A Figure of Love Read online

  He cocked his head. “A child?”

  “Yes, a son.”

  “He is away in school?”

  “He has grown up in a houseful of teachers. But he is ten now, and I am undecided as to whether he will go away to school or I will have to engage a tutor.” Yet another subject of dissention between Serena and the duke and duchess, who insisted all male issue of the family go to Eton.

  “You could bring him here. I believe country air is said to be quite beneficial for children.”

  “Is that so?” she teased, eating a biscuit to hide her smile.

  The question gave him pause and his smooth brow wrinkled. “It seems I have read that, although I cannot think where.” He fixed her with his cool stare. “Is this something you would wish to have confirmed before you”

  Serena couldn’t help it, she laughed.

  His eyebrows shot up, making his handsome features look haughty and almost regal. “You disbelieve me?”

  She shook her head, still smiling. “Not at all, Mr. Lockheart, I, too, believe children thrive in the country.” She hesitated. “Did you spend time in the country as a boy?”

  He looked up from his plate, which she saw was largely untouched. “I was raised in an orphanage in London. I have never lived anyplace other than a city.”

  She’d heard a variety of rumors about his past but had hardly expected such a naked admission. In her experience, people did not admit to negative aspects of their lives. At least not so unequivocally. Serena could think of nothing to say. An orphanage? What must that be like? Dozens of questions popped into her mind, none of them the kind she had any right to ask.

  “You have never done so until now, you mean?”

  He gave her a questioning look and she gestured around them. “You live in the country now.”

  “Ah. No. I do not. I have spent less than a month here, in total, since construction was completed, and I have no plans to reside here on any permanent basis.”

  She shook her head. “Less than a month? Why did you build it?”

  This time, when he looked at her, she felt as if he really looked. “Why did I build this house?”

  Again she nodded.

  “Because one must have a country house in order to conduct business with the aristocracy.”

  Never had she heard such a thing put so baldly. She would have given a great deal to hear him say such a thing to the duke or duchess.

  “So that is the only reason for,” again she waved, “all this? This enormous house, these grounds you wish to shape, the sculptures you want to fill them?”

  His sleek brows rose only half-way this time. “Yes.”

  He appeared to find nothing odd in expending hundreds of thousands of pounds for something that was only a tool. “Do you like your house?”

  He frowned slightly.

  Ah, finally a reaction.

  “I’m afraid you misunderstand me, Mrs. Lombard. It is not a matter of liking or not liking. It is whether it will prove efficacious.”

  Serena decided she needed more tea to pursue this conversation. “More tea?”

  ***

  Gareth shook his head at her offer of tea and studied her closely as she refilled her own cup. His opinion of her had altered subtly in the course of the evening. While he still found her hair in need of proper management and restraint, he had come to the conclusion that something about her drew the eye. At least it drew his often enough. Gareth tended to avoid women’s company as he usually had no idea what they were thinking and therefore tended to either insult or disappoint them when they realized he was abysmal at either conversation or flirtation. Mrs. Lombard seemed not to mind at all. In fact, he found conversing with her to be not so different from speaking with Declan, his only real friend. Not that Declan was always easy or direct, mind. There was also the slight smile both Mrs. Lombard and Declan seemed to wear as a matter of course. Gareth was not sure they weren’t amused by him, but at least they kept any such observations to themselves. At least Mrs. Lombard did. Declan would often chide him for this or that.

  But what he liked about both of them was the fact they did not belabor him with uninteresting and cloying bits of information and social affectations. They both possessed clean, logical approaches he found refreshing.

  “When you say efficacious, what do you mean, Mr. Lockheart?”

  There. Yet another example of what a wonderfully direct female she was. Gareth couldn’t help congratulating himself on having the perspicacity to recognize such a gem when he saw it and offer her employment. He had no doubt she would accept his offer, even though she had not yet done so—and on his terms, as well. Everyone had a price, even her, even though she did not believe it.

  “I am pleased you have asked this question. You are a woman who works for her bread, Mrs. Lombard. Perhaps you might not be aware of the habits of the upper class?” She smiled and nodded rather than clutter up their conversation. “I was not aware of it myself, you see. But I began to notice a certain point beyond which I could not progress when it came to business negotiations. The barrier was invisible to me and, I will admit, as a man who is often incapable of recognizing nuances, I was unable to discern the problem. It was my business partner Declan McElroy who explained it to me.”

  “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 aris
tocracy’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.

  Mr. Lockheart stood when she entered the delightful, sunny room, his tall, well-proportioned person attired in fawn pantaloons, Hessians, and a navy coat that made his gray eyes more blue than gray. He was quite devastatingly handsome in the stark light of morning, his dark brown hair and pale skin striking against his crisp white linen. Beside his half-eaten plate of food were several large books, open. It pleased her to know his fancy library was not merely for show.

  “Ah, Mrs. Lombard. You are an early riser?”

  “I usually wake even earlier than this but the bed in my room is the most comfortable I have ever slept on.”

  “I am pleased to hear it. The mattresses are made in a small manufactory just outside Manchester.”

  “A pot of tea, please,” Serena said to the footman, her eyes flickering to the vast number of dishes arrayed for only two people.

  “Please, help yourself to breakfast, Mrs. Lombard.”

  “Thank you. Don’t let your meal get cold, Mr. Lockheart, it may take me a few moments to make my selection.”

  He resumed his seat. “Jessup insists that serving oneself is done in all the best houses, but only for breakfast.”

  Serena smiled at his naïve comment as she studied the selection of meats, egg dishes, and pastries spread over the massive sideboard. It was unlike anything she had seen in a long time—since her childhood at Monsieur Favel’s, where food had been a religion. Serena and Lady Winifred usually had simple breakfasts of porridge and the duke and duchess lacked a chef of Lockheart’s caliber. Breakfast had been her favorite meal as a child and she heaped food onto a plate in a manner that should have left her ashamed, but did not.

  She took the seat across from him and buttered one of the warm croissants—a rare treat. “You have a French cook, Mr. Lockheart?”

  He glanced up from his food, which he seemed to be eating according to food group, much the way her son liked to do. “So Jessup tells me. He is new to Rushton Park. Do you approve of his cooking?”

  Since he asked the question while Serena had her mouth full of flaky, buttery pastry so light it might float away, she could only nod and hope her eyes hadn’t crossed with bliss. She decided to try one of the four jams arrayed on the table next.

  “Have you given our discussion any further thought, Mrs. Lombard?” Serena looked up from her feast and he lifted a hand. “I know it is not done to discuss business matters at the breakfast table but I’m afraid I will be leaving later today. I will be away from Rushton for some weeks and hoped to leave any necessary instructions with my man in London before I depart.”

  Serena ate a bite of eggs coddled with heavy cream and chunks of ham and wanted to weep. Breakfasts like this were almost enough to make her jump at his offer. She swallowed and wiped her mouth with an exquisitely embroidered napkin. The door opened and the footman deposited her tea.

  “May I have a week to consider your offer and draw up a complete proposal?”

  “That sounds reasonable. If you accept the work, when would you anticipate beginning?”

  “I would move myself and my son here by the end of the month.” That would give her three weeks to make her arrangements.

  Lockheart nodded. “I will be in Leeds a week from tomorrow. If you have any questions you may give them to my man of business in London and he will forward them.”

  “Excellent. One way or another, you will receive something from me by the end of next week.” Serena looked at the books beside him. “What were you reading when I came in and disturbed you?”

  There was a hitch in his expression as he accommodated her change of subject. She had noticed that in their discussion last night. His concentration, when he focused, was total.

  He turned the open book around and slid it across the table.

  Serena looked down on a two pages filled with utterly incomprehensible mathematical problems. Symbols and formulas of a type she had not imagined could exist. She looked up.

  “What is this?”

  “These are calculus problems which are published in a journal four times a year. I have them bound into books and study them when I have the time. This is from 1812.”

  Serena shook her head, her gaze moving from his face to the numbers, both of them oddly similar in their inscrutability. “You . . . read these journals?”

  “Yes.”

  She gestured to the pages and then pushed the book back toward him. “Will you tell me what these pages say?”

  “Say?”

  “Yes, what information do these numbers and symbols communicate to you?”

  He took the book and turned it right-side up and gazed down at the page, his eyes flickering rapidly beneath his lowered lids as he surveyed the enigmatic contents.

  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.