Page 3 of If a Lady Lingers

“I’m so terribly saddened to hear that.” Apparently, he was. Grief filled his voice, which had grown oddly quiet. “You must miss her a great deal.”

“Every day,” she whispered. Then she cleared her throat and brought the conversation promptly back to business. “Now, Mr. Whitby, are you interested in renovating your entire house or only a portion of it? We can also do projects as small as single rooms, although—”

“Oh, no!”

Her gaze darted up to his. “Pardon?”

“You have the wrong idea, Miss Daring.” His expression was suddenly serious. “I don’t plan on renovating anything.”

Her heart plunged to the floor, all possibility at earning a sizeable commission falling away with it. Disappointment panged in her hollow chest, which was filled a second later by more worry about how she would settle that month’s bills, pay for doctor’s visits, and keep her brothers at school. Just last week the headmaster threatened to send them home for falling behind on tuition. Again.

“Oh.” She slowly closed her book and stood. “Well, then I don’t think my father can help you with—”

“No, you don’t understand.” He scrambled to his feet, blinking rapidly with confusion. “I plan on building an entirely new townhouse.”

She sank onto the chair with a soft gasp as her knees gave out. He couldn’t possibly mean… “Anewhouse?”

He nodded and reached into his jacket’s inside breast pocket. “I just secured a leasehold on a section of a square that’s being laid out to the north of Marylebone Road.” He held out a folded piece of paper across the tea table. “I need a house, Miss Daring, built to fit this space. A house with a very specific purpose.”

She unfolded the paper with trembling fingers and scanned the description of the square and lot, her heart pounding so hard that it ricocheted against her ribs. Not just one room or two, but an entire house! Not just a small renovation commission but house plans that could finally erase all her family’s debts. “And what would that purpose be?”

“A house big enough for all the children, of course.”

He was…married? She forced a smile past her surprise. “And how many children do you have, Mr. Whitby?’

“Oh, it varies—”

Varies?She gaped at him. “Pardon?”

“—but I’d like to make the house big enough for a dozen children or so.”

She blinked. “Adozenchildren?”

“Or so.” He shrugged with a laugh. “Well, as many as we can cram in, I suppose!”

Too startled to remember herself, she blurted out, “Are you mad?”

That stripped the grin from his face, and he stared at her as if she’d just sprung a second head. As ifshewere the one who should be placed in bedlam instead of him.

“I’m so sorry!” Heat rose in her cheeks. Oh, she’d ruined everything! “I didn’t mean—”

“Well, perhaps Iammad,” he answered, his grin slowly reappearing, “although no one’s ever asked me about it before. But I suppose I must be.” He circled his eyes in self-deprecating amusement. “After all, I’m the patron of a school.”

“A school?” Relief flowed through her. In all the times she’d acted as her father’s assistant, she’d never once had a client conference like this!

“The Gatewell School for Orphans of the Sea,” he explained, pointing at the agreement she still held in her hand. “That’s why I secured the leasehold. I want to build a new house for the students so that when they no longer need classroom instruction they’ll still have a place to live while they find apprenticeships and positions.” He blinked. Twice. “What did you think I meant when I said a dozen or so children?”

“Why, a school, of course.” She smiled to hide her embarrassment. “What else?”

Mrs. Jones knocked on the open door to announce the arrival of tea.Thank goodness!This conversation certainly needed a change of direction.

Whitby stood in gentlemanly politeness as Mrs. Jones carried in the tray. Mrs. Jones winked at Daisy in encouragement, then quickly left so the meeting could continue.

Daisy poured him a cup of tea. She was more grateful than she wanted to admit to be able to reset the conversation and start again. “So Mr. Whitby—”

“Hugh.” His hand brushed hers as he accepted the cup and saucer, then returned to his seat across from her. “Please call me Hugh.”

“Mr. Whitby,” she insisted. His offer of familiarity startled her, and now was not the time to ponder why her fingers tingled where his had touched hers. “Tell me about your project. What features are you hoping to have in the house?”