The Importance of Being Wicked. Victoria Alexander
but she pays into an account she has set aside for her employees in the event the business fails and they lose their livelihood. Aside from Lady Garret, the firm has seven full-time employees, including a very attractive young woman, a Miss Clara West, who oversees the office and manages the accounts. She is the sister of the man who was killed with Lord Garret.”
“And Mr. Tempest?”
“He is not an employee.”
“I see,” Win said slowly, then frowned. “No, I don’t. Who is this Mr. Tempest?”
“At this point”—Chapman shrugged—“I have no idea.”
“But he’s the architect.” Win got to his feet, strode across the library to the table, where the plans for Fairborough Hall were still spread out. “Right here.” He tapped the drawing. “This is his signature. Admittedly, he has done an excellent job even if he is an advocate of electricity, for God’s sakes. Surely there must be some record of him?”
“Not insofar as I have been able to determine. The man has covered his tracks exceptionally well. If his purpose is to remain anonymous, he has done a brilliant job of it. Payments from Lady Garret go through a series of solicitors and bank accounts.” Chapman shook his head in an admiring manner. “I have not yet been able to get to the truth of it.”
“But Lady Garret said he is the architect. At least I think she did.” Win returned to his chair and sank into it. “It could be she simply implied it.” He thought back over their conversations. “Nonetheless she did lead me to believe that. And I distinctly remember her saying that Mr. Tempest never meets with clients because it hinders his artistic creativity or something equally ridiculous.”
“Regardless of what she might have said, I can find no evidence to support that. And, as far as I have been able to determine, no one at Garret and Tempest has ever met the man, including Lady Garret. Lord Stillwell.” Chapman leaned forward and met Win’s gaze directly. “I am fairly certain that not only is Mr. Tempest not your architect, but I am beginning to suspect as well that he does not exist at all.”
Win stared. “How is that possible? He invested in Garret and Tempest.”
“Someone invested in Garret and Tempest. Someone who has gone to a great deal of trouble to make certain his identity remains unknown.” Chapman paused. “I’m not certain this information is pertinent to what you specifically wanted to know. Do you wish me to pursue this line of inquiry?”
Win waved off the question. “I don’t particularly care about who funded Garret and Tempest one way or the other, but I do want to know in whose hands I have placed the future of Fairborough Hall. And I want to know if and why Lady Garret found it necessary to deceive me.”
“Then you wish me to uncover the name of the architect?”
Win nodded. “I do indeed and as quickly as possible.”
Chapman studied him. “Might I ask why? I have found nothing to indicate Garret and Tempest’s references are not legitimate. The firm has a good reputation. If you are happy with the work, does it matter?”
“Perhaps not, but I do like to know exactly who I am dealing with. I hate to be taken for a fool, and frankly, at this point, I am feeling extremely foolish.” He had been right all along. Lady Garret was hiding something. “What can you tell me about Lady Garret?”
“Unless one considers the question of Mr. Tempest, Lady Garret appears to be something of an open book.” He thought for a moment. “She is the youngest sister of the Earl of Waterston. She married John Garret, the brother of Viscount Garret, at the age of nineteen. They met at a lecture and shared a mutual interest in architecture. He inherited his title a few months before his death. His death was due to the collapse of scaffolding during the construction of a house his firm had designed just outside of London.
“Lady Garret has never been the subject of gossip, nor has she ever been implicated in scandal of any sort. While she has been involved in charitable work, she is not known to support more liberal causes, suffrage for women and that sort of thing. Indeed, among people who know her family she is considered the quietest and most reserved of the lot.”
“Ha!” Win snorted.
“Ha?”
“Then she has changed, Chapman.” He shook his head. “The Lady Garret you describe is not the woman I have been dealing with.”
“Oh?”
“The Lady Garret of my acquaintance is determined and stubborn and entirely more outspoken than is seemly in a properly bred female.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “She’s not the least bit quiet, and reserved is the last thing I would call her. She is one of those women who charges ahead, mowing over anyone foolish enough to stand in her way. And she regards me as an idiot.”
“Not that, my lord.”
Win ignored the tone in Chapman’s voice that did seem to imply, at this particular moment, that the other man agreed with Lady Garret. “This is not a personal matter, Mr. Chapman, it’s a matter of business. I have entrusted my family’s home to her firm, and I want to make certain it is in good hands. Lady Garret is hiding something, and I want to know what it is.” He rose to his feet. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly, my lord.” Chapman stood. “I shall do my utmost to find the answers you seek.” He considered Win thoughtfully. “If I might make a suggestion?”
“Go on.”
“From what you have said, I gather you and Lady Garret do not see eye to eye.”
“You gathered that, did you?”
“One does not need a great deal of investigative insight to reach that conclusion. However, you have a certain reputation for being most charming with the ladies.” A look flashed through the man’s eyes as if he wondered what on earth they saw in Win. “It has been my experience that women tend to respond more readily to pleasantries and charm than direct confrontation.”
“Not this one,” Win said under his breath.
“Perhaps you have not given that direction the proper amount of effort. Honey as opposed to vinegar, as it were.”
Win stared at the other man. Chapman was right, of course. It was obvious and yet . . .
What on earth had gotten into him? Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t felt quite up to snuff since the fire. As if something of himself, something of his soul, had gone up in flames with his home. Perhaps he had been mourning and hadn’t realized it. Silly, of course. The house could be—would be—rebuilt. But he had, as well, been burdened with any number of concerns as a result of the fire. He had been worried about his father’s health, about finding places for those servants temporarily displaced, about rebuilding and about an endless array of unforeseen problems that piled up one on top of the other when one’s house had burned. But his father was fine and all else had been resolved. Even with the questions that remained about Lady Garret, Chapman had confirmed her company’s reliability. No, Win had matters—he had life—well in hand at this point. A familiar sense of confidence, the feeling that he could handle anything life had in store, surged through him. By God, he felt good.
Chapman was right on another score as well. Win had rarely met a woman he couldn’t charm. He had forgotten that. One curt word from Lady Garret and he had practically rolled over and surrendered, like a dog hoping to be scratched. Well, that was at an end. He was Winfield Elliott, Viscount Stillwell and heir to the Earl of Fairborough. He was a dashing figure of a man and well known for his wit as well as his charm. Men liked him and women usually adored him. And aside from three fiancées who had decided for various reasons that he did not suit, he could name any number of other women who thought he was an engaging companion and quite a catch. Why, he had spent very nearly as much of his life being pursued as he had in pursuit.
“You’re absolutely right, Chapman.” He cast the other man a confident grin. “Honey it is then. You look for the answers