Chapter 4
“What do you think?” Miranda’s gaze scanned the drawing she had clipped to the mechanical drafting table John had purchased when he started the firm.
“Well . . .” Clara studied the rendering for Fairborough Hall thoughtfully. “If Lord Stillwell does indeed want his house returned to its original state, I would say you have come fairly close. However . . .” She leaned closer and narrowed her eyes. “There are differences, aren’t there?”
“One can’t possibly duplicate a three hundred-year-old structure exactly. One has to make allowances for progress.” Miranda tried and failed to hide a note of pride in her voice. While in some ways reconstruction of an old building was easier than building anew, in many others it was more of a challenge. Especially when your charge was to recreate the past. “We are nearing the twentieth century after all.”
“And is Lord Stillwell a progressive sort?”
“Lord Stillwell is a twit.”
“Be that as it may . . .” Clara choked back a laugh. “He is a twit with a great deal of money.”
“Which makes him a valued client although no less of a twit.”
“I do so appreciate the manner in which you speak your mind.” Clara chuckled.
“I do so appreciate that you allow me to do so.” Miranda returned the other woman’s grin. She did tend to keep her thoughts to herself when around others, especially her family. Life was so much easier that way.
But the blatant honesty she and Clara shared was a mark of their friendship. A friendship that neither woman could have foreseen. Indeed, they would never have met at all, and certainly never have become friends, had it not been for the deaths of Miranda’s husband and Clara’s brother. Her brother’s demise, combined with her recent discovery that her fiancé was not the man she’d thought he was, had left Clara wanting a change in her life. It was she who had approached Miranda about employment with Garret and Tempest. Now, she was the only person completely in Miranda’s confidence.
“Other than that unfortunate business about his being a twit, how did you find Lord Stillwell?” Clara’s eyes shone with curiosity. “Aside from a brief conversation when you returned from Fairborough, you’ve not stepped foot in the office. And even then you were preoccupied. We’ve had no time to talk since your meeting with him.”
“Admittedly, I’ve been consumed with this.” Miranda’s gaze returned to her drawing. It had long seemed wise to do what work she could in the privacy of her own home. While her employees certainly knew the truth about who the firm’s true architect was—and had probably known even before John’s death—by unspoken agreement, her position was not flaunted. In the four days since her initial meeting with Lord Stillwell, she’d only spoken to Clara once and that had been brief. “Lord Stillwell wishes to have Fairborough rebuilt as quickly as possible. And, as he is paying us twice our usual fees, I should like to accommodate him as much as is possible.” She slanted a look at the other woman. “His glowing recommendation would serve us well in the future.”
“Nor do I have the least doubt we shall earn that. Now . . .” An impatient note sounded in Clara’s voice. “Tell me about the man himself. I am dying to know what he is really like. He’s rumored to be quite handsome and charming.”
“And it would appear he knows it,” Miranda said in a wry manner. She skirted between her desk and Emmett’s and settled in her usual chair.
The room was entirely too small for both desks and the mechanical table, but it was private. The remainder of the Garret and Tempest offices consisted of a small reception room, with a desk for Clara, and a much larger room with wall-to-wall windows along one side, providing excellent light for the draftsmen. It was on the top floor of a commercial building on a quiet street in Holborn, an area neither fashionable nor disreputable.
“He actually attempted to flirt with me. Some nonsense about the sin of ugly shoes on a lovely woman.”
“My God, not that!” Clara crossed her arms over her chest in mock indignation. “The fiend.”
“It’s not amusing, Clara.”
“Oh, but I suspect it was.”
Miranda stared for a moment, then grinned. “Well, perhaps it was a little amusing. He is obviously the type of man who expects women to fall at his feet when he directs that wicked smile of his toward them.”
“Oh?” Clara’s brow rose. “He has a wicked smile, does he?”
“A very well-rehearsed wicked smile. I would wager the man practices in the mirror.”
Clara laughed. “I assume you put him in his place.”
“Not in so many words, but I had work to accomplish.” Miranda shrugged. “And he was being bothersome. Annoying, really.” Even so, she might have been a bit harsh toward him, but she had wanted to appear serious and professional. It would not have done at all to respond to his flirtation, for him to think her frivolous. Not that she had flirted at all in recent years and, upon reflection, his flirtation had been minimal. The oddest thought struck her that he certainly could have made more of an effort. Not that she cared. “Although, to give the man his due, he was not expecting a woman. He was obviously taken aback by my arrival.”
Clara’s brow furrowed. “Will that be a problem?”
“Not for me.” A satisfied smile curved her lips. “He was nonplussed, but I quite enjoyed it. I think the key to handling Lord Stillwell might well be to keep him off balance and somewhat confused.”
“Do we really want to confuse a client?”
“This one we do.”
“Still—”
“It’s not as if we are going to recreate the Taj Mahal in place of Fairborough Hall.” Miranda waved off Clara’s concern. “We’re going to give him exactly what he wants for the most part, with a few improvements that will ultimately make his house and his life better.” Miranda thought for a moment. “It’s all a matter of, oh, bringing the horse to water as it were.”
“And then what? Holding his head under?”
“If necessary.” Miranda grinned, then sobered. “But this is a great opportunity for us, Clara. The largest project we have undertaken thus far. It might well be a model for everything we do in the future. A model of... modernization.”
“Which brings me back to my original question.” Clara studied her closely. “Is Lord Stillwell a progressive sort?”
“Lord Stillwell is—”
“Don’t say a twit,” Clara warned. “We have already established that.”
“I wasn’t, although it does bear repeating. I was going to say Lord Stillwell is—or rather appears to be—a bit old-fashioned. Although, admittedly, my opinion is based on little more than his desire to recreate the manor precisely as it once was and his reaction to my presence. I could certainly be mistaken. However . . .” Miranda grimaced. “I am fairly certain he would withdraw his commission at once were he to learn that a woman was behind the designs for the building.” She met the other woman’s gaze. “He could well ruin us.”
“Then we shall have to take every precaution to ensure that does not happen,” Clara said staunchly.
“Indeed we shall, and Lord Stillwell has handed us the way to do exactly that.”
“He has?”
“He has indeed.” Excitement bubbled up inside Miranda. “He has given me a brilliant idea.”
“Oh, I do love your brilliant ideas.” Clara leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Don’t keep me in suspense. What is it?”
“When I told him that John had passed on, Lord Stillwell wanted to speak to Mr. Tempest, who he assumed would be designing the hall.”
“Because of the name of the firm?”
“Exactly.” Miranda nodded. “I couldn’t very well tell him there is no Mr. Tempest. Or at least not one anyone here has ever seen.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him Mr. Tempest never meets with clients as he is a bit eccentric, considers himself an artist and lives in fear of alienating his muse or some such nonsense. In fact, I said I’ve never even met the man, which is entirely true.”
“And he believed you?” Doubt sounded in Clara’s voice.
“Every word.” Miranda couldn’t resist a smug smile. “So I propose we continue to allow him to believe his architect is the elusive Mr. Tempest and . . .”
“And?”
“And this is the brilliant part.” Miranda leaned forward in her chair and met her friend’s gaze firmly.
“Go on then.”
“And we allow clients in the future to believe that as well.” Miranda finished with a flourish.
“We do?” Clara said slowly.
“Of course we do.” Miranda’s words came faster with the rush of her thoughts. “When I wasn’t occupied with the plans themselves, this idea that Lord Stillwell set in motion has been fermenting, as it were, in the back of my mind. It makes perfect, and dare I say, brilliant sense.”
“Then be so good as to explain it to me.”
“We have never had anyone specifically ask the name of our architect. Indeed, Mr. Clarke has dissembled on that point, on more than one occasion attributing our work—”
“
Your
work.”
“The work of the firm to, oh, a joint effort, as it were. But if we allow people to believe Mr. Tempest is the chief architect, a man who never appears in public—”
“My God, that is brilliant.” Clara’s eyes widened. “We should have thought of it years ago.”
“I can’t believe we didn’t.” Miranda grinned with triumph. “If we lead people to believe Mr. Tempest is the architect no one will ever suspect the truth.”
“And the danger of—wait.” Clara stared. “But what of the real Mr. Tempest?”
Miranda shrugged. “What of him?”
“I daresay he would not approve of this.”
“I daresay he will never know.” Miranda ticked the points off on her fingers. “The man has never stepped foot in this office. John never met him. I have never met him. Whoever he is, he’s not known in society. Why, we have no idea who the man really is. His name might not even be Tempest for all we know. He is, and always has been, a silent investor.”
“There is that,” Clara murmured.
“As long as we continue to meet our monthly financial obligation to him, I see no reason why he would object or interfere. Besides, and I do think this is the most important point, the only caveat to his investment—aside from repayment—was that Tempest be included in the firm’s name. Which leads me to believe he would not be at all averse to allowing the world to think he is the architectural talent at the heart of Garret and Tempest. Well?” Miranda held her breath. “Do you agree?”
“It does solve a lot of problems. It would certainly make life less difficult if we could defer to Mr. Tempest rather than avoid specifics as much as we have had to,” Clara said thoughtfully.
“Exactly.”
“All in all, I have to agree.” Clara grinned. “It is brilliant.”
“I thought so.” Miranda stood, stepped up to the drawings, dipped a pen in ink and signed the drawings
Tempest
with a flourish and a satisfied smile. “And we have Lord Stillwell to thank.”
“From what you have said, I can’t imagine he would want our thanks.”
“Oh, I suspect Lord Stillwell wants any number of things he doesn’t know he wants yet.”
Clara glanced at the drawings. “Are you talking about the hall?”
“For the most part.”
“Need I remind you that no matter what you are in private, in public you remain the very respectable widowed Lady Garret?”
“Of course not.” Miranda scoffed. “I could never forget that.”
“Then what—”
“A man like Lord Stillwell is used to being in charge or thinking he is. He is also obviously used to being on the winning end of a proposition.”
“And?” Caution sounded in Clara’s voice.
“And I was not amenable at all to his attempts to be charming. I daresay it was most disconcerting for him.”
Clara’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”
“Therefore, when next we meet, I am going to be more, oh, shall we say willing in my dealings with him from now on.”
Clara gasped. “You’re going to allow him to seduce you?”
“Don’t be absurd.” Miranda brushed away Clara’s comment. “I am simply going to allow him to think he is making progress in that direction. Allow him to think his flirtation might well bear fruit. It has been my observation that there is nothing easier to manage than a man who thinks he is moments away from getting you into his bed. A man who is confident of his own success thinks he is in control.”
“You can’t possibly—”
“Oh, but I can. Or at least I think I can. I never have, but I fully intend to.” Miranda nodded firmly. “You must admit this is almost as brilliant an idea as that of giving substance to Mr. Tempest.”
“I suspect its brilliance is yet to be determined.” She thought for a moment. “It doesn’t seem quite fair to use his arrogance as a weapon against him.”
“Perhaps not, but one could say if he was not overly arrogant to begin with, there would be no weapon to use.”
“Regardless, do take care with him. Overly charming men with wicked smiles are not to be trusted.” Clara’s fiancé had been charming with a wicked, irresistible smile. Unfortunately, Clara was not the only one he had cast his dubious charms upon. As it happened, the man had two other fiancées as well as a marriage of questionable legality.
“Oh, I would never trust him.” Miranda’s gaze strayed back to her rendering of Fairborough Hall. “But I do hope to gain a modicum of his trust. And convince him to accept—no, embrace—progress, the way of the future.”
“As long as progress is all he embraces.”
“Believe me, Clara, I have no interest in Lord Stillwell as anything other than as a client.” Although Miranda did concede, if only to herself, the man was indeed quite dashing with all that dark hair and those blue eyes that flashed with annoyance or amusement. And what woman didn’t appreciate a man who was tall and broad-shouldered and spoke of his family home with affection and pride. Then, of course, there was that wicked smile of his, which Miranda could see, under the right circumstances, might well be lethal. Even to a woman of business. “But I am determined to prepare Fairborough Hall for the future and bring Lord Stillwell along with it.”