Page 29 of A Figure of Love

To her surprise, he laughed.

“I am glad I amuse you,” she lied.

He shook his head, still laughing. “Thank you, Mrs. Lombard, you are certainly very . . . imaginative. But I am afraid it is you who misunderstand me. Gareth is not in search of an aristocratic bride because he wishes to acquire an arm ornament who will spend his money, sneer at his lineage, and stoop to warm his bed only so far as to provide him with an heir. No, my dear widow, it is for another reason entirely that he would suffer the condescension of your crowd. You see, unlike me, Gareth is concerned about more than just money. He wants influence with the people who wield it. He wants change—safer working conditions, shorter hours, age limits, decent wages. In short, he is concerned about the wellbeing of workers. To that end, he is willing to shackle himself to a spouse who has as much interest in him or chance of caring about his happiness as she might in flying to the moon.”

Up in the lighted window Mr. Lockheart paused, stilling the swinging leather bag with one hand and holding it while he dropped his head onto his forearm, his deep breathing obvious even from this distance.

“Perhaps you might take take a leaf out of your friend’s book and state your point in plain words, Mr. McElroy,” Serena said, not bothering to look at him.

Mr. McElroy moved until he stood between Serena and her view of the window, his face as hard as a granite carving, his eyes glittering dangerously. “Gareth Lockheart is the smartest man I have ever met. But, in a lot of ways, he is like a child. Because he is not motivated by greed or jealousy or envy, he does not take those emotions into account in his dealings with others. In addition to being the smartest person I know, he is also the most honest, generous, and kind.” He reached out and ran a finger along her jaw. “I, Mrs. Lombard, am quite another kettle of fish.”

Serena jerked her head away from his hand and took a step back. “What exactly—”

“I am good at reading people and can spot a liar or somebody who is hiding something from twenty paces. You, Mrs. Serena Lombard, are hiding something. I can smell it on you like other men might smell your perfume. If it turns out it is this blasted garden or some other scheme you have cooked up with Featherstone, I warn you, Mrs. Lombard, your august connections will not save you from me if I find out you are manipulating my friend. Good evening, ma’am.” He turned and walked away, leaving Serena feeling as if she had been slapped in the face.

How dare he?

She spun around to ask him just that, but he had disappeared into the darkness without a trace. Serena slumped against the closest tree, her mind whirling. What did he know? How could he know anything? Even Sandy didn’t know, although he suspected, with his own aptitude for lies and deception, that something was not quite right.

Should she leave? If she did, where would the money come from for the next payment? If she didn’t, would McElroy make good on his threat and she would find herself in an even worse bind? She had meant no harm to Mr. Lockheart, but it was hard to remember that with all the guilt and fear that surrounded her.

And if she had briefly entertained the thought of marrying Mr. Lockheart, and giving him the connections into the aristocracy he needed, could she really be blamed? Her first thought was for her son. She would do anything to protect him. Anything.

She looked up at the window, foolishly thinking there might be answers there. But it was now dark, just like all the others.

Chapter Eight

Mrs. Lombard was in the breakfast room before him, a roll of plans laid out across the large table while she ate her breakfast.

“Good morning, Mr. Lockheart.” She gestured to the drawings. “I will bring the plans with us today.”

“Very good.” Gareth didn’t need plans to know there was a problem, but he did not demur. She still had more than half a plate of food and had just poured a cup of coffee so Gareth ordered a pot for himself and proceeded to fill a plate.

He saw she was wearing a different riding habit—this one an unusual shade of burnt orange with dark gold piping, the style and cut somewhat old fashioned. Gareth had dressed in the clothing his valet, Chalmers, set out for him after learning of today’s plans: leather breeches, a dark brown clawhammer, and green waistcoat with narrow brown stripes. Chalmers was responsible for choosing and caring for his clothing, two chores Gareth found beyond fatiguing. His only stipulation was that the fabrics be comfortable and that the cut did not hamper his movement beyond good sense. His memory, all but faultless in most matters, seemed to develop a selective amnesia about clothing and the correct suit of clothing for different occasions. Chalmers did not dress or shave him, but the dour valet did administer Gareth’s haircuts, which seemed to be necessary ever more frequently.

She looked up from the plans when he sat across from her. “Mr. McElroy did not change his mind and decide to join us?”

Gareth paused in the act of opening his napkin. “Did he tell you he had changed his mind?”

Her cheeks, already somewhat rosy, turned an even redder shade. “No, I just thought he might have.”

Gareth had prepared for today by composing a list of conversational gambits and rehearsed responses. He’d found such lists helpful for those occasions when he expected to be in prolonged company with a person who was not Declan or a servant, the only people with whom he felt no social compunction to make pointless comments or idle conversation. Today’s list had been easier than usual as he seemed to have developed an actual curiosity about Mrs. Lombard and her son, an unusual development for him. It was not that he did not like people, of course, but he rarely wished to become any better acquainted with them.

“Your accent is very slight, Mrs. Lombard.”

She gave him a look of such surprise he wondered if he’d erred once again. Were accents—like bodily functions—yet another taboo subject? But, no, she did not appear scandalized. More than likely she was stunned that he would generate a question of this sort.

“My father spoke English to me when I was growing up. He wanted me to be fluent in his mother tongue.”

“How long have you lived in England?”

“It will be ten years soon. I came just before my son was born, in 1807.”

Her answer spurred a new question, one that had not been on his list. “You told me the last time you were here that your father groomed you to become a sculptor? Is that not unusual in France?”

“It is just as unusual as it is here.” She smiled, the same genuine, open look she had given to her son. Gareth thought the expression transformed her face from merely pretty to beautiful. He was, by no means, immune to feminine beauty, but he’d never considered it quite so closely before. “My father, like most men, had wished for a son, but my mother died having me. I was perhaps five when he realized I had an aptitude for clay modeling as well as sketching. He began to take me into his studio. At first I only watched and played with my bits of wax or clay. I made my first piece from terracotta, and he was so pleased he purchased some rather fine marble—a softer grade of stone than he would normally use because I was still young and did not have the strength for the more durable types. When I was fourteen I began to help him in the studio at Monsieur Favel’s chateau. He was a very old sculptor who no longer worked but employed several sculptors and stone cutters to complete commissions he still received. It was a pleasant, if somewhat unconventional childhood,” her smiled wavered. “Or at least it was before the War took its toll.” She shrugged and cut a piece of ham. “So I am an artist by a fluke of nature. If my father had had a son, I would more than likely be married to a sculptor by now.”

He watched her lift the fork to her mouth and realized he possessed a rather unexpected desire to see her wield a hammer and chisel. Her hands were not beautiful in the accepted feminine sense, but they were shapely and dexterous.