The Importance of Being Wicked. Victoria Alexander
as these. Throughout its long history, the Elliott family has done what was necessary in times of trouble.” He wasn’t sure why he felt it necessary to explain, but, for whatever reason, he did.
“Sometimes when we lose something of importance what we have left becomes even more precious.”
“So it would seem.”
They reached the front entry and the temporary door that had been erected to keep out unwanted intruders—human or otherwise. “I should warn you, while we have accomplished a great deal, it’s still something of a mess inside. We had a carpenter from the village inspect the floor and he pronounced it sound, but you should watch your step.” He opened the door.
“If you would be so kind as to hold these.” She thrust the tube and her satchel at him and he had no choice but to take them. She picked up her skirts to step over the threshold. She wore the sturdiest, and possibly ugliest, shoes he had ever seen. “Are you staring at my ankles, Lord Stillwell?”
“I am scarcely in the habit of staring at the ankles of a woman I have only just met, Lady Garret,” he said with all the indignation he could muster, even though he had long thought a nicely turned ankle to be most provocative. And he had never hesitated to consider an ankle when the opportunity arose, whether he knew the lady or not.
“Ah, but your reputation precedes you, my lord,” she said mildly.
“One cannot believe everything one hears.” He resisted the urge to snap.
Certainly, in his younger days he had been prone to misbehavior and even now, he did enjoy a rousing good time in the companionship of like-minded gentlemen and indeed, whenever possible, he availed himself of the charms of a beautiful and willing woman, but he wasn’t the rogue he once had been. He simply didn’t have the time. And it was somewhat irritating to be considered so. He was thirty-three years of age, managed his family’s business interests and property, and did so in a most successful manner. The Elliott family fortunes had more than prospered under his hand. Why, even his father was pleased with the man Win had become. That this overly sensible woman with her sturdy shoes had—
“One never can, my lord.” She started into the house, paying him no attention whatsoever. It was most annoying.
“As much as it pains me to admit it . . .” He stepped to her side. “I was not looking at your ankles as one can barely see them being blinded by the sight of the most horrendous shoes I have ever seen.”
“I am not going to a ball,” she said absently, her gaze scanning what was once the center part of the house. She turned toward him, opened the satchel—which required a bit of juggling on his part as she made no effort to take it from him—dug around in what looked to be a bottomless pit of a bag and withdrew a notebook and pencil. “And these are eminently practical for the task at hand.”
“God save us all from practical shoes on the feet of a lovely woman,” he said under his breath.
“I daresay God has more to worry about.” She stepped farther into the house, then stopped and wrote something in her notebook. He tried to get a glimpse of what she’d written, but she shifted and hid the notebook from his sight. He wasn’t sure if her movement was deliberate or not. Regardless, that too was annoying.
“This was the entry hall. The main stairway was immediately in front of us.” He glanced upward. “As you can see the fire burned through the first and second floors, the attic and the roof. The roof was—”
“Do forgive me, Lord Stillwell, but I can indeed see the extent of the damage. In addition, your correspondence was quite specific on that score. Beyond that, the plans and drawings you sent give me an excellent picture as to what was lost. This center portion of the manor housed the ballroom and various parlors on the first floor, mostly servants’ quarters on the upper floors and an assortment of offices for your staff on the ground floor.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“So if you would be so good as to refrain from comment for a few moments, perhaps I can get on with my work.” She smiled in a polite yet distinctly dismissive manner.
“Are you telling me to shut up?”
“Of course not, my lord.” Again, her attention turned away from him. “That would be rude.”
He stared at her. This would not do. This would not do at all. “Perhaps I should speak with Mr. Tempest directly.”
“Who?” she said absently, scribbling something.
“Mr. Tempest? Your late husband’s partner? The man I assume will be designing the house.”
“Oh” She hesitated. “That Mr. Tempest.”
He huffed. “Who did you think I meant?”
“Well, I suspect he has a father.”
“Why on earth—”
“And possibly a brother as well, no doubt.”
“Why would I want to speak with his father or his brother?” he said sharply.
She shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Then why would you—”
“Clarification, my lord. I don’t wish either of us to be confused as to precisely what you want.” She glanced at him as if there were no doubt in her mind as to exactly who would be confused.
“What about Mr. Tempest?”
“What about him?”
He clenched his teeth and resisted the urge—no, the need—to raise his voice. Or perhaps to scream. He was not, under ordinary circumstances, given to displays of temper. Indeed, he considered himself rather a jovial sort. The type of man much more inclined toward laughter than fits of anger. But then he had never come up against Lady Garret before. She would try the patience of even the saintliest of men. “I think I should speak to him about the rebuilding.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” She gazed upward at the missing floors and roof, then jotted down another notation.
He forced himself to take a calming breath. “Why not?”
“Mr. Tempest is quite brilliant and considers himself an artist. He never meets with clients. Indeed, he’s extremely reclusive and scarcely ever makes an appearance in public. Why, I myself have only dealt with him through notes and, of course, his drawings and plans. Oh, how does he put it?” She thought for a moment. “He feels it hinders his creativity, interferes with his muse he says, to deal with the more mundane aspects of a project. Or the world for that matter.”
“Mundane?” he sputtered. He never sputtered. This blasted woman had him sputtering. “I would not call the reconstruction of Fairborough Hall mundane.”
“Nor would I. So you needn’t give it another thought as you won’t be dealing with Mr. Tempest but with me or perhaps Mr. Clarke.” She paused to take another note, then looked at him. “Is that a problem?”
“Well, I—”
“You were sent references and our reputation is excellent. I should think that would be enough.” Lady Garret nodded and continued her inspection of the damaged building.
She had him there. He and Gray had both made inquiries and had found nothing but glowing recommendations as to the work of Garret and Tempest. It was a small firm but well respected.
He trailed after her, not unlike a dog on a leash, and managed to keep his mouth shut for a good minute or two. Admittedly, it was not in his nature to silently follow after a woman. “You do understand, I wish Fairborough Hall to be returned to its original state?”
“You mentioned that in your correspondence.”
“And rebuilding must proceed as quickly as possible?”
“You mentioned that as well.”
“Time is of the