upon her and certainly didn’t seek it out.

  After spending so much time with Whitby, she could honestly admit that she was growing to appreciate him…but would she ever grow used to him? He didn’t walk; he skipped. He didn’t say hello; he bellowed his greetings. He didn’t settle for average; he delighted in every bit of life, no matter how seemingly insignificant. And always, always he wore that big grin that lit up not only his face but every place he went. He reminded her of the fireworks at Vauxhall—loud, bright…occasionally alarming.

  Right now, she certainly didn’t need any of that in her life. Yet she also knew she’d miss him when he was gone from it.

  “We’ll work on the interior decorations last,” she answered. “After all, we can’t really decide about plasterwork, mantels, and upholsteries until the builders are finished and we can step inside the rooms to gain a true feel for the spaces.”

  But, oh, what plans she had for them when they did! Special skylights and windows, beautiful gas lamps, a wonderful new stove for the kitchens with a built-in boiler so the house would have hot water on demand—all of it modern with the latest technologies, the most thoughtful touches throughout. There wouldn’t be another townhouse like it anywhere on the square. Heavens, in all of London!

  “And speaking of walls and ceilings…how are your two little brothers doing at Harrow?”

  Daisy blinked at that rapid change of topics. “What on earth do Benjamin and William have to do with walls and ceilings?”

  He shrugged. “We were talking about interiors, and I thought of oak-paneled walls.”

  “And that made you think of my brothers?” Would she ever understand this man’s thought process?

  “That made me think of Harrow which has terrific old oak-paneled walls and beamed ceilings that date back to Queen Elizabeth’s reign. Quite remarkable, actually. Three of my brothers went there, too.”

  “I think you have an endless supply of brothers,” she mumbled as she turned back to the plans and rolled them up.

  “My father seems to think so.” He grinned. “But there are only six.”

  Ha
ving to be a mother to Ben and Will as well as their sister was enough of a trial; Daisy couldn’t imagine having to suffer the antics of even more boys in one family. They were just babes when Mama passed, with Daisy only ten herself. Thank heavens they had Mrs. Jones! That was why keeping the boys in school—and in one of the best in England—was so important to her. There were other schools in London that were far less expensive, ones they could attend while living at home, too. But Daisy wanted to do right by their mother’s memory and give them the best education possible, and that meant sending them to Harrow. She would never forgive herself if she faltered in that.

  “Are your brothers anything like you?” She wrapped a piece of string around the roll and deftly tied it. “Do they share your personality and appearance?”

  “Heavens, no!” He seemed aghast at the idea. “I’m so much more boring than they are.”

  Her eyes widened. If he was boring in comparison…Goodness.

  “And the other day I was thinking about my brothers who had gone to Harrow, how the three of them were always up to their necks in one kind of trouble or another, how Father seemed always on the road between Harrow and Eton to see to whatever predicament they’d most recently gotten themselves caught up in, which led me to think about your brothers and if they were faring better at school than mine had…”

  She sighed patiently at the length of his story. Well, it was her own fault, she supposed. She had asked for an explanation of why he’d been thinking of Ben and Will, especially since he’d not even met them.

  “And so I inquired after them to the headmaster.”

  She wheeled around, stunned. “You spoke to their headmaster?”

  “When I ran into him the other day at Somerset House.” His expression grew somber. “He said you’re having trouble paying their tuition.”

  Embarrassment flooded through her, heating her face all the way out to the tips of her ears. She reached to put her pencil back into its case before she snapped it in two. She had no idea which man to be angrier with—Whitby for interfering or the headmaster for gossiping. “He had no right to openly discuss—”