“Informative,” he sighed. “Archibald has been very busy, indeed. Forgery was only half of it. He’d done everything I assumed he’d done—rallied investors, bought equipment, applied to Parliament for a joint-stock company to dig the new mine. There is a chance we will arrive at Caldera and see the thing half dug.”
“But can you stop it?”
“Yes. For all practical purposes, it’s stopped. The hearing for the joint-stock company has been tossed out. Parliament can hardly proceed with forged documents. And there may be legal ramifications for Archibald. Certainly he will have to repay investors and explain the whole bloody thing.” He let out a pained breath. “But I’ve no wish to discuss the mine or Archibald Caulder now, not when I have a beautiful countess to convey to a glittering party in a home of her own design.”
“Well, in a home about which I took dictation while myaunt and uncledevised the design.”
“That too,” he said, extending his arm. “I’ve borrowed a Phaeton from my friends, the Courtlands,” he said. “Despite the chilly afternoon, it pleases me to show you off.”
Willow laughed. “We can easily walk. Belgravia is hardly expansive. You saw this yesterday.”
“You are thinking like a tradesman, Willow,” scolded her aunt, bustling into the room with a fresh rose for Cassin’s lapel. “Remember this afternoon, you are a countess.”
***
Lady Landfair knew his mother, Cassin learned. These were the first words from the baroness’s mouth.
“But I owe her two shillings,” gushed the baroness, “from a ten-year-old game of whist. Oh, how I have missed Louisa in town these many years. And your sisters must be nearly grown. But will they have seasons? You must bring them, Cassin, you must!”
“It is my great hope,” Cassin assured her. “We are to Yorkshire tomorrow, in fact. I have been out of the country, and no one looks more forward to our reunion than I do. I shall convey your intention to make good on that bet.”
“Oh, please do. I’ve been so delighted since I learned of your interest in my party—both of you.” She beamed at Willow. “Of course the baron knew your late father quite well, Lady Cassin, being a horseman at heart.”
“Oh yes, well, he has plenty of company, I should say,” said Willow smoothly. “Thank you for receiving us.”
“But the honor is mine,” said the baroness. “Imagine my shock when I finally made the connection between the Earl and Countess of Cassin and the design service of Arthur and Mary Boyd. Hiring a countess to design my home had not even crossed my mind.”
“I am only making the leap myself, my lady,” said Willow. “But I am a lifelong student of design, and I feel very fortunate that Aunt Mary and Uncle Arthur have permitted me to contribute to their work. However, I am more of an apprentice than a countess when I step into that role.”
The baroness scrunched up her face, unsure how to respond.
Cassin said, “Lady Cassin has the rare opportunity to be both countessandartist, but she is careful not to allow one to distract from the other.”
“Oh,” said the baroness, mentally dissecting this statement, “I see. But how will she—”
By luck, another couple crowded into the vestibule, and Cassin suggested that they not monopolize the hostess. Willow took two deep breaths and allowed Cassin to shuffle her along. The baroness’s half-spoken questions hung between them in the air.But how will she—?
How, indeed? Cassin wondered the very same thing. How would his wife carry on with her passion in London when he returned from Barbadoes? And after Barbadoes, he had no option but to take up his rightful place in Yorkshire. The answers eluded him, and he was loath to disrupt his brief time with her to pursue it.
“What can you tell me about the house?” he asked, weaving her through mingling guests to a drinks trolley. “Am I wrong, or is there a predominance oforange?” He poured goblets of champagne.
Willow chuckled, glancing around. “You are not wrong. You can’t see from this position but”—she took his hand and led him to the drawing room—“thisis meant to be the centerpiece of the design for this house.”
Cassin stared up at larger-than-life oil rendering of the baroness, depicted in a citron-and-lime-colored gown with orange accents. He squinted on reflex.
“Indeed,” said Willow. “My aunt believed the best course was to tease out the orange tones, rather than the chartreuse.”
“I suppose the suggestion that the portrait hang in the cellar would be unwelcome.”
“More like forbidden. And that, I have learned, is the most challenging part of designing interiors.”
“Horrible portraits?”
“Preconceived notions of what represents beauty and good taste. I’ve yet to work on a project that does not come with some preexisting family artifact, treasured souvenir, or ill-advised piece of fine art that must be integrated into the design, generally with great prominence.”
“Like the piano and harp in your music room.”
Willow toasted him with her drink. “That house comes with rare good fortune, actually. On the scale of strange to ghastly, musical instruments rank very low. But I know of another house that must make room for a meticulously preserved evening gown, reticule, and boots that belonged to the owner’s mother. All of it has been stuffed with paper, as if embodied by the woman’s ghost, and encased in glass. Candles illuminated it day and night. Still another client insists on the marble statue of a human foot.”
