Page 13 of A Figure of Love

When he finally looked up, his face was taut, his eyes a bit darker. It was an expression Serena had seen on her father’s face before he tackled a new project or when he found the perfect piece of marble. It was controlled, creative passion and it was the first real emotion she had seen him display.

“They make order out of seemingly random events. This,” he tapped the page but did not take his eyes from hers. “This explains everything if you can unravel its mysteries.” His voice was soft, but his gray eyes burned. So, here was a subject that excited him. Not money, not possessions, not the taking of a wife: numbers.

He looked at his hand, which was resting on the table and clutching his napkin hard enough that his knuckles had whitened. He frowned and tossed the wrinkled napkin onto his empty plate and stood. “I am sorry to leave you so abruptly but I have an appointment shortly. I have instructed Jessup to have my coach made ready for your return journey to London whenever you wish to leave. Inside it you will find Beech’s sketches and any other information I have about the estate grounds. I wish you a safe journey and look forward to hearing from you.” He bowed and was gone. It was like a whirlwind had swept through the room. Not a restful person at the breakfast table.

Serena pulled his open book toward her, flipping through the pages as she ate, looking for something that might help her understand the man who’d just left.

∞∞∞

Gareth left Rushton Park in his curricle shortly after Mrs. Lombard departed in his coach and six. He didn’t see Mr. Featherstone before leaving and decided the man must have still been abed—even though it was after noon. He made two stops along the way and did not reach town until after eight o’clock

He bathed, changed his clothing, and ate his evening meal while examining the latest correspondence. After his dinner he sent for Partridge, his man of business in London, even though it was after ten in the evening. Gareth felt no qualms about such a summons; he paid the man several times what any other factor earned and called on him but infrequently.

He forewent port or whiskey and took tea in his study while examining two new proposals Declan had sent to him. One was a faltering shipbuilder in Liverpool, whose holdings, contracts, and prospects Gareth determined to be unpropitious, but the other was a canal scheme which had faltered before ground could be broken and was seeking fresh investors.

Partridge presented himself just as Gareth had finished scribbling a note to Declan to acquire more information on the canal project.

“Good evening, Mr. Lockheart.”

Gareth nodded at the elderly, spindle-shanked man and gestured to the chair across from him. Partridge was old enough to refuse the new style of dress and sported garments even Gareth—with his utter lack of interest in fashion—knew to be at least fifty years behind the times. His skirted frock coat was a brown brocade threaded with gold and his black shoes had buckles as big as teacups.

“Would you care for something to drink or eat, Mr. Partridge?”

“No, thank you, sir.” He cleared his throat, a sign he was prepared to move on to business. Gareth liked the older man and his no-nonsense style, which fit perfectly with his own manner; a manner people often considered awkward, unfriendly, or cold.

“I would like you to investigate Mr. Featherstone and his cousin Leeland Bowles. Specifically, Bowles’s breeding operation in Yorkshire.” Gareth paused and pushed his hair back off his forehead, mentally reminding himself it was time for a haircut. “I should have investigated him before I engaged him, but he came highly recommended by Jonathan Graves, who used his services while setting up his property in Surrey.” This last bit was more to himself than his employee. He had behaved foolishly and now it seemed he had paid the price. Not only was the man engaging in some chicanery, but he had virtually ceased working on Gareth’s behalf. Except for the hunting dogs he had acquired, of course. Still, before he took any action against Featherstone he would acquire proof.

“Very good, sir. I’ll use Mr. Steele”

Steele was a man who did work for the Runners but remained a free agent. Like his name, he was tough and impervious, a monstrously big man whose slow, plodding manner in no way reflected his mental agility.

“Tell him time is of the essence. I will be off to Yorkshire by Thursday and should like to dispose of the matter before then.” He put the matter of Sandford Featherstone out of his mind. “Now, have you those plans I commissioned for the new brewery in Leeds?”

Gareth and Partridge worked through the remarkable number of business matters that had accumulated in less than a week and when Gareth looked up he realized it was after two in the morning.

“That is all for tonight, Partridge. I will not need to see you tomorrow, but come to me the day after.”

Partridge straightened the new stack of papers he would take away with him and stowed them carefully in his large leather satchel. “I will tell Steele to contact you as soon as he has any information. Goodnight, sir.”

Gareth nodded and looked down at the papers on his desk, not looking up until the other man had left the room. He hated leave-takings and always felt uncomfortable with them. He found it less arduous to simply ignore people when it came time for them to leave. Likewise, when it was his turn to depart he usually left without making a fuss. Declan, a man who treated every coming and going as if it were a state occasion, felt it was not only his place, but his duty, to chide and scold Gareth for his odd behaviors.

“It is bloody disconcerting to be speaking to you one moment and the next realize I’m speaking to myself,” he’d said on more than one occasion. Since Declan’s mouth rarely seemed to stop moving it would have been difficult to find a time to depart when he was not speaking.

Gareth found it expedient to ignore the gregarious, loquacious Irishman when he rode rust on him for his dismal lack of social polish. According to those who kept track of such things—Declan, for one—Gareth was one of the ten wealthiest men in the country. As such, he no longer needed to worry about his odd behaviors and how they struck others. It was acceptable that he did not—could not—seem to fit in.

That realization should have been soothing. Instead, it left a gnawing hunger in its wake: a hunger to not always be on the outside.

Gareth pushed up from his desk and strode to the sideboard where he poured himself a glass of whiskey. He took his drink to the window and looked out over the quiet square. This house was his favorite even though it was by far the smallest. He had purchased it—complete with furniture, art, and servants—from a man who had played too deeply at one hell or another. He had, essentially, moved in to another man’s life. Declan told him there was something wrong with him for feeling so comfortable surrounded by somebody else’s trappings.

Gareth sipped his drink as he considered his friend’s accusation, the fiery liquid like a soothing balm over a raw, stinging wound. He realized his hand was balled into a fist and unclenched his fingers, stretching the taut soreness from them before resting his forearm against the window frame and sighing as he leaned against it for support. He should not be thinking of such things—certainly not right now.

It was late, and he often found the time between three in the morning and first light to be the worst time of the day. The protection of logic and numbers and mathematics was at its weakest point and emotion rose to the fore. It did not help that he suspected Featherstone of dishonesty. No, that suspicion drained him and made him wonder what the point was to all of this; this accumulation of wealth and possessions and the need to protect it from those who wanted a piece. It made him feel like a rat protecting a big cheese.

For some reason, the word estate brought the woman—Mrs. Lombard—to mind. Would she accept the position? Did he want her to? He had believed she was the most expedient choice for a problem that had been taking up entirely too much of his time, but something in her eyes made him wonder. She was not dishonest—no, it was not that—rather she might be too honest.

∞∞∞

Two days later Sandford Featherstone stood in front of Gareth’s desk in his London study.