The Importance of Being Wicked (Millworth Manor) (8 page)

“Go on.”

“Much of what I have found out is common knowledge and you probably already know it.”

“Let’s pretend I don’t.”

“Very well.” Chapman pulled out a small notebook from an inner pocket of his coat and glanced at it. “Garret and Tempest was founded by Lady Garret’s late husband. His brother, then Viscount Garret, was either unable or unwilling to provide the funding necessary for his younger brother’s endeavor. A private investor, one Mr. Tempest, came forward with a sizable investment, thus funding the business.”

Win stared. “Mr. Tempest is a financier then and not the architect?”

“My lord.” Chapman met Win’s gaze firmly. “I prefer to reveal my findings in a chronological manner, much as I prefer to consider them in progression. I find it much more conducive to reaching a logical conclusion. Therefore, may I continue?”

“Yes, well, I suppose. Go on then.”

“Thank you. As I was saying, Mr. Tempest funded the company some nine years ago with the provision that the firm carry his name and, naturally, that he be repaid over time.”

“Has the debt been repaid?”

Chapman raised a chastising brow.

“Yes, of course, you’ll get to that.”

“Now, as they say, the plot thickens. According to the original agreement between Mr. Tempest and Lord Garret—Mr. Garret at the time—repayment was to be made out of the firm’s profits. According to what I have been able to discover, there were years when, after expenses and debts and salaries were met, there were no particular profits to speak of and no payments made to Mr. Tempest. In addition, it appears Lord Garret continued to borrow from Mr. Tempest and while the debt is no greater than the original sum, at the time of his lordship’s death it was not considerably smaller. As far as I can determine, Lady Garret has no knowledge of this financial discrepancy.”

Win started to ask why Mr. Tempest didn’t demand payment but thought better of it and kept his mouth shut.

“It wasn’t until a year after Lord Garret’s death, when Lady Garret began to take an active role in the company, that regular monthly payments were made.” He paused. “Even in those months when there were no profits to be had, she took money from her private funds, an inheritance from her family, some sort of trust, I believe, to make good on the debt. When there are profits, she not only makes that payment but she pays into an account she has set aside for her employees in the event the business fails and they lose their livelihood. Aside from Lady Garret, the firm has seven full-time employees, including a very attractive young woman, a Miss Clara West, who oversees the office and manages the accounts. She is the sister of the man who was killed with Lord Garret.”

“And Mr. Tempest?”

“He is not an employee.”

“I see,” Win said slowly, then frowned. “No, I don’t. Who is this Mr. Tempest?”

“At this point”—Chapman shrugged—“I have no idea.”

“But he’s the architect.” Win got to his feet, strode across the library to the table, where the plans for Fairborough Hall were still spread out. “Right here.” He tapped the drawing. “This is his signature. Admittedly, he has done an excellent job even if he is an advocate of electricity, for God’s sakes. Surely there must be some record of him?”

“Not insofar as I have been able to determine. The man has covered his tracks exceptionally well. If his purpose is to remain anonymous, he has done a brilliant job of it. Payments from Lady Garret go through a series of solicitors and bank accounts.” Chapman shook his head in an admiring manner. “I have not yet been able to get to the truth of it.”

“But Lady Garret
said
he is the architect. At least I think she did.” Win returned to his chair and sank into it. “It could be she simply implied it.” He thought back over their conversations. “Nonetheless she did lead me to believe that. And I distinctly remember her saying that Mr. Tempest never meets with clients because it hinders his artistic creativity or something equally ridiculous.”

“Regardless of what she might have said, I can find no evidence to support that. And, as far as I have been able to determine, no one at Garret and Tempest has ever met the man, including Lady Garret. Lord Stillwell.” Chapman leaned forward and met Win’s gaze directly. “I am fairly certain that not only is Mr. Tempest not your architect, but I am beginning to suspect as well that he does not exist at all.”

Win stared. “How is that possible? He invested in Garret and Tempest.”

“Someone invested in Garret and Tempest. Someone who has gone to a great deal of trouble to make certain his identity remains unknown.” Chapman paused. “I’m not certain this information is pertinent to what you specifically wanted to know. Do you wish me to pursue this line of inquiry?”

Win waved off the question. “I don’t particularly care about who funded Garret and Tempest one way or the other, but I do want to know in whose hands I have placed the future of Fairborough Hall. And I want to know if and why Lady Garret found it necessary to deceive me.”

“Then you wish me to uncover the name of the architect?”

Win nodded. “I do indeed and as quickly as possible.”

Chapman studied him. “Might I ask why? I have found nothing to indicate Garret and Tempest’s references are not legitimate. The firm has a good reputation. If you are happy with the work, does it matter?”

“Perhaps not, but I do like to know exactly who I am dealing with. I hate to be taken for a fool, and frankly, at this point, I am feeling extremely foolish.” He had been right all along. Lady Garret was hiding something. “What can you tell me about Lady Garret?”

“Unless one considers the question of Mr. Tempest, Lady Garret appears to be something of an open book.” He thought for a moment. “She is the youngest sister of the Earl of Waterston. She married John Garret, the brother of Viscount Garret, at the age of nineteen. They met at a lecture and shared a mutual interest in architecture. He inherited his title a few months before his death. His death was due to the collapse of scaffolding during the construction of a house his firm had designed just outside of London.

“Lady Garret has never been the subject of gossip, nor has she ever been implicated in scandal of any sort. While she has been involved in charitable work, she is not known to support more liberal causes, suffrage for women and that sort of thing. Indeed, among people who know her family she is considered the quietest and most reserved of the lot.”

“Ha!” Win snorted.

“Ha?”

“Then she has changed, Chapman.” He shook his head. “The Lady Garret you describe is not the woman I have been dealing with.”

“Oh?”

“The Lady Garret of my acquaintance is determined and stubborn and entirely more outspoken than is seemly in a properly bred female.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “She’s not the least bit quiet, and reserved is the last thing I would call her. She is one of those women who charges ahead, mowing over anyone foolish enough to stand in her way. And she regards me as an idiot.”

“Not that, my lord.”

Win ignored the tone in Chapman’s voice that did seem to imply, at this particular moment, that the other man agreed with Lady Garret. “This is not a personal matter, Mr. Chapman, it’s a matter of business. I have entrusted my family’s home to her firm, and I want to make certain it is in good hands. Lady Garret is hiding something, and I want to know what it is.” He rose to his feet. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly, my lord.” Chapman stood. “I shall do my utmost to find the answers you seek.” He considered Win thoughtfully. “If I might make a suggestion?”

“Go on.”

“From what you have said, I gather you and Lady Garret do not see eye to eye.”

“You gathered that, did you?”

“One does not need a great deal of investigative insight to reach that conclusion. However, you have a certain reputation for being most charming with the ladies.” A look flashed through the man’s eyes as if he wondered what on earth they saw in Win. “It has been my experience that women tend to respond more readily to pleasantries and charm than direct confrontation.”

“Not this one,” Win said under his breath.

“Perhaps you have not given that direction the proper amount of effort. Honey as opposed to vinegar, as it were.”

Win stared at the other man. Chapman was right, of course. It was obvious and yet . . .

What on earth had gotten into him? Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t felt quite up to snuff since the fire. As if something of himself, something of his soul, had gone up in flames with his home. Perhaps he had been mourning and hadn’t realized it. Silly, of course. The house could be—would be—rebuilt. But he had, as well, been burdened with any number of concerns as a result of the fire. He had been worried about his father’s health, about finding places for those servants temporarily displaced, about rebuilding and about an endless array of unforeseen problems that piled up one on top of the other when one’s house had burned. But his father was fine and all else had been resolved. Even with the questions that remained about Lady Garret, Chapman had confirmed her company’s reliability. No, Win had matters—he had life—well in hand at this point. A familiar sense of confidence, the feeling that he could handle anything life had in store, surged through him. By God, he felt good.

Chapman was right on another score as well. Win had rarely met a woman he couldn’t charm. He had forgotten that. One curt word from Lady Garret and he had practically rolled over and surrendered, like a dog hoping to be scratched. Well, that was at an end. He was Winfield Elliott, Viscount Stillwell and heir to the Earl of Fairborough. He was a dashing figure of a man and well known for his wit as well as his charm. Men liked him and women usually adored him. And aside from three fiancées who had decided for various reasons that he did not suit, he could name any number of other women who thought he was an engaging companion and quite a catch. Why, he had spent very nearly as much of his life being pursued as he had in pursuit.

“You’re absolutely right, Chapman.” He cast the other man a confident grin. “Honey it is then. You look for the answers I need in your way, and I shall endeavor to find them in mine.”

“Excellent, my lord.” Chapman nodded. “Then if that is all?”

“I am curious though.” He glanced at the notebook in Chapman’s hand. “Aside from when you opened your notebook, you never looked at it. Tell me.” Win flashed him his most engaging smile. “There’s nothing written in that book, is there?”

Chapman hesitated, then grinned. “No, my lord, there isn’t.”

“Then why have it?”

“My clients seem to expect that I would rely on something beyond my mind although I have no need to. The notebook seems to reassure them.”

“Very clever, Mr. Chapman.” Win chuckled.

“I know, my lord.”

A few minutes later Chapman took his leave with assurances that he would contact Win as soon as he had something to report. He had already given Win a great deal to consider.

The fact that Lady Garret was providing for the future well-being of her employees spoke well of her. No matter what secrets she might be hiding, that alone eased Win’s concerns.

In a few days construction would begin, Lady Garret would return and Win would put every effort into winning her over. He had absolutely no doubt the tide of this war had turned.

He had never met a woman yet who wasn’t extremely fond of honey.

There was something to be said for being at the center of a storm.

Miranda stood on the front lawn of Fairborough Hall and braced her hands on a rough, temporary table, no more than boards positioned on sawhorses, with a copy of the working plans tacked to it. She gazed around with satisfaction, a certain amount of excitement and more than a little pride. No matter that Mr. Clarke—Edwin—was in charge of construction or that the fictional Mr. Tempest had the credit for the design, this was her venture. Certainly, it was not the first project she had designed nor was it the first time she had been on the site of the construction—she had on occasion accompanied John—but somehow this was different.

Everywhere she looked, men hurried to and fro unloading wagons of freshly cut timber, carrying buckets of tools, nails and other supplies. Edwin directed them with the skill of an accomplished orchestra conductor.

They were fortunate to have engaged the services of Edwin. His presence was a practical necessity. Even if her employees were willing to work for a woman it would be unseemly for her to manage the construction site herself. Aside from the fact that she was smart enough to know she did not have that particular skill, men who worked in the construction trades would never have taken direction from a woman, no matter how well they were paid. She and Clara had agreed with Emmett that hiring his brother to oversee construction was the best course of action. Besides, it left Emmett free to remain at the London office without having to worry about what might be happening here.

Edwin Clarke was a large man, skilled in construction and adept at handling the myriad details of a job like this. The man knew what he was doing. He was friendly and jovial as well, and even on this first day she could see he already had the loyalty and trust of the dozen or so men he had hired thus far.

“It’s a good day to begin, don’t you think?” a voice said behind her.

She straightened and turned. “Good day, Lord Stillwell.”

“Lady Garret.” He pulled a deep breath as if savoring the crisp, fresh air. “It is indeed a good day—no, a glorious day. There is nothing better than spring in England and no more appropriate time to start something new than this season of new beginnings. Don’t you agree?”

“I do.” She nodded, then paused. “Although, as I have never experienced spring anywhere else, I have nothing to compare it with.”

“What? No travels through Europe? No grand tour?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I thought these days every well-bred young lady of good family made a grand tour. I have long suspected it was a requirement. A rite of passage, as it were.”

“Unfortunately, not for me.” She thought for a minute. “I recall there were plans, but my father died and life was unsettled for a while. I then married my husband and, well, travel somehow eluded me.”

“Would you like to travel?”

She shrugged. “Someday perhaps.”

“Where?” He studied her closely, as if he really wanted to know. “What in the vast world do you long to see, Lady Garret?”

“Oh, there really isn’t . . . Greece,” she said without thinking. “I should like to see the ruins of ancient Greece.” Her voice rang with unexpected determination. “I should like to see for myself what remains of those magnificent edifices built when the rest of the world was not yet civilized. I should like to stand in the Acropolis and gaze upon the Parthenon and imagine what it must have looked like when it was new and not ravaged by man and the ages. Oh, I have seen the marbles at the British Museum, but it’s not . . . not enough.”

“How very interesting,” he murmured.

“Utter nonsense, really.” Her face warmed and she pulled her gaze from his to study the house. She couldn’t recall ever having told anyone that before and it was a bit embarrassing that she had told him. That she had revealed something so personal, something that had only ever been a dream. But, until now, no one had ever thought to ask. Even John, who had shared her love of architecture, had never asked if she wished to see the fabled ruins in person. She had no idea why she had told this man. The words had simply come of their own accord. “Well, however appealing the thought of Greece might be, here and now, there is work to be done.” She adopted a firm tone. “The sun is shining and the skies are clear. We should make a good day of it.”

“I like your optimism, Lady Garret.” He grinned, a surprisingly infectious grin. Odd that she hadn’t noticed before.

“I see no need not to be optimistic today, my lord.” She returned his grin and a startled look crossed his face. But then he wasn’t expecting her to be anything other than guarded, polite and somewhat curt.

In the week since she’d last been here, she had done a great deal of thinking. Not merely about the deception she was perpetrating on Lord Stillwell. That was done of necessity and would ultimately serve him well as he would get exactly what he wanted. And while she did not consider herself the type of person prone to deception, it did seem, even before John’s death, that she’d been engaging in relatively innocent deceptions more and more. She had allowed John to take credit for her work and now she was allowing Mr. Tempest to do so. Certainly no one was harmed by her deceptions, but they were dishonest nonetheless.

Nor had she been especially honest with her family either. It had been remarkably easy to escape undue notice in the Hadley-Attwater household if one was the youngest, was discreet and kept one’s mouth shut. She had learned that at an early age. It was John who had allowed her to do—no,
to be
—exactly who she was. Not that she was especially evasive with her family. She simply kept her affairs to herself. It was time—past time, really—to tell them of her work although the courage Lady Fairborough had thought she had did seem to falter when it came to her family. Still, she was resolved to make a clean breast of it with them. Sooner rather than later. Not today and probably not tomorrow, but definitely soon.

She wondered now, if it had been so easy to be herself with John, why wasn’t it easy with others? Perhaps it came from being the only ordinary member of a family in which everyone else was far more than ordinary. Perhaps that was why the courage Lady Fairborough had spoken of was lacking. And perhaps, just possibly, it was time to turn over a new leaf. To stop being concerned as to what other people might think. To stop being afraid. Even if she was the family’s most ordinary member, Hadley-Attwaters were never afraid. Past time as well to accept that heritage.

And perhaps the place to start was with the reputedly wicked Lord Stillwell. Even if, oddly enough, he didn’t scare her at all.

“I didn’t expect to see you here today.”

“This is my home, Lady Garret and I am intensely interested in everything concerning it. Although my other responsibilities preclude my being here every day.” He smiled down at her. His eyes were a deep shade of blue and twinkled with amusement. She hadn’t noticed that before either. “I do hope I can count on you to keep me informed of the progress.”

“I consider that part of my responsibilities. As the representative of Garret and Tempest,” she added.

“It looks like your Mr. Clarke—Edwin?”

She nodded.

“It appears he has things well in hand.” Lord Stillwell’s gaze wandered over the activity. “It’s really quite impressive.”

“It’s only the first day, but indeed all is going well.” Satisfaction sounded in her voice.

“How long have you been here?”

“I took the first train this morning.” As Fairborough was only an hour by train from London, there were several trains during the day. “You’re fortunate to have such frequent service available.”

He nodded. “It makes residing in the country much more convenient. While we do have a house in town I much prefer it here.” He studied her in a casual manner. “Have you eaten?”

“Not since this morning,” she said absently, watching workers lay out framing.

“It’s well past noon, you know.”

“Is it?” She’d been entirely too busy to note the passage of time. “I hadn’t realized.”

“You should have something to eat,” he said sternly. “I would not want you to faint dead away from hunger.”

She laughed. “I daresay that won’t happen.”

“One never knows.” He shook his head. “Can you imagine what it might do to my reputation should it become known that women were fainting away at my feet?”

“I daresay it would only enhance it.”

He laughed. “It could do with some enhancing. I haven’t enhanced it for years.”

She glanced at him. “Haven’t you?”

“I’m afraid not.” He shook his head in a mournful manner. “I fear I have been otherwise occupied.”

“So your mother says.”

“Good Lord.” He groaned. “I dare not ask you what else my mother has said about me.”

“That’s probably best.”

“Lady Garret.” A formal note sounded in his voice that belied the smile in his eyes. “In an effort to keep you from utter starvation and collapsing at my feet, as much as it would invigorate a reputation that is sorely in need of it, would you do me the honor of joining me for luncheon?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly join you.” She looked around. “It would take entirely too much time to go to Millworth Manor and back.”

“I have no intention of taking you to the manor, and you have my word you’ll be gone no more than an hour.”

“Oh, but I—”

“Lady Garret,” he said firmly. “Am I or am I not a valued client of Garret and Tempest?”

“Of course, but—”

“And do you not wish to keep your clients happy?”

“Certainly, but—”

“It would make me extremely happy if you were to join me for lunch.” Again he smiled and it struck her that if indeed it was wicked, it was also natural and nearly impossible to resist. “I promise to be on my best behavior. I know going off unescorted with a man of my dubious reputation—”

She laughed.

“—might seem unwise but I assure you I do not ravish women who are weak from hunger.”

Pity.
Where on earth did that thought come from?

“Well . . .” She studied him for a moment. She could certainly be wrong, but while there might be a certain wickedness about him, she suspected he was a good man as well. After all, he did give candy to children. “I admit I am hungry.”

“Excellent.”

“And as I have your word.”

“You do.”

“But I should tell Edwin that I am leaving.” She took a step away, then looked back at him. Well, why not? Hadn’t she told Clara she intended to be more flirtatious? It wasn’t as if anything would come of it after all. “Don’t you want my promise?”

“Your promise?”

“That
I
will not ravish
you
.”

“Why, Lady Garret, I’m shocked.” He gasped and clapped his hand over his heart. “I would never hold you to such a promise.”

He flashed his wicked grin again and her stomach did something unexpected and the oddest feeling of anticipation washed through her. As if this was the beginning of something quite wonderful. It was absurd, of course, but no less delightful for the absurdity of it.

She laughed and set off to find Edwin. She had never been especially flirtatious as a girl. Her sisters, Bianca in particular, had flirted enough for all of them. She couldn’t remember flirting with John at all. They had been kindred spirits very nearly from the first moment they’d met and flirtation hadn’t been necessary. If pressed she would say she couldn’t remember how to flirt if indeed she’d ever known.

But this was a different Miranda Hadley-Attwater Garret. Why, hadn’t she decided to turn over a new leaf? Besides, flirting with the man was almost as much fun as arguing with him.

Lord Stillwell was right.

It was indeed a glorious day on which to begin something new.