The Importance of Being Wicked (Millworth Manor) (3 page)

“Divorce is generally considered outright scandal.”

Bianca ignored her. “Or if one has enough money.”

“And Adrian and Hugh were clever enough to take the legal precautions to make certain your money remained your own.”

“I resented them a bit in the beginning, you know. The fact that they didn’t completely trust the man I was to marry.” Bianca heaved a heartfelt sigh. “One of the worst parts of this is having to admit they were right and I was so very wrong.” She wrinkled her nose. “I do hate to admit I was wrong.”

“That, dear sister, is a Hadley-Attwater trait. It’s in our blood.”

“Hopefully, they won’t rub it in my face.”

“I daresay they will all be most kind. Once they get over the shock.” Miranda took her sister’s hand. “Why, I suspect they won’t even gloat for some time, perhaps even years.”

“Something to look forward to, I suppose.”

Miranda was not at all the kind of person to consider her own needs at the expense of others and she did not do so now. But she couldn’t ignore the thought that the impropriety of her business pursuits paled dramatically in light of her sister’s decision to seek a divorce. Indeed, if she timed the revelation of her secret correctly . . .

“Then you think I have made the right decision?”

“Oh, my dear Bianca.” Miranda cast her sister her most encouraging smile. “I don’t know that you can do anything else.”

“You have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid.” Win peered around the woman, who had introduced herself as Lady Garret, at the carriage he had sent to fetch the representative of Garret and Tempest from the train. The carriage had stopped at the foot of the circular drive, discharged the lady and appeared to be empty of additional occupants. “Lady Garret—” He glanced down at her or rather where she had been a moment ago. She was now striding toward Fairborough Hall.

He hurried after her. “I say, Lady Garret, I was not expe cting—”

“You were not expecting a female,” she said over her shoulder. She carried a paperboard tube and a satchel and was pretty enough in an ordinary sort of way. The kind of woman one would glance at approvingly but might not look at a second time. Her clothing, while obviously of quality, was a few years out of fashion, and nondescript in color and style. She was a good six inches shorter than he with hair a warm shade of walnut worn in a severe manner under an entirely too sensible hat and eyes that were neither green nor brown, or perhaps a bit of both. An intriguing color—hazel, he supposed—although she had scarcely paused long enough for him to be certain. Pity, he had always found knowing the color of a woman’s eyes to be most useful for spontaneous flattery.

Win suspected Lady Garret would not be susceptible to spontaneous flattery. In truth, there was a practical, no-nonsense air about her, vaguely reminiscent of a governess that said, far louder than words, that this was a woman not to be trifled with. “No, I most certainly was not.”

She stopped to study the façade of the house and he nearly ran into her. It wasn’t enough that she was a woman, but he would wager she was an annoying woman at that.

He cast her his most charming smile. It had served him well in the past. Indeed, he had been told it was very nearly irresistible. He doubted even the stalwart Lady Garret could long ignore it. “I assumed that Lord Garret—”

“I do apologize for the confusion, Lord Stillwell. I regret to say my husband died nearly three years ago.” Her manner was brisk, her tone was matter of fact, as if her husband’s death was something she had long ago accepted as part of her life. Which was, no doubt, an eminently practical, no-nonsense way of looking at it.

Now that he thought about it, he vaguely remembered having heard of the death of Viscount Garret some three or four years ago and the subsequent death—in an accident if he recalled correctly—of his younger brother and heir only a few months later. But he hadn’t known either of the men. He assumed Lady Garret was the widow of the younger brother, but then he had also assumed she would be a man.

“My condolences, Lady Garret, and my apologies.” He did so hate awkward moments like this, but when the architect one thought one was hiring turned out to be dead, well, awkward was probably to be expected. “I should have realized—”

“Nonsense. You have nothing to apologize for, my lord.” She directed her words toward him, but her gaze stayed fixed on the house. He could almost see the gears and wheels of her mind spinning like the workings of a fine Swiss clock. He brushed the absurd idea from his head. She was only a woman after all. “But I do thank you nonetheless.”

Apparently, Lady Garret was not about to freely offer an explanation as to why she was here representing her late husband’s business instead of, oh, Mr. Tempest, who—one would assume, given the name of the firm—was Lord Garret’s partner. Indeed, from the woman’s calm demeanor, one might think she didn’t feel an explanation was necessary. She was wrong.

“Forgive me, Lady Garret, for being blunt—”

“I am indeed the representative from Garret and Tempest. That is what you were about to ask, is it not?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“And, as I am quite alone, you needn’t continue to look hopefully at the carriage.”

“I wasn’t,” he lied. How could she possibly know that? She hadn’t looked at him once since she’d stopped to consider the manor.

“Perhaps, as you are so obviously still confused, I should explain.” Her tone remained pleasant enough, but her resemblance to a governess reasserted itself. Perhaps that was why he felt not unlike a small, chastised child. And a stupid child at that.

This was not the ideal way to begin a business arrangement if, indeed, he decided to hire Garret and Tempest. Although in truth, he had little choice. “That would be most appreciated.”

“My husband founded Garret and Tempest shortly after we married. He was not expected to inherit the title, you see, although he did so a scant three months before his death. I then became the majority owner of the firm. I feel an obligation to my late husband’s employees to ensure the continuation of the company . . .” She slanted him a pointed look. “In the same manner in which you, no doubt, feel a responsibility to your tenants and others who work for you.”

He nodded.

“When the need arises, I do what I must to make certain the firm does not fail. This is one of those times.” There was a note of resignation in her voice that one would expect from a well-bred lady who found herself involved in business. It didn’t quite seem to ring true, although surely he was mistaken. He was, no doubt, still stunned that she hadn’t fallen prey to his smile. “Our Mr. Clarke usually meets with clients and oversees construction. However, due to matters of a personal nature, he cannot assume that position at the moment. And that, Lord Stillwell, is why I am here.” She cast him a polite smile, then returned to her perusal of the house. “You’re quite fortunate that the façade is still intact.”

The debris from the fire had, for the most part, been cleared away and indeed, from the outside, Fairborough Hall did not look substantially different from how it always had. A bit blackened here and there perhaps, but all in all not bad. He sent yet another silent prayer of thanks heavenward for the skills of the original builders and architects.

“The interior did not fare as well.”

“Then perhaps I should see that.” She started for the door and again he trailed after her. “It was wise of you to send along drawings, plans and photographs with your inquiries to the firm. How on earth did you manage to salvage them?”

“Only the center section of the house suffered serious damage,” he said. “I believe I mentioned that in my letters. Neither of the wings burned although there was considerable damage from smoke. The items I sent you were in the library, which, fortunately, needs little more than cleaning. We have been doing nothing but cleaning for the last few weeks.” He smiled in a wry manner. “We don’t seem to be progressing very quickly.”

“When you say ‘we’ I assume you mean servants and workers you have hired?”

“Yes and no. We have hired a great number of people to assist our servants in the cleaning. But this is my home, Lady Garret, the home of my parents and my cousin. My father will allow only a select few to work in the library—by his side, I might add. His books and his collection of rare manuscripts are entirely too dear for him to turn them over to someone else. My mother feels the same about the artwork, furniture and family heirlooms that survived. We are not averse to physical labor in this family under circumstances such as these. Throughout its long history, the Elliott family has done what was necessary in times of trouble.” He wasn’t sure why he felt it necessary to explain, but, for whatever reason, he did.

“Sometimes when we lose something of importance what we have left becomes even more precious.”

“So it would seem.”

They reached the front entry and the temporary door that had been erected to keep out unwanted intruders—human or otherwise. “I should warn you, while we have accomplished a great deal, it’s still something of a mess inside. We had a carpenter from the village inspect the floor and he pronounced it sound, but you should watch your step.” He opened the door.

“If you would be so kind as to hold these.” She thrust the tube and her satchel at him and he had no choice but to take them. She picked up her skirts to step over the threshold. She wore the sturdiest, and possibly ugliest, shoes he had ever seen. “Are you staring at my ankles, Lord Stillwell?”

“I am scarcely in the habit of staring at the ankles of a woman I have only just met, Lady Garret,” he said with all the indignation he could muster, even though he had long thought a nicely turned ankle to be most provocative. And he had never hesitated to consider an ankle when the opportunity arose, whether he knew the lady or not.

“Ah, but your reputation precedes you, my lord,” she said mildly.

“One cannot believe everything one hears.” He resisted the urge to snap.

Certainly, in his younger days he had been prone to misbehavior and even now, he did enjoy a rousing good time in the companionship of like-minded gentlemen and indeed, whenever possible, he availed himself of the charms of a beautiful and willing woman, but he wasn’t the rogue he once had been. He simply didn’t have the time. And it was somewhat irritating to be considered so. He was thirty-three years of age, managed his family’s business interests and property, and did so in a most successful manner. The Elliott family fortunes had more than prospered under his hand. Why, even his father was pleased with the man Win had become. That this overly sensible woman with her sturdy shoes had—

“One never can, my lord.” She started into the house, paying him no attention whatsoever. It was most annoying.

“As much as it pains me to admit it . . .” He stepped to her side. “I was not looking at your ankles as one can barely see them being blinded by the sight of the most horrendous shoes I have ever seen.”

“I am not going to a ball,” she said absently, her gaze scanning what was once the center part of the house. She turned toward him, opened the satchel—which required a bit of juggling on his part as she made no effort to take it from him—dug around in what looked to be a bottomless pit of a bag and withdrew a notebook and pencil. “And these are eminently practical for the task at hand.”

“God save us all from practical shoes on the feet of a lovely woman,” he said under his breath.

“I daresay God has more to worry about.” She stepped farther into the house, then stopped and wrote something in her notebook. He tried to get a glimpse of what she’d written, but she shifted and hid the notebook from his sight. He wasn’t sure if her movement was deliberate or not. Regardless, that too was annoying.

“This was the entry hall. The main stairway was immediately in front of us.” He glanced upward. “As you can see the fire burned through the first and second floors, the attic and the roof. The roof was—”

“Do forgive me, Lord Stillwell, but I can indeed see the extent of the damage. In addition, your correspondence was quite specific on that score. Beyond that, the plans and drawings you sent give me an excellent picture as to what was lost. This center portion of the manor housed the ballroom and various parlors on the first floor, mostly servants’ quarters on the upper floors and an assortment of offices for your staff on the ground floor.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“So if you would be so good as to refrain from comment for a few moments, perhaps I can get on with my work.” She smiled in a polite yet distinctly dismissive manner.

“Are you telling me to shut up?”

“Of course not, my lord.” Again, her attention turned away from him. “That would be rude.”

He stared at her. This would not do. This would not do at all. “Perhaps I should speak with Mr. Tempest directly.”

“Who?” she said absently, scribbling something.

“Mr. Tempest? Your late husband’s partner? The man I assume will be designing the house.”

“Oh” She hesitated. “
That
Mr. Tempest.”

He huffed. “Who did you think I meant?”

“Well, I suspect he has a father.”

“Why on earth—”

“And possibly a brother as well, no doubt.”

“Why would I want to speak with his father or his brother?” he said sharply.

She shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“They why would you—”

“Clarification, my lord. I don’t wish either of us to be confused as to precisely what you want.” She glanced at him as if there were no doubt in her mind as to exactly who would be confused.

“What about Mr. Tempest?”

“What about him?”

He clenched his teeth and resisted the urge—no, the need—to raise his voice. Or perhaps to scream. He was not, under ordinary circumstances, given to displays of temper. Indeed, he considered himself rather a jovial sort. The type of man much more inclined toward laughter than fits of anger. But then he had never come up against Lady Garret before. She would try the patience of even the saintliest of men. “I think I should speak to him about the rebuilding.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” She gazed upward at the missing floors and roof, then jotted down another notation.

He forced himself to take a calming breath. “Why not?”

“Mr. Tempest is quite brilliant and considers himself an artist. He never meets with clients. Indeed, he’s extremely reclusive and scarcely ever makes an appearance in public. Why, I myself have only dealt with him through notes and, of course, his drawings and plans. Oh, how does he put it?” She thought for a moment. “He feels it hinders his creativity, interferes with his muse he says, to deal with the more mundane aspects of a project. Or the world for that matter.”

“Mundane?” he sputtered. He never sputtered. This blasted woman had him sputtering. “I would not call the reconstruction of Fairborough Hall mundane.”

“Nor would I. So you needn’t give it another thought as you won’t be dealing with Mr. Tempest but with me or perhaps Mr. Clarke.” She paused to take another note, then looked at him. “Is that a problem?”

“Well, I—”

“You were sent references and our reputation is excellent. I should think that would be enough.” Lady Garret nodded and continued her inspection of the damaged building.