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Lady Alford, as usual, looked as though she’d stepped straight from a fashion plate. Her wheat-colored hair was arranged in symmetrical glossy ringlets about her unlined face. Her pale green figured muslin gown was detailed with rows of ruffles at the hem and darker green satin ribbon trim on the sleeves and neckline. She stopped, took in her daughter, and frowned. “What on earth are you doing in that ancient pelisse? Really, Pomona!”

“What is happening here? Why is the floor covered in a drop cloth? Who are all these people?”

Her mother lifted her hands in exaggerated surprise. “What is happening? We are beginning the refurbishment, of course! Why did you not tell me that you had returned early? We could have begun the moment that you arrived! Look at this place! There is no time to lose! And now I am told by your servants that you have been in town for over a week! What can you possibly have been doing with yourself all that time?”

Mortified, Pomona glanced at the man standing next to her mother. Lady Alford laughed merrily. “Oh, la! You need not worry. This is Monsieur Mazarine. Believe me, he is accustomed to overhear every sort of conversation in all the great houses of London. He is most discrete.”

Monsieur Mazarine was a handsome man with fashionably forward-swept blond hair. He was at least fifteen years her mother’s junior. He made Pomona a deep, obsequious bow. “Your grace.”

Her mother lifted her skirts daintily and picked her way across the drop cloth. “Now, we are discussing the entrance.”

“Discussing? We seem to be past that point. There are men up ladders.”

“Well, naturally! They are working.”

Pomona had worked very late the night before. She only wanted to take a hot bath, lie down, and try not to think about West. “Ma’am, perhaps we may discuss this privately.”

“Did I not just tell you that you need not worry what Monsieur Mazarine thinks?”

“If I may, your grace.” Monseiur Mazarine had a faint French accent. He held up both hands, as though to frame a view. “This entrance suffers from excessive darkness. And why? Because the skylight above the stair has been plastered over. That is why. And because the window above the door has been blocked—most unfortunately, because it faces south. To remedy both these problems will take very little time. Alors, the atmosphere will be heavenly indeed. I propose that we paint the walls a pale celestial blue. It will be… what is the word? Unrecognizable.”

What? Confused, Pomona followed his gaze to the wall above the door—just as the man on the ladder swung a sledgehammer straight into it. “Wait!” she cried—but it was too late. A large chunk of plaster cracked and fell onto the drop cloth. The next moment, a shaft of sunlight streamed into the gloomy hall.

Monsieur Mazarine was correct: Behind the false wall was a handsome transom window. The workman on the ladder pulled out another piece of plaster with his bare hands. More light poured in. “I... I cannot simply redecorate the house without consulting the duke.”

“Ah.” Her mother folded her arms and smirked triumphantly, as though she’d just made a point. “But the servant told me that he is not at home. When is he to return?”

“He—he has been called away on business. To Shropshire.”

“Well then. The duke is an important man. The very last things he will wish to be bothered with are fabric samples and paint colors.”

But… she didn't want to be bothered with them either. And if everything went according to her secret plan, very soon she wouldn’t be living here at all.

“Now. What say you to jade green?”

“Jade green what?”

“The drawing room!” Her mother held up her hands and did a slow spin. “Jade green wall papers. Jade green curtains. Jade green upholstery. Gilt furniture, and gilt bamboo mirror frames. Gold and jade green. Chinoiserie, Pomona. Chinoiserie!”

“Green is indeed fashionable.” Monsieur Mazarine made a sort of mini-bow. “And Lady Alford is correct, of course, to say that a scheme in which the entire room is saturated in the same shade has been popularized by the Prince Regent. We must consider the enfilade. When the doors between the dining room and drawing room are thrown open, we wish there to be a harmony.”

“Enfilade,” repeated her mother. “There. You see? I am right. I am always right.”

Perhaps it was because she was so tired, but the thick beam of sunlight streaming in through the newly-revealed window above the door, and the motes of plaster dust swimming in it, seemed to be hypnotizing her. The proportions of the hall looked different already. It was disorienting. It was as though it had been winter in the house for years, and now in the space of a few moments it was becoming summer.

She blinked. “No. No to emerald green.” She thought back to the palazzo in Venice. “Golden yellow. I do not know.”

“Golden yellow!” Monsieur Mazarine clasped his hands. “Genius, your grace! Of course! A shade of imperial magnificence indeed! And of course, a lighter straw color for the dining room! Glorious!” He snapped his fingers. Three young men hurried into the room. One was carrying a short ladder, another a large board, and the third a tablet of paper. Monsieur Mazarine issued orders in rapid French.

Had she just committed herself to overseeing this project by selecting a single color? “Well!” Lady Alford seemed annoyed. She tossed her curls and then scowled at the hem of her gown. “This plaster dust is everywhere! Let us go upstairs.”

Sighing inwardly, Pomona followed her mother. As they climbed the stairs, the workman wrenched another large chunk of plaster out of the wall above the front door. It crashed to the floor. Lady Alford frowned. “That reminds me. Why have you not told your servants to put the knocker back on the door?”

“The entire house has been searched for it. It seems that it has been lost.”

Her mother snorted. “Or one of them stole it, more likely.” She threw open the door of the sitting room and wrinkled her nose at the blotchy plaster walls and bare floorboards. “What happened here?”

“Er... the parquet was so damaged by the water from the leaking windows that it had to be removed.”