Page 1 of If a Lady Lingers

1

Month One

March 1824

London, England

Daisy Daring traced her fingers lovingly over the blueprints spread across her father’s drafting table, as if touching the plans could somehow make her dream house come to life.

“One day,” she promised, “Iwillbuild you, and you will be splendid.”

To seal that pledge, she tapped her fingertip to the sketch of the formal front door she’d made in the corner of the large sheet. The little portico was complete with a hanging gas lamp and brass knockers not in those usual boring shapes of lions’ or horses’ heads, but ones crafted to resemble flowers. The door handles were gracefully arching lilies, the knocker the cup-like bloom of a tulip, the gas lamp a blossoming rose…They made the portico so welcoming that the house simply sparkled with life.

Oh, it was a beautiful townhouse! Someday, it would be the envy of those grand residences on London’s tree-crowded squares. Not just a terrace house with the typical five bays and three floors, but one unlike any townhouse that any architect had ever built. She laughed. Not even the celebrated Robert Adam had ever designed such architectural details as these!

“Because he lacked imagination,” she whispered to herself.

No one could overhear her as she worked in her father’s attic studio where he’d spent his career as one of London’s most talented architects, yet she didn’t dare speak any louder. Putting voice to her dream of becoming an architect was surely tempting fate. And wasn’t fate already against her? After all, she’d been born a woman.

Becoming an architect had proved an impossible dream. She’d already tried to squeeze through the door of the architectural world, only to have it slammed shut in her face, then locked, barred, and fitted with a portcullis.

She heaved out a sigh. Well,perhapsher experience wasn’t quite that medieval, yet the results had been just as disheartening. She’d shown her house plans to her father’s clients, only to be patronized by empty compliments and chuckles beneath their breaths—those who hadn’t dismissed her outright, that is. One had told her that her ideas held merit, but since he was certain she’d gotten them all from her father anyway, he’d prefer to work directly with Elias Daring and not muddy the waters by indulging his daughter.Indulging…as if working for hours and hours until her vision blurred and her hand ached from holding her drafting pencil was a mere flight of fancy.

So she’d given up on house plans to focus on interior designs. Since decorating decisions were largely the realm of wives, she’d hoped they would be more willing to work with a woman designer, yet she’d fared no better with them. They either didn’t believe a woman was capable of creating beautiful works of architecture and design—after all, how could their little minds actually understand the geometry and science necessary to create an entire building? Why, a house built by a woman would surely collapse on their heads!—or they thought it was morally wrong of her to take work away from men who needed commissions to support their families.

Some clients dismissed her designs as amateurish and banal; others refused to look at them at all. One woman actually threw her sketches back in Daisy’s face and demanded that she be shown work only by a true designer, a man who had made his mark…A man. When Daisy presented the exact same sketches a sennight later as her father’s work, the woman gushed out a stream of compliments and commissioned every one.

Daisy had learned a harsh lesson that day. In society’s eyes, the person who created the designs was more important than the designs themselves. Clients would never want them as long as they knew Daisy had imagined them.

She picked up the plans for the recent renovations to Baron Hansen’s Belmont Square townhouse, and a wry smile curved at her lips. Perhaps she’d managed to thwart fate in a small way after all. Although the baron had commissioned her father for the project, she was the one who’d actually drawn up the plans.

Oh, she loved doing this work! Being creative, using her imagination to bring to life a place where families might be safe and happy for decades to come…making her mark on the world. She only wished she could also put her own name to her drawings.

But she knew the terrible truth.

No matter how talented or hard-working, a woman could never be an architect. Society simply wouldn’t allow it.

“Miss!” Mrs. Jones rapped excitedly at the door. “There’s a visitor asking for your father.”

A lead ball of dread formed in Daisy’s belly as she glanced up at the housekeeper and whispered, “A merchant?”

The Darings owed money to nearly everyone. There were barely enough funds to keep up with the ticks from the butchers and dry goods stores, let alone pay for the mounting doctor’s bills. They were behind in paying her younger brothers’ tuition, with the headmaster sending letters requesting payment as regularly as clockwork. They’d even fallen behind in paying wages to Mrs. Jones and Mary, the maid of all work they’d employed to help the aging housekeeper with the more physical tasks, such as the laundry. Soon, they might even have to let Mary go. After all, why would they need someone to do laundry if they couldn’t afford clothes?

Daisy had robbed Peter to pay Paul so often that she feared she’d be handed a ledger upon entrance to heaven. But then, when it came to managing the household finances, she’d long ago surrendered to being cast into hell.

“Not a merchant.” Hopeful excitement shone on Mrs. Jones’s face. “A new client!”

Her heart somersaulted. Oh, the timing was perfect!

Daisy nodded eagerly. “I’ll be right down.”

Mrs. Jones scurried away. “And I’ll bring up a tea tray!”

She leaned against the drafting table in relief.Thank God.

Her father, Elias Daring, had once been a shining star in London’s architectural world. But then he’d taken ill three years ago, and his business had fallen off drastically. Only old friends and those who didn’t have the means or connections to hire a more prominent architect had graced their doorstep. If business had kept dwindling at that rate, they might very well have found themselves homeless and at the mercy of the parish poor laws.

She’d had no choice but to commit fraud.