A Figure of Love Read online

  “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.

  His eyelids had the loose, stretched look of a man who was burnt to the socket. His skin had an unhealthy yellow tinge and his hand trembled when he set it on the arm of his chair and heavily lowered himself into the seat in front of Gareth’s desk.

  It vexed Gareth to realize he had missed these signs of dissipation. That was what came of being such an unobservant dolt. He could only imagine the chiding he would have to endure from Declan about this.

  Featherstone’s eyes darted from Gareth to the neatly stacked documents he was preparing for his journey north. “Leaving for Yorkshire today?”

  “Tomorrow morning.” Gareth turned to the two men filling boxes with ledgers and papers Declan had asked him to bring. “Will you please come back in one half hour?”

  The men nodded, got to their feet, and left without another word, closing the door quietly behind them, accustomed to Gareth’s odd ways.

  Gareth took the two-page report Mr. Steele had prepared and handed it to Featherstone, watching his face as he read. His face turned red and splotchy. Guilt and, surprisingly, fury vied for control of his narrow features. His mouth twisted as he read, until his face resembled an angry prune. He did not bother to read the second page.

  He glanced up, his blood-shot eyes flashing. “So, she set you to snooping, did she?”

  It was not what Gareth had expected him to say and it took him a moment to discern who “she” was. Ah. He thought the Lombard woman had exposed him. Gareth briefly wondered whether she had known of the man’s duplicity and then decided it did not matter. Nor did he feel disposed to contradict the other man or explain how or why he had decided to investigate Mr. Featherstone’s background and criminal behavior.

  Gareth drummed his fingers on his desk, the staccato one, two, three, four soothing. He did not care for such emotional encounters and could see the other man wished to draw out this ordeal and make it more unpleasant than it had any need to be.

  “What you have done is legally actionable, sir. It is lucky for you the amount is too insignificant for me to be bothered with. I have decided I will not have you brought before a magistrate.” One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four. “I’ve sent word to Rushton Park and your possessions are already on their way to London.” He ceased his drumming only long enough to push a cheque across the uncluttered surface of his desk. “Here is your pay for the last quarter.” One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four. “You will take this money and the possessions from your chambers here—which have been boxed and are waiting in the foyer—and you will leave my house immediately.” One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four.

  Featherstone’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, but he had not moved, his eyes flickering wildly from the cheque to Gareth and back again and again. For a moment Gareth thought he might le
ave without a struggle or fuss and his fingers paused their drumming.

  But then Featherstone sprang to his feet faster than Gareth thought possible for a man in his diminished condition. He flung Steele’s report onto the desk and leaned across it, his face an ugly mask. Gareth could smell his sour breath and stale body odor and felt revulsion.

  “You ignorant, upstart mushroom, you pushing cit, you. . . you—”

  A speck of spittle flew out of his mouth and landed on Gareth’s clean, smooth desk. Neither of them learned whether Featherstone would come up with yet another epithet. Gareth’s left hand, his dominant one, shot out and grabbed the other man’s wilted cravat. He stood at the same time, pulling Featherstone’s body across the desk while he struggled.

  Gareth twisted his fist and the motion tightened the cravat like a tourniquet until the other man choked, his hands clawing at Gareth’s, but gaining no purchase.

  “You will take the cheque and leave immediately. I will have your possessions delivered to your lodgings. If you speak even one more word to me, I will be forced to take action. You may nod your head if you understand and agree.”

  Featherstone nodded, at least as best as he could with his toes barely touching the ground and his throat in a viselike grip.

  Gareth released him and he slumped almost to his knees, catching himself on the edge of the desk to hold himself up. Gareth watched to make sure he did nothing foolish. He found it upsetting to touch the other man but would touch him with considerably more violence if he did not keep his word.

  But Featherstone scrabbled for the cheque and thrust himself to his feet. He made his way to the door unsteadily and turned, his hand resting on the knob. His jaw worked as his eyes locked with Gareth’s. For one moment Gareth thought he might be compelled to live up to his own threat and deliver a thrashing. But Featherstone only sneered and flung open the door hard enough that it bounced against the wall before striding out, his gait lurching.

  Gareth watched until he turned the corner toward the stairs and then looked at his watch: it was one twenty-three, he had seven minutes until the men would return for the books. He resumed his seat and rested his left hand on the smooth wooden expanse of his desk.

  Methodically, he purged his mind of the events of the last twenty-three minutes.

  One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four.

  Chapter Four

  That night, after Serena returned to London, she sat with Lady Winifred Sedgwick, her housemate and closest friend, and Lord Miles Ingram, in the cozy parlor on Albermarle Street to have what Miles called a Counsel of War.

  “We will discuss this in detail and assess the objective and potential strategies,” Miles said, a grin spoiling his serious words. He was so beautiful he made even Mr. Lockheart appear plain. His golden curls, sleepy blue eyes, and patrician features made him resemble a playful god who’d come to frolic among mortals.

  Winifred, or Freddie—a cool, winter blonde to Miles’s sunshine and warmth—shook her head. “This is not a military campaign, Miles. Serena is merely considering whether or not to accept a position.”

  “A position with one of the richest men in Britain. More importantly: a bachelor in pursuit of a wife.”

  “Serena is not marrying the man, she is considering a position as his landscape gardener.” Freddie gave the beautiful, but impoverished, lord a look of fond frustration as she chided him. The two behaved toward each other with the casual ease of a long-married couple. Not for the first time did Serena wonder if her two friends carried more in their hearts for each other than friendship. Not that she had ever seen any sign they were lovers.

  Serena turned to Freddie, the more serious—and knowledgeable—of her two friends. “Come, Freddie, you know everything about everyone, what do you know about Lockheart?”

  Freddie earned her living launching the daughters of wealthy industrialists into society, an activity she loathed, but was perfectly suited for. Her lineage went back to the Conqueror and she was related to every aristocratic house in Great Britain. She somehow managed to maintain a reputation as a paragon of society even though she had worked at a girl’s school and took money from cits.

  “As Miles has already noted, he is very wealthy. Unlike other titans of industry he does not specialize in one area. Instead, it seems his talent lies with numbers rather than machinery or manufactories.”

  Serena recalled the book of equations and symbols and could well believe this was true.

  “I have not met him, or seen him in society, but he is said to be comely of person and remarkably well-spoken, nothing at all like the general run of men who have fought their way up from places like St. Giles.”

  “Yes, he speaks with no regional accent or particular inflection.”

  Miles grinned. “And is he comely of person?”

  Serena pursed her lips and gave him a severe frown, the one she usually kept for badly behaved students. But her hot, red cheeks worked to undermine her.

  Miles slapped his thigh and hooted in a most un-lordly manner.

  Freddie huffed with disgust. “Really, Miles.”

  “What? You are a matchmaker, Fred, surely you can agree a marriage of convenience need not exclude the possibility of attraction or love?”

  Freddie’s full lips thinned into a pale pink line. “You know how much I dislike that vulgar word, Miles.”

  “Love?”

  Serena laughed at Freddie’s withering stare. “Come, you two, play nice. At least until I decide what I should do.”

  Miles shrugged and stretched his long, muscular legs before him. Faded pantaloons and scuffed Hessians did not diminish the beauty of his perfect person in any way. “I suppose I don’t think there is really much to discuss. An attractive wealthy man has offered you an opportunity you admittedly wish for, and probably for pay you can hardly imagine. What is there to consider?”

  “You are forgetting Oliver, Miles. She will have to uproot and move him to a new home.”

  “Yes, a new home in a lavish house in the country. The owner of said house has virtually agreed to abandon it for Serena and her son.” He feigned a look of horror, “Oh, the hardship!”

  Freddie gave Serena a look of resignation. “He is a man, there is no reasoning with him.”

  “Oh, bosh Freddie. I only speak what is patently obvious.”

  Serena sighed. “I wish the others were here.” By others she meant their friends from The Ivo Stefani Academy of Music and Art for Young Ladies, where they’d all met.

  “If they were here they would weigh in behind me quickly enough,” Miles assured her.

  “Not Lorelei,” Freddie pointed out.

  Miles and Serena looked at one another.

  “All right,” Miles agreed, “Not Lorelei.”

  Lorelei had taught literature and poetry at the academy and was a self-proclaimed bluestocking and vociferous opponent of marriage, viewing any marriage as a prison for women.

  “But Portia and Honoria would certainly support me,” Miles insisted.

  “And how do you come to that conclusion?” Freddie asked.

  “Well, neither of them is here right now, are they? They’ve both accepted positions that have taken them far away from London and their lives here. And look how well it turned out for Portia.”

  Serena considered Miles’s words. Portia, who’d owned the failing academy where they’d all met, had been left deeply in debt when the school closed. She’d needed money so desperately that she’d behaved in a deceitful way to secure a lucrative position in Cornwall, even though Freddy, Miles, Honoria, and Serena had all tried to convince her to abandon her dangerous plan. In what appeared to be a fairytale ending she’d married her handsome employer and was expecting her first child.

  As for Honoria—who owned the house they were currently sitting in—she’d rarely been home in months because she accepted painting commissions that took her all over the country.

&
nbsp; So, yes, Miles was right: her two friends had stepped away from the comfort of what they knew to earn a living, and perhaps make a name for themselves or find happiness in the process.

  “As for Annis,” Miles said when Serena didn’t answer, “We all know what she would say.”

  Serena chuckled. “Fine, I will grant you Annis’s support without any argument.”

  Annis, the language mistress at the academy, was a sensitive dreamer who believed even spiders and insects fell in love; she would likely think an industrialist seeking a wife was a perfect opportunity for romance.

  “Well if you were to ask me what you should do,” Miles said, although nobody had. “I would send him my proposal along with an astronomical fee. I would charge enough that you and Oliver would not have to worry about money for a very long time.” The teasing glint in Miles’s eyes had been replaced by something far grimmer.

  Like Serena and Freddie, Miles had to work for his living. He was the younger son of an earldom that was so impoverished his family couldn’t afford to give him an allowance after Miles left the army three years ago. Serena didn’t know why Miles chose to work as a dancing master—rather than take up a government post or something more respectable for a man of his class—and she didn’t feel like it was her place to ask. After all, there were plenty of things about her past she chose not to share with anyone, not even her dearest friends.

  “What of your sculpting?” Freddie asked, pulling her from her thoughts. “I know you find the notion of designing a garden exciting, but your true passion is your art, is it not?”

  Serena considered her friend’s question. Was it? Oh, she loved it when a work progressed according to her internal vision. But Serena knew, deep inside, she would never be a great artist. She would give enjoyment to those who saw her work, but she would not be admired and emulated by generations of sculptors to come.

  She realized the other two were waiting for an answer. “He has a brand new stable block, and there is a stall in it that is enormous with doors that open on two sides to provide wonderful light. He said I might take it for my workspace while I live there.” She looked from one friend to the other. “I will be busy with laying out the various parts of the estate to begin with, but once the projects are underway I will have ample time to work.”