Page 11 of A Figure of Love

“I see. And Mr. McElroy speaks as a representative member of that class you wish to, er, penetrate?”

Gareth stared. “What? Declan? No, he is Irish and possessed of a great dislike for the landed classes of both Britain and Ireland. However, having spent a great deal of time in close proximity to such people he advised me to purchase land and construct a suitable house and also acquire a wife from the ranks of the aristocracy if I wished to penetrate the invisible barrier.”

“That seems a sound plan.”

Gareth liked this woman more and more. He had half-expected some fatuous exclamation as to the cold-hearted nature of his decision.

“You have built a fine house and the setting will soon flatter the house. You have only to acquire your bride. Tell me, Mr. Lockheart, if I were to take on this commission would I find myself joined by a Mrs. Lockheart within the next few months?”

Ah, that was the question. Gareth picked up a biscuit, a sandy looking thing studded with bits of nuts, and then put it back down. “No, I have not yet begun my foray into the area of matrimony. I had thought to begin such a search when Rushton Park was completed and I might have something to offer a wife.”

“Why, Mr. Lockheart, that sounds almost romantic.”

Gareth blinked. “It does?”

She chuckled at his perplexed response and set down her empty cup and saucer.

“Ah, I see. You are jesting. I’m afraid I lack a sense of humor, Mrs. Lombard, or so my friend McElroy often claims.”

“If that is indeed the case I must point out it has not held you back.”

Gareth couldn’t help feeling pleased by her indirect praise. “That is an interesting observation, Mrs. Lombard. I believe I will repeat it to Mr. McElroy when he next laments the fact.” She laughed and he permitted himself a small smile, not that he believed he had said anything witty. Still, it was a rarity to converse with a woman and even rarer to make one laugh.

He cleared his throat. “Now, if I might lead matters back to our original conversation.”

∞∞∞

Serena could not recall ever sleeping so well in her life. She could only assume it was the mattress, which appeared to be made from some substance similar to clouds of silk. She lay in her heavenly bed and stared up at the shirred celestial blue canopy above, slowly reconstructing the events of the prior evening.

Once she’d realized, a bit belatedly, that Sandy’s plans involved bilking Gareth Lockheart, she refrained from commenting on anything other than gardens and statuary. Who could have guessed that Lockheart—for all his renowned prowess as a shrewd businessman—was no better than a babe-in-the-woods when it came to those matters nearest and dearest to the aristocracy’s heart: estates, country houses, and horses.

Serena shook her head, her stomach tight with shame. Sandy must truly be below the hatches to be behaving in such a dishonest, unscrupulous fashion. Buying hunters from their cousin Leeland—Landy, as they mockingly called him—was disgraceful. Landy’s “stud farm” in Yorkshire was a once-prosperous property he had destroyed in the decade since inheriting it. Serena had heard of Landy’s current embarrassment, a liaison with one of his tenant farmer’s daughters that had resulted in a child that Landy wasn’t supporting. He had no money, certainly he had no bloodstock. She supposed he and Sandy would procure some broken down nags and sell them to Mr. Lockheart for many times their value.

She glanced around her room, which was so stuffed with furniture and gewgaws she could only assume Sandy had done a similar thing when it came to filling Rushton Park—spent money in ways that ended up lining his pockets. Mr. Lockheart was ripe for exploitation and it seemed there was no shortage of people willing to take advantage of him, some her relatives.

“Lord,” she muttered, pushing back the heavy silk and velvet bedding and—with great reluctance—leaving her pleasurable bower.

She rang for hot water and considered the result of last night’s meeting. She had decided to take a week to consider Lockheart’s proposition—that she both design and implement his landscaping project. He had already informed her she would have carte blanche when it came to all aesthetic considerations. Not only could she create the piece de resistance and as many of the works she deemed necessary, but she would also be in the position to share commissions with other sculptors and artists.

The door opened and a maid entered bearing a steaming ewer.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning. Am I the last one up?” Serena poured water into the basin.

“Mr. Lockheart is at breakfast, ma’am, but Mr. Featherstone has not yet come down.”

Serena would go down to the breakfast room and see about her return journey.

“Mr. Jessup had me slip in earlier and take your gown ma’am. I sponged it and gave it a pressing, it looks nice and fresh.”

Serena smiled. “Thank you so much. Mr. Jessup thinks of everything.”

“That he does, ma’am. The breakfast room is on the first floor, in the family wing. Shall I send up a footman to guide you down when you are ready?”

“Thank you, but I can find my way.”

Serena washed, combed, and dressed with her usual efficiency and was down in the breakfast room within the half hour.