A Grand Design Part 7

Danger of ruffians or not, the dowager did not often venture out at night. Truth be told, she limited her day excursions as well, citing the terrible crowds and undesirable persons treading upon one's toes and leering at one's jewelry. Her grandson had always thought the inconvenience more pertinent to the matter than possible robbery. True, she did adorn herself with more jewels than the average queen, but she also did not set foot outside the house without her filigreed, primed, perfectly deadly little pistol.

Which she quite enjoyed possessing.

Tregaron knew Lady Otley was one of his grandmother's oldest friends. They had made their own bows in London more than fifty years before, made their highly approved marriages, made their moves to distant estates in Derbyshire and Wales. Tregaron was aware, too, that they saw each other rarely, that each occasion was precious and too short.

He also knew that Lady Otley's son was Charles Vaer. Meaning Miss Elspeth Vaer would almost certainly be present, coiffed and costumed and glossed, fully prepared for the perusal of a marriage-minded, if poorly regarded, marquess. Tregaron thought he could take on another set of walls with relative ease. He was not certain he possessed the requisite stamina to endure the attentions of the collective Vaers.

"Fine," he announced, knowing he could no more disappoint his grandmother than fly to Hanover Square. "I will be more than happy to escort you to the Otleys' this evening."

Lady Tregaron clapped her hands in delight. "Splendid. I am so pleased. You are a good boy, Colwin. And"-she leaned forward in her seat, eyes alight-"you were very nearly convincing enough to make me believe you wouldn't rather be walking shoeless over a path of bent nails."

"Given that pair of options," he returned with no small amount of irony, "I daresay I am safe in a.s.serting my social merit. I would certainly choose the Otley dinner."

"How very upright of you, Colwin."

"Yes," he drawled, shifting in the diminutive chair to dislodge some of the persistent plaster particles within his clothing, "Isn't it just?"

Several minutes of companionable silence elapsed. Then, "Colwin."

"Yes, madam?"

"Your beast is scratching."

True enough. Gryffydd was having an enthusiastic scratch at a spot behind his dusty ear. His almost-human grin showed how very much he was enjoying the experience. There were times, Tregaron mused, that one could do far worse than to be a dog.

"Colwin."

"Yes, madam?"

"You are scratching, too."

Tregaron removed his hand from the small of his back and tried to ignore his grandmother's highly disapproving stare. This, apparently, was one of the times when there was much to be said for being canine.

Cate was debating hiring a rat terrier, if one could do such a thing in London. In Tarbet, there was always one about, easily borrowed. The postmaster had Billy, the elderly Misses MacDuff had Marigold and Pansy, the blacksmith had Magnus. True, Cate wasn't absolutely certain there was a rodent population still living in the house's walls-the daily pounding being enough to send even the hardiest creature scuttling for quieter climes-but she'd heard enough suspicious scufflings during the rare quiet moments to make her wary.

It was one of those quiet moments now. Lucy had collected "Auntie Rebecca" from the lower foyer hours past and had decamped for home; the uncles had disappeared as soon as the second wall was down; and the workmen had left for the day. Cate had emptied the house, sending off her usual escorts by telling Gordie that MacGoun would be seeing her home, telling MacGoun that Gordie would.

She was seated inelegantly on the salon floor just inside the doorway, her back propped against the wall, shoes off and legs in a comfortable sprawl. Her tea had long since gone cold and bitter in its jar, but it was heaven to her tongue. A day full of dust made for a very parched mouth indeed. So did a day full of jangled nerves.

She'd thought the marquess would never leave. In fact, after he'd gleefully joined her uncles in demolishing a sizeable portion of his home, she had half expected him to ask MacGoun to add him to the daily crew list.

It had been nerve-wracking, indeed, lurking about the periphery, trying to remain unseen while not missing any of the action-or interaction between Tregaron and the uncles. Nerve-wracking, exhausting, and a waste of too many hours that would have been far better spent at any number of activities.

It had also been eye-opening. The marquess had become a different creature during that time in which he had wielded the hammer. His face had lost that dramatic stoniness, taking on instead a satisfied concentration when he was working and a very nearly genial series of expressions during the rest breaks. He had joined her uncles in inconsequential banter. He had shared the crew's inexpensive ale.

He'd displayed a rather appealing, sweat-dampened, linen-covered expanse of arm, shoulder, and torso.

Cate had tried not to notice, had commented to herself that any man who could hammer away at a wall with such force and satisfaction was one who might very well take satisfaction in forcefully damaging other things. But there hadn't really been violence in his movements. There had been an earthy resoluteness and an aristocratic grace.

He had won over her uncles in a heartbeat. Lucy had done all but swoon into his well-sculpted arms. Of course, Cate reminded herself now, neither uncles nor sister had ever been the land's best judge of character. An annoying little inner voice promptly reminded her that she herself had had her notable lapses in that area. Gordie had ended the day wholly impressed with the marquess's hard work. Even MacGoun had grunted his approval.

For a reputed murderer who'd been cold-shouldered by many of his peers for nearly a decade, Tregaron had made quick work of becoming a grand fellow in the eyes of the Hanover Square Scottish contingent.

Having forgotten all about the possible Hanover Square rat contingent, Cate nearly leapt from her skin when something furry brushed against her hand. Only her determined self-control, honed by a life among devil-may-care loved ones, kept her from leaping all the way to Windsor when a wet black nose poked at her chin.

It took her a moment to identify the dusty creature with its paws propped on her lap as Lord Tregaron's dog. By that time, the animal had taken several enthusiastic swipes at her chin with his tongue and was grinning up at her with delight.

For some odd reason, she felt compelled to commend him for having scared ten years off her life, climbed into her lap uninvited, and thoroughly wetted her face. "What a marvelous fellow you are," she said as she scratched behind the large, batlike ears. The dog, lacking a tail, wriggled his bottom and grunted. "Yes, you are."

"Gryffydd!"

Woman and dog both turned to face the door. Neither got up. Tregaron stood there, looking, Cate thought, much as he had when he'd departed some two hours earlier. He was still wearing the same clothing, was still liberally coated with plaster dust. The difference was that he did not appear quite as gratified as he had upon his departure. The granite mask was back, with all its immutable planes and angles.

"Gryffydd," he repeated, his voice managing to drop a seemingly impossible level lower than usual.

The dog removed himself from Cate's lap. He did not, however, appear alarmed or cowed. He was simply obeying. "I apologize, Miss Buchanan. He can be mannerless at times."

"I ... I do not mind." And she didn't. The dog was as appealing as his- She shook her head quickly. "I did not expect to see you again today, my lord."

Realizing she was at more than one disadvantage, seated as she was, she shoved her feet into her shoes and quickly if not especially gracefully clambered to her feet. Tregaron offered a hand, which she politely refused.

"I had not expected to return," he said once she stood facing him, "but I seem to have left my stick behind and wished to collect it before the evening."

Cate had not seen a walking stick, but she was more than happy to go in search of it. The sooner the marquess left again, no doubt for some expensive if not necessarily respectable entertainment, the sooner she could collect her scattered self and go home to her family for a predictable if not restful night. "If you would wait here, my lord, I will go-"

"Please, do not concern yourself. I will-"

They were both standing in the doorway now, stuck, shoulder to shoulder, and had Cate not suddenly felt rather breathless, she could have laughed at the farcical squeeze. Tregaron inclined his head and waved a hand toward the hall. Cate a.s.sumed there was little humor to be found in this man. Otherwise she might have thought the flash in his eyes had been one of amus.e.m.e.nt.

"After you," he murmured. With nothing else to do but go, Cate did, leading the way toward the rear room, where the demolition had begun earlier that afternoon.

She felt a b.u.mp against her ankle as she went, then another. Glancing down, she saw Gryffydd push at her again with his nose. She stopped. The dog stopped. Behind them, Tregaron stopped. When the dog merely grinned up at her, Cate, feeling foolish, resumed walking again.

She had gone no more than three steps before Gryffydd was at it again, nudging her almost as if he wanted her to turn and walk into the wall. She stopped. The dog stopped. Tregaron stopped. And sighed. "Miss Buchanan?"

She pointed downward. "He was pushing me." Feeling even more foolish now that she had tattled on a poor, dumb animal, she bit her lip.

To her great surprise, the marquess smiled. "He was herding you,."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Herding. It's what ci-llathed are bred to do."

"Ci..." Cate repeated, her tongue tangling on what was obviously a Welsh word.

"Yard-long dogs." At her raised brows, Tregaron smiled again, that fast vanishing, startling flash of teeth. "An ancient Welsh yard, I've always a.s.sumed. A short one. Gryffydd was trying to herd you toward a place likely to hold food, and away from the house. He doesn't much care for the place."

Neither, Cate thought, did Tregaron. Bad memories? Or too many happy ones?

"Ci-" she tried again, deciding a try at tongue-twisting, mind-bending, impossible Welsh was farsafer than pondering this man's inner thoughts. And far less complicated.

"Also known as a corgi. Simpler on the English-speaking tongue."

The door to the drawing room was open. As they entered, Cate took in the huge, open area that had not so long ago been three separate rooms. She darted a glance at Tregaron, hoping with all she was that he could see how wonderful it would be when completed. He'd been agreeable enough about the idea, had certainly been a full partic.i.p.ant in the downfall on the walls. But now, damage done, it might well look very odd.

He looked wholly disinterested.

"Light," she blurted. "s.p.a.ce." Then, cursing this sudden stammering over concepts she knew and liked so well, she continued, "Mr. Repton's design calls for a conservatory at one end and a large mirror at the other. We ... my uncles have ordered large panes of gla.s.s for the rear of the house-"

"The gla.s.s that is late in arriving, I a.s.sume."

Cate winced but said nothing. Better for Tregaron to think her ignorant of the matter than for her to be explaining that the gla.s.s was not merely late, but not coming at all. A problem with the factory, MacGoun had snarled. Knowing the foreman, trusting him, Cate had not pressed. They would simply have to take their business elsewhere, hope little or no money would be lost in the transaction, and pray the new gla.s.s would arrive before her overzealous uncles had taken it upon themselves to create the necessary s.p.a.ce in the rear wall.

Needing to get away from the subject of gla.s.s, Cate announced, "There will be large mirrors . . ." Gla.s.s mirrors of course. She gave an inward sigh. ". . . between the drawing room windows. When thesliding doors are open, you will have both real light and s.p.a.ce and illusional. It will be glorious."

Tregaron gave a noncommittal grunt. Cate followed him this time as he stalked into the dining room through the ma.s.sive opening he had helped create. "That," he muttered, gesturing to the bare s.p.a.ce around the fireplace, "was a perfectly decent mantel not five hours ago."

"It was scagliola," Cate said immediately.

"Heavens," came the dry retort, "not scagliola, certainly!"

"Plaster and marble chips," she explained, ignoring the sarcasm, "used to make fake marble. The mantel was chipping. This house deserves better."

"Mahogany?"

"W-my uncles have chosen colored marble. Green, from Ireland. Wood warps."

Tregaron propped one shoulder in the place where the chipping, fake marble used to reside and regarded her through dark and unreadable eyes. "You are very knowledgeable, Miss Buchanan. Forgive me in advance, for I mean no offense when I say surprisingly so."

Cate bit her lip. How easy it would be to say too much. "I have spent my life among architects," she said, her eyes fixed on the fraying piping at one cuff as she worried at it with the fingers of her other hand. "Some of it was bound to slip into my head over the years."

"You make yourself sound very simple and very old."

"I am six-and-twenty," she retorted, instantly embarra.s.sed to have given any personal information at all.

"Hardly an aged crone."

"Perhaps. But hardly in the first blush, either." She resolutely straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. Truth be told, she'd never had much of a blush, first or otherwise. "Shall we look for that walking stick now, my lord? I would not want to detain you from your evening's pursuits."

Tregaron trailed her through the second s.p.a.ce, which had once been a wall, with some regret. The Scots spinster was back, thin-lipped, dry, brusque. Moments before, Cate's face had been animated, almost pretty as she talked about plans for his house. For those few minutes, they had been easy together. He sighed.

As expected, his stick was propped in the corner of what had been the breakfast room. He had no idea for what purpose the Buchanans intended the chamber. Ultimately, it would be decided by the next marchioness. The last one had been a glorious sight in the morning light, all glistening golden hair and glowing skin. She had never failed to dazzle him.

There would be even more light, more windows, according to the Buchanans. Tregaron tilted his head and tried to imagine sunlight falling on old crystal and a new collection of glossy curls.

"It truly will be wonderful when completed."

Tregaron blinked and turned to face Cate. She was hovering in the doorway, dust dulling her wild hair, hands clasped tightly at her waist.

"Truly," she repeated, and Tregaron realized she was agonizing over his opinions on her uncles' work. For the first time, he wondered about Cate's role in the family. He'd thought of her as a damper on the other Buchanans' high spirits. Perhaps the truth was that she was the voice, albeit dour, of reason and practical matters.

"Don't fret," he replied tersely. "Short of knocking down the outer walls and painting everything inside purple, I cannot imagine there is anything your uncles could do that would bother me overmuch." When Cate's eyes-smoky blue now, he noticed, in the early evening light-widened, he demanded, "What now?"

"Well"-her hands were clenched tightly enough that Tregaron could see white at her knuckles-"w . . . they actually will be knocking down this exterior wall. Part anyway. For the bigger windows."

Images of Angus and Ambrose Buchanan going at a supporting wall with their hammers flashed before Tregaron's eyes. He felt his jaw shift.

"Each section six panes over six," Cate announced, the words tumbling over the words. Tregaron closed his eyes. "They'll go all the way to the floor, with narrow, amber gla.s.s panels at the border to create gold light . . . My lord . . . ?"

He'd just had a very good image of the Buchanan brothers grinning out at pa.s.sing Mayfair traffic as they peered through a ma.s.sive hole they'd made in the front wall. It was too much. Unable to help himself, Tregaron chuckled. It was a rusty sound, even to his ears, a truly amused chuckle. G.o.d help him, before long he'd be laughing.

Cate was staring at him as if he'd sprouted horns.

With some effort, he composed himself. "Ah, Cate," he murmured, completely forgetting the cool propriety that was so much a part of him now, "I am overwhelmed. Tell your uncles to have at it. I honestly couldn't care less."

She merely stood gaping at him, and for the first time during the encounter, Tregaron realized she really was a woeful mess top to bottom. Her hair had all but vanquished the last pin, springing outward from her head like an overgrown autumn garland. Her dress was a bit shabby, and far dirtier than it had been earlier, bearing a veritable plethora of stains, many of which he did not think he could identify. There was soot on her nose, flecks of plaster on her hands, and what appeared to be mud up to her ankles.

She looked rather as if she had been dragged backward through a hunt course. She made him look nearly tidy.