A Grand Design Part 1

A GRAND DESIGN.

Emma Jensen.

The hook was baited with a dragon's tale. . . .

-Sir William Davenant.

Chapter I.

In White's Club on that Wednesday, several gentlemen scurried, shoved, and wriggled in their effort to be the first with the announcement, "Tregaron is back in Town!" All, as it happened, had been trumped by the man delivering the kippers for breakfast and by Lord Paxton's tiger, but the club's members could rarely be bothered to listen to those persons most likely to give reliable information.

In Bond Street, behind the gilt-painted windows of Schwarz and n.o.ble, tailors par excellence, Mr. n.o.ble murmured, "Tregaron is back!" into his partner's ear. Mr. Schwarz, in the process of draping an ill.u.s.trious duke's undistinguished son in brown superfine, promptly handed the bolt over to their senior clerk and accompanied Mr. n.o.ble in a search for the best black wool they had in stock and for a hushed conference weighing one man's custom against losing that of others among their clientele.

A number of Society matrons, still young, most lovely, but each with at least eight years of marriage behind her, gripped their morning chocolate in pale fingers and recalled that year, murmuring, "Tregaron has returned," to the long, empty expanse of dining table before them. Their male counterparts, in some cases their husbands, muttered the same words, several into the sh.e.l.l-like ears of their mistresses, others to their favorite hounds.

More than a mile away from Mayfair, in the rank shadows of a Clerkenwell hovel, a blowsy, red-faced woman slung an empty gin bottle across the room. "Tha' blighted, filthy rat is back!" she slurred. "Back, the devil take him!" Her husband continued snoring into his half-finished tripe, not so much as stirring when the aforementioned rodent scuttled right over his wrist and made off with half a loaf of coa.r.s.e bread.

At that moment, the Marquess of Tregaron stood in the first-floor bow window of his Hanover Square town house, the bright London day spread before him, and the wreckage of nearly a decade in full evidence behind. He wasn't particularly interested in either one. Given his druthers, he would have remained in Wales, where the very air scourged land and man alike, the ale rolled over his tongue like an ancient ballad, and the women asked for nothing more than a bit of esteem and a coin or two.

Tregaron well knew, however, that content as he would have been to stay on his rough, beautiful Welsh estate forever, it was not to be. Duty called. He had ignored it long enough-eight years, to be precise. Ignored his parliamentary seat, his London house, his all-important, grit-one's-teeth-and-see-to-it responsibility of begetting the next Marquess of Tregaron on some good-blooded, eminently respectable, dull-as-two-short-planks Society chit.

"G.o.d spare me," he muttered through clenched teeth.

Turning, he gave the unlit drawing room a cursory glance. Eight years, he had discovered upon returning, was more than enough time to wreak havoc on a house-broken windows, broken parquet

floors; dust and rot, mold and mildew. Tregaron knew now he could have taken more care in closing up the house, could have had the pipes and cisterns checked, ordered all the furniture well covered, hired a caretaker to look in every once in a while. He knew, but didn't care, any more than he had all those years earlier.

Money would set the house to rights, and he had plenty of money. He had, too, his plans for what it would buy. He'd considered simply purchasing a new house entirely, putting this one-lock, stock, and dismal memories-up for sale. But that had struck him as self-indulgently weak and wholly unnecessary. He owned a perfectly good house already. It simply needed a few repairs and some alteration.

He'd seen more than enough for now. In fact, if he could possibly arrange it, after the single meeting arranged for the following day, he would not set foot in the place again until the job was done.

The architects' preliminary designs had suited him well enough. Perhaps had he taken more time, he would have engaged a better-known name. Wyatville, perhaps, or one of the Reptons. Even nose-in-the-air Nash, Tregaron mused, would certainly have pitched in for the right fee. Notoriety, after all, was no match for obscene wealth. But the marquess had not wanted to bother with either the long wait or the necessary flatteries involved in engaging the famous. As far as he was concerned, Buchanan and Buchanan, virtually unknown now, whoever they might someday be, would serve his purposes just fine.

He whistled, then called, "Gryffydd!" The Welsh herding dog that was his only steady companion sprang from the shadows in a flurry of yellow fur and scrabbling claws, sending dust and bits of refuse scattering in his vigorous wake. "Shall we go?"

The animal was clearly more than ready to be shot of the place, loping solidly toward the stairs before the words were gone from the air. Tregaron didn't blame him. It was a dismal room in a dismal collection of rooms, suited best for detritus, vermin, and ghosts.

He paused in his own exit to glance at a portrait leaning against the landing wall. It had once hung above the mantel and was one of the few personal items that had not been disposed of years earlier. The marquess just hadn't been able to see it destroyed. The beauty of the subject was still undeniable; neither time nor neglect would dull that. "Don't think you can haunt this place any longer," Tregaron muttered. "Or me. It's over now."

As far as he was concerned, his relationship with the lady was indeed very much over. Unfortunately, he knew Society might have some different opinions on the subject. Fortunately, he knew, too, that his wealth and t.i.tle would spare him from having to hear many of those opinions spoken to his face. As the Ninth Marquess of Tregaron, he would be spared a great deal. He could take the rest.

He followed his dog into the afternoon sunshine. It was Wednesday; it was May. It was London, full of elegant comforts and lofty entertainments. The Ninth Marquess of Tregaron was on his way to the first dark and dingy tavern he could find, where he planned to get comfortably, loftily drunk in as short a time as possible.

"It is Wednesday." Catherine Buchanan wearily removed her bonnet and handed it to her sister. "I find it excessively difficult to believe Uncle Angus went to church."

Lucy shrugged. "I am only repeating what he told me." She surveyed Catherine's simple straw bonnet and frowned. "Really, Cate, can you not even try to be fashionable? I would be heartily ashamed to be seen walking along Oxford Street with you in that hideous thing."

Cate suppressed a smile as she handed over her equally unfashionable brown spencer. "How fortunate then that we won't be walking in Oxford Street in the foreseeable future, then. I wouldn't want to watch you suffer."

Her sister rolled vividly blue eyes, set off to perfection by her azure muslin dress. "Sometimes I cannot believe we are related!"

"Yes, well, that makes two of us."

In all truth, most people were surprised to learn they were sisters. Lucy looked like a china doll, all pink cheeks, red-gold ringlets, and delicate limbs. Cate, on the other hand, was as tall as many of the men of her acquaintance, with lively, gingery hair that always seemed to be wresting loose its pins, and pale, freckle-dusted skin that pinkened only in moments of extreme mortification, of which she had relatively few. The only feature they shared was the Buchanan blue eyes, and while twenty-year-old Lucy had spent a great deal of time mastering the proper degree of lash fluttering, Cate preferred to look directly and clearly at life. At six-and-twenty, she felt no need to flutter her lashes at anything, least of all the young men for whom such twitches had been created.

Right now, she pinned her sister with the most direct of gazes. "So Uncle Angus is at church. What of Uncle Ambrose?"

"Some museum," Lucy said carelessly. "I really do wish you would come shopping with me, Cate. I cannot very well go out alone, and I really am in desperate need of a new morning dress."

"If I remember correctly, the one you are wearing is less than a month old."

"Oh, pooh. The ribbon is quite the wrong color for the season."

Cate surveyed the flimsy white trim. Then, choosing a bottle of ink from the mult.i.tude on the parlor table, she handed it to Lucy. "Here, paint it blue. I hear cerulean is all the rage at Almack's."

"Cate, really!"

"Really, Lucy. Why, the Princess Lieven whispered it to me when we met at the baker's this morning. Blue, she said, was quite the color for the season."

"You would not know the princess were she to tread upon your toes!"

Cate feigned confusion. "No? My goodness, perhaps it wasn't her at all! I thought I detected a hint of the wharves in the woman's voice."

Her sister was not amused. "For the last time, will you come shopping with me?"

"I will not. I've matters to see to here, and you've no money. Besides, I have no desire to change my dress, and you have already given your opinion of this one."

"Oh, Catey! I might just as well have stayed in Edinburgh. I'm naught but an ill-dressed captive here! Why will you not call upon Deirdre Macvail and Sibyl Cameron? I am certain they attend all the best entertainments and would introduce us-"

"Lucy." Cate carefully returned the ink bottle to the table. "Deirdre Macvail is now the d.u.c.h.ess of Conovar; Sibyl Cameron is the Countess of Hythe. Neither was my intimate in Tarbet, and I daresay neither would be overjoyed to suddenly have me turning up on their doorstep now. No"-she lifted a hand when her sister began to protest-"not another word on the matter. I'll not be imposing on mere acquaintances for social connections that will ultimately make no difference."

"No difference? How can you say so? Deirdre is a d.u.c.h.ess-"

"And we are but minor gentry from an unimportant village in Scotland," Cate said firmly. "Dream as much as you like, Lucy love, but the fact remains that our branch of the Buchanan tree is too close to Trade for the ton. There will be no invitations to Almack's for us. None."

The tone brooked no argument. Lucy said not a word as she huffed from the room, ringlets bouncing, but nonetheless managed to leave volumes of pique in her wake. All in all, a familiar state of affairs.

Well, Cate thought wryly as she set aside her meager purchases, that was that. For the moment, at least. What she had said would be painful to rosy-dreamed Lucy, and for that Cate was sorry. But it was no more than the truth. There would be no entree into Society. There would be no foisting themselves on long-distant acquaintances from Scotland, nor draping themselves in extravagant fashions whose expense would be much better applied toward keeping food on the table. Lucy's new morning dress, and her dreams of being the toast of the ton, would not be coming to pa.s.s anytime soon.

Cate peered down at her own. serviceable yellow muslin. There was a large ink spot above her ankle. Indigo blue, if she was not mistaken. A replacement would have to wait, too. Her eyes drifted back to the table. Of course, she thought fancifully, should her uncles not receive the new commission, she could simply soak the whole dress in ink.

Sighing, Cate pushed several bottles aside and lifted a half-filled teacup from the papers below. Lord Tregaron would be expecting his final designs. They were, she thought with some excitement, rather good. The open plan and simple plasterwork would work beautifully in the solid Palladian structure, the new floors and ceilings bringing life into years of disuse. Yes, the marquess should be well pleased with the drawings.

If he ever saw them. Cate set the papers aside more gently than she was inclined. Splendid designs notwithstanding, Ambrose and Angus Buchanan would lose this commission, too, should they insist on not being where they were supposed to be.

They were supposed to be right there in the little rented house in Binney Street, preparing for their interview with Lord Tregaron the following morning. Instead, they were, respectively, at a church and a museum.

Cate knew perfectly well that they were snug in some pub. Church and museum were simply their ideas of enlightening places. The elder Buchanans were never quite so enlightened as when they were bright-eyed with ale. They would, no doubt, totter tipsily into their museum and church at some point to squint at whichever piece of statuary or fresco was their subject for the day. With luck, they would then totter home.

She loved her uncles with the same simple, complete acceptance that she gave her sister. Like Lucy, they were good creatures at heart. They certainly hadn't blinked twice at the concept of taking charge of their late brother's children nine years earlier, nor had they ever been in the least bit stingy with their affection. But, just like Lucy, they never seemed to quite have their heads turned to practical matters. Angus Buchanan was happiest when mucking about in his clay and plaster; Ambrose preferred to be covered in oil paint.

They were rather dismal architects. It was not that they didn't possess the talent. Gate conceded. On the contrary, both were artists of great skill. But they loathed the arithmetic and necessary attention to physics that came with the task of designing a building or merely altering one. Had they had their druthers, the brothers would have happily remained in Tarbet, on the sh.o.r.es of Loch Lomond, living in their studio and producing various sculptures and paintings that all would admire and none would buy.

Alpin Buchanan, the youngest of the three and Cate's father, had been a poet by nature. He had not been a terribly good poet, but he had certainly been enthusiastic. He had, too, along with his blue-blooded wife, possessed an intelligence and generosity that had drawn many of Scotland's great artists and writers to their home. As a child, Cate had been bounced on the knee of Robbie Burns, and as a blossoming adolescent had been painted by Henry Raeburn. The portrait hung still on her bedchamber wall, one of her few legacies from her beloved parents.

Yes, Cate mused, life in Tarbet had been warm, lively, and filled to the brim with the pa.s.sions of art. It had not, however, been profitable. Alpin's poems went to print only at the expense of his more affluent friends-and had sold only to those same friends.

Angus did manage once to sell a bust of Persephone to the Duke of Roxburghe. His Grace had promptly installed the hapless maiden in his hunting box, where she was seen by men far more interested in guns than sculpture-and not in the least concerned with promoting the work of the eccentric sculptor.

Ambrose's surface of choice was tabletops. His favorite subject was b.l.o.o.d.y scenes of the Trojan Wars and their ilk. Needless to say, the ladies who might be counted up to purchase little painted tables preferred to have their tea served above angels and roses. Ancient carnage was not conducive to good digestion.

So the Buchanan Brothers had not made their fortunes as artists. Instead, the need for such luxuries as food and clothing had led them to found Buchanan, Buchanan, and Buchanan, Architects. They had designed a few forgettable houses in New Town, Edinburgh, elaborately modernized one medieval manor house for a Lothian baron with more money than taste, and created countless marble follies for Border estate gardens.

The years immediately following the deaths of Alpin and Mary Buchanan in a boating accident had been lean ones. There were a few more follies, a very squat bank building in Aberdeen, and one more Edinburgh house, which had, Cate mused regretfully, ended up resembling something out of an Egyptian pharaoh's nightmare. Then, three years earlier, had come the commission to completely redesign a country house for the disgraced wife of Lord Maybole.

That one, an experiment in blending the Italianate style of architecture with contemporary design and ancient Scottish tradition, had been a smashing success. And while Lady Maybole was persona non grata in Town, she was a vastly popular figure with the young men of the ton, and entertained them splendidly, if not appropriately, when they traveled north for the hunt. Word of her now-lovely home had eventually reached London. The architects, now merely Buchanan and Buchanan, had followed.

Lord Tregaron was their first client. And, Cate thought wearily as she scanned the narrow street through the parlor window, perhaps the last. Her uncles had been scarce of an afternoon since arriving in Town. In fact, since seeing the marquess's vague requests-communicated to them through a terse letter handed over by an indifferent solicitor-onto paper, they had been home only for the occasional meal and to sleep.

It was hardly an efficient way to run a business, Cate knew, but she also knew her uncles. If they remembered their meeting with Lord Tregaron, they would attend him with charm and helpful persuasiveness. If they did not remember, there would most likely be a weary return trip to Scotland. Cate thought they had just enough money left to get back to Edinburgh and live frugally until the next commission for a marble folly.

Straightening shoulders bowed by the weight of familiar worry, she collected several discarded coats from the furniture and headed for the stairs. She could sit and wring her hands until her uncles returned, certainly, but her time would be much better used at other efforts. First among them would be to find items in her uncles' wardrobes that were appropriate for an audience with a marquess-and not liberally spattered with plaster and paint.

Cate knew little of the marquess, only that he was recently returned to Town from his Welsh estate and determined to re-do his Hanover Square town house from top to bottom. She knew those details, and one more-that Tregaron was very rich. That was all that mattered. With any luck, he would purchase the designs and the first pickaxe would be swung before anything could cause him to change his mind. With a bit more luck, the house would be a smashing success and other commissions would follow.

All of that depended, of course, on no one ever learning the Buchanan family secret. On that matter, Cate lost a good deal of her natural optimism. Great secrets, she firmly believed, were always the first to be discovered. And as far as Cate was concerned, fate had already been tempted far too long.

Chapter 2.

Cate was vastly relieved to find Hanover Square all but deserted when they arrived the following morning. London was a big city, certainly, but she'd quickly learned that Mayfair was essentially a tiny village in the midst of it. There were, she a.s.sumed, few secrets among the ton and nothing approaching anonymity.

"Daresay your Grandda' kept a house round here, Catey," Uncle Ambrose announced as the hackney rolled to a rough halt.

"He probably did at that." Cate shrugged. She had never known her mother's father; he'd taken no interest in Mary's life after she had disobeyed him and wed Alpin Buchanan. The old man was long dead now, his baronetcy pa.s.sed to some distant relation, and Cate had far more important matters to attend. Once on the ground, she gave a last twitch to her uncle's cravat. "Ah, you look grand, sir."

Ambrose grinned and patted her affectionately on the cheek. The gesture, made with a ham-sized fist, nearly rocked her head back. "Aye, grand enough for this place even, I daresay."

He turned his h.o.a.ry grey head to survey the very large, very elegant exterior of the Greek Revival town house belonging to the Marquess of Tregaron. He looked, Cate thought whimsically, like a Highland warrior of old surveying a Grampian castle. With his ma.s.sive frame and craggy face, Ambrose Buchanan appeared the most unlikely painter of delicate tables.

He didn't look much like an architect, either.

"d.a.m.n, but the place seems to have grown since we were here last." He turned his fierce Buchanan blue gaze to his brother. "Are you certain 'tis the same house, Angus?"

Angus clambered from the carriage and peered up at the marble facade. "Aye, one and the same. I remember the nymphs."

He pointed one bony finger at the figures decorating the pediment. Cate took the opportunity to brush a bit of lingering plaster dust from his cuff. The coat sleeve, she noted, would need patching soon. As frail and narrow as his brother was brawny, Angus was forever poking his sharp elbows through his coats. It was a wonder, his nieces thought, that he was able to heft the clay and stone of his art. He himself seemed no more substantial than a Hebridean mist.

Cate took a last critical look at her uncles. They were garbed in freshly brushed coats, had managed, with her help, to fashion acceptable cravat knots, and as far as she had been able to ascertain had removed all vestiges of paint and plaster from beneath their fingernails. Perhaps Ambrose's wild grey hair needed a tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, and Angus's vast eyebrows were a bit more weedy than usual, but they would do.

"Have you the designs there, Ambrose, lad?"

Ambrose brandished the silk-tied portfolio. "For the third time, what does this look to be, you daft haddie?"

"Ah, but did you look inside?" Angus gave a smug smile as his brother cursed.

"I looked before we left the house," Cate announced. This was hardly the time or place for a bit of familiar, affectionate one-upmanship. Resisting the urge to remind Angus that his small triumph would have been vastly diminished had the designs, in fact, not been between the portfolio's covers, she gently turned him in the direction of the steps. "Everything is there for the marquess's perusal."

"Good la.s.s!" Ambrose grinned at her. Then he tugged at his cuffs and ran a hand over his hair, sending both into greater disarray.

Well, Cate mused, Lord Tregaron lived in Wales, a wild place for all its reputed beauty. Her uncles' slightly untidy appearances should not startle him overmuch. She expected, too, that his man of affairs had pa.s.sed on more than just the preliminary sketches from the architects. A report on the men themselves would almost certainly have been included.

The marquess might well, however, be somewhat taken aback by Cate's appearance. Or at least by her presence.

Young ladies were generally not welcome at such meetings. But this meeting was a matter of great importance to the Buchanans, and Cate was taking no chances on her uncles' making any mistakes.

Lord Tregaron, she thought somewhat smugly, would be too entranced by the designs for his house to cavil at her presence. Cate intended to hold her tongue, to blend into whatever unG.o.dly ornate portraits or elaborate tapestries decorated his stately home. She had no intention of saying anything at all -unless she had to. Brilliant as her uncles were at their respective work, they were rather poor at explaining the details. After years with them, Cate was more than adept at subtle prompting.