A Grand Design Part 15

Tilting her head back, Cate let her eyes drift up to the twenty-odd-foot ceilings. On the upper shelves were entire sets of books in perfect, matching, heavily gold-embossed bindings. Curious, she climbed up a half-dozen rungs and lifted one book from its shelf. More cobwebs pulled free and drifted the fifteen feet to the floor. The book was from a set of Carpenter's Life of Spenser in Twelve Volumes. The pages were uncut. As were those in the nearby set of Norse Fis.h.i.+ng Ballads. And, above, the complete Aristophanes oeuvre, translated into French. Upper shelf after shelf held books that had probably never been opened, let alone read.

Shaking her head at the caprices of the wealthy, Cate climbed back to the floor. She would have very much liked to have spent more time perusing the shelves, but she was in the room for one purpose only-to measure the fireplace. After that, she would close the door behind her and not look back.

She did take a last look at the shelves however. A thick little book caught her eye. A Kea.r.s.ely's Peerage. There had been one on her mother's shelf years and years back, unread, as was the Julian's Baronetage that had listed both Mary Buchanan's father. Sir James Hamilton, and Mary herself beneath his meager sentences.

Smiling to herself, humming quietly, Cate set her measuring tape down on the desk and pulled the peerage from the shelf. She had no intention of allowing Tregaron liberties of any sort with her person now, but she was not going to pa.s.s up the opportunity to learn the forename he'd been so unwilling to share.

She checked the publication date. 1804. A mere few years before Tregaron had left Society. She flipped quickly to the alphabetical General Index near the front. M. Marlborough, Duke. She flipped through several more pages. St. Helier, Earl. She turned the page. Townshend, Marquess. Traquair, Earl. Tregaron, Marquess. Page . . .

She nearly leapt from her skin when the book was jerked from her hands.

Her first thought was that no man Tregaron's size should be able to move so silently. Her second was that the silence was probably about to be shattered. She bit her lip and waited for the explosion.

It did not come. Tregaron, face hard and impa.s.sive, closed the peerage with a snap and set it on the desk. Then he leaned one hip against the shrouded surface, crossed his arms over his chest, and regarded Cate inscrutably. She opened her mouth to speak, but managed nothing more than a muted and embarra.s.sing squeak.

"And a good afternoon to you, too," he said blandly.

"I ... ah .. ."

"You know, Cate, I am beginning to wonder whether this is my house or yours. You seem to be much more in residence here than I."

His eyes, Cate noticed, were mahogany in the limited light. They were also fringed by lashes so thick and dark that a pang of envy came right behind the frisson of warm awareness. She wondered how she had missed that stirring little feature. Then she wondered if she had perhaps taken leave of her senses. Eyelashes were hardly the important matter at hand. Or rather they should not be.

She took advantage of the fact that Gryffydd was at her ankle, demanding a pat, to drop her own gaze. "I am here to visit ... to help . . ."

"Yes, yes," Tregaron said impatiently. "Your uncles. For G.o.d's sake, Cate, stop looking at me as if I'm going to send you headfirst out the window. I don't care if you do take up residence here. You can't very well hang about Binney Street all day every day. What I want to know right now is why you felt compelled to ignore the only specific instructions I ever gave, and come in here." He gestured to the discarded peerage. "And prying as well? You seem to have an inordinate interest in my private matters."

He could see that stung. Had Cate possessed visible hackles, they would have risen before his eyes. She stiffened, unruly head to st.u.r.dy toe. "That is not fair."

"Isn't it? Come now, Cate. Tell me you were not digging through this silly lump of moldy paper in search of my name."

"I ... I was n . . . Well, bother!" she snapped. "Yes. Yes, I was. I do not like being deceived. Or at least, I do not like that you see fit to use my Christian name-when I have never given you leave to do so -without even sharing yours."

Oh, she was splendid when she was on her high horse, Tregaron mused. A bronze Hera, all spark and flame. He suppressed a smile. "Shall I return to always calling you Miss Buchanan?"

"No," was her instant retort. "I mean . . . Well, no. I do not really mind. I simply do not care to be on such unequal footing."

Truly splendid. "You do not believe we are unequal?"

Her firm Scottish chin went up another notch. "Of course," she said icily. "How could I possibly believe otherwise? You are the high and mighty Lord Tregaron. A marquess. A nabob. A man. I am-"

"About to back into the ladder," he informed her. She stopped her stiff withdrawal and stood rigid as a statue. "Oh, Cate. I do not doubt for an instant that you are my equal. In fact, I would imagine that in a great many ways, you are my superior. I do, however, reserve the right to keep certain matters to myself, at least in my own home. If you are so intent on learning the minute and not particularly interesting details of my life, do so elsewhere. In the meantime, I will give you a list of any number of names, some of which I will actually answer to, just for your selection.

"Now," he continued, gratified to see a fine line of discomfiture between her gingery brows, "unless you can convince me that you have an inarguably good reason for being in this room, I suggest we leave it."

He did not want to be in here. Not with so many possessions he had enjoyed, so many books he had looked forward to reading, leaving the pages uncut until such time as he could sit down and delight in the complete process. He did not think he should be alone in here with his memories. Or with Cate.

Her mouth opened and closed once. Finally, she announced, "I came to measure the fireplace. For my uncles."

"Did you?" He glanced without much interest at the cold maw of the hearth. "Why?"

"To be certain the bricks and grate will fit."

"Correct me if I am mistaken, but are there not already bricks and a grate there?"

She fidgeted for a moment, something he had never seen her do before, glancing at the floor as she prodded the moth-eaten carpet with a toe. "Do you really wish to discuss such matters, my lord? With me?"

"Why not? Illuminate me, Cate. Otherwise, in my newly fascinated state, I shall be forced to seek out your uncles who, I suppose I should inform you, are nowhere to be found."

"There is no need to be snide," she chided. "I daresay my uncles have just stepped out to confer with . . . some supplier."

"Fine. So tell me about my fireplace."

"We ... er ... the men will be installing a new Rumford grate, with a special flue to keep the smoke out of the room and glazed brick behind to reflect the heat into it. It is, I believe, a rather novel innovation, but then, I know little of such things. I am only here to-"

"Measure the fireplace."

"Well, yes."

Tregaron shook his head wryly. "Fine. We will measure the fireplace."

She scooped up the measuring tape from the desk and was at the hearth before he could intervene. She did not bend to her task immediately, however, but grasped the tipped statue on the mantel and reverently returned it to its rightful position. It was a futile act, Tregaron thought, considering the state of the rest of the room, but a touching one.

Then she ran a fingertip over one of the wooden spoons. "Are these from the Orient?"

"No."

"The Indies?"

"No. They are Welsh."

"Ah. Celtic. Were they found in a burial mound, perhaps? Used in ancient pagan rituals?"

He did not especially want to discuss the spoons, but could not muster the requisite churlishness to refuse. Beyond that, he could only imagine what Cate was envisioning as the pair's pagan use, and he found himself amused. "I suppose that would depend on your concept of ancient and pagan. That pair were wedding gifts, carved well into the Christian age."

He saw her flush. "I am sorry. I did mean to bring up your ... er ..."

"They were given to my grandmother on her wedding day by one of my grandfather's tenants, the man who carved them. They are called love spoons and are as deep a part of Wales as-"

"Dragons," she whispered.

"Coal and ale," he said tartly. He watched as she lifted one spoon. It went nearly from her fingertips to her elbow, the bowl as long as her palm and the handle decorated with three carved chain links and a Celtic cross. The carving was rough, almost primitive, but proud. "The cross symbolizes marriage," he murmured, repeating almost by rote the words his grandmother had said over and again when she'd pa.s.sed on the spoons. "The links are the number of children to be born to the marriage."

"Were there three?"

"Yes." Only one of whom, his father, had grown to adulthood.

"And this?" Cate held up the second spoon. It bore a pair of intertwined hearts and an anchor.

"Lovers and a sea voyage?"

"Love," he agreed tersely, "and steadfastness."

"And did they . . ."

"They had both."

They had indeed, his grandparents. Love and faithfulness and more joy in each other than almost seemed fair.

"It seems to me that your Welsh love spoons are rather pagan, to be sure, and those who carve them rather wonderful prognosticators."

"They fail as often as they work, like all predictions," he retorted, hearing the bitterness in his own voice. "Toss enough possibilities into the pot and something is bound to come true. These were only so much rubbish when it came to my marriage." He broke off, appalled with his loose tongue, then nearly jumped when one of Cate's hands came to rest, light and fleetingly, on his arm.

"These weren't carved for you, were they?" she demanded softly. "Your chain and anchor haven't been cast yet."

Rattled suddenly, unsteady, he tugged the measuring tape from her hands and moved to crouch on the hearth. "Tell me which dimensions you require."

After a long silence she did, then jotted the numbers he gave her in a little pocket notebook. It was not particularly easy work, nor comfortable; he had to contort himself in several odd ways. And all for a grate which, he was sure, would send as much heat up the flue and as much smoke out of it as any. But there was something restful, something companionable about doing this ridiculous little task with Cate jotting away nearby, and somehow the room did not unsettle him so much as it had since his return, so he gritted his teeth and rotated his shoulder to reach the last spot.

Gryffydd chose that moment to come have a look. The little animal shoved his nose under his master's armpit and wriggled forward to get two paws on the old grate and a good half of himself into the fireplace.

"Gryffydd . . ."

"Oh, my lord, do not . . .!"

But it was too late. His elbow jogged something, his fist jiggled something else, and eight years worth of debris came tumbling onto the hearth. Soot, dirt, leaves, and small objects Tregaron did not care to identify flowed over his arm, his feet, and his dog. The resulting cloud was enough to obscure his view of the room for a few long seconds.

When it settled, Gryffydd promptly scuttled under the desk, where he crouched, sneezing and pawing at his blackened face. Tregaron spat grit from his mouth, blinked more from his eyes, and rose slowly to his feet. "I trust," he muttered, pausing to brush a sooty feather from the tip of his nose with his one clean hand, "you can manage without that last measurement."

Cate was doing her very best not to laugh. So far she was succeeding, but now, as Tregaron stalked regally away from the hearth, she was losing the battle. Half of him, the half that had been facing away from the fireplace, was very nearly tidy. The other half looked as if it had been dipped in a dustbin. The soot did not show so much as the dust did on his navy coat, but it generously dusted his skin, s.h.i.+rt, and waistcoat. There were more feathers scattered from shoulder to knee, and the twiggy remnants of a nest caught in the fine fabric of his coat and breeches.

"I think," she managed, swallowing hard, "I will be fine with what we have."

It was ultimately the sight of the dog emerging from beneath the desk that snapped her control. There was a distinct line around the middle of the animal's stocky body. The rear half was its usual mustard color, tidy and twitching with its usual good humor. The front half was soot black, relieved only by Gryffydd's grinning mouth and the very narrow rim of white in his eyes.

Unable to help herself, Cate laughed. And kept laughing until she was nearly doubled over, groping in her pockets for a handkerchief. When the cleaner of Tregaron's hands appeared in her line of vision, proffering his own handkerchief, she nearly fell over. "No, no thank you," she gasped, waving him off. "You have slightly more need of it than I."

She heard him grunt. When she was at last able to take several steadying breaths and straighten up, she found that he had indeed availed himself of the expensive silk square. His face was relatively clean with the exception of a few lingering bits of debris at his hairline; both hands were only slightly grimy. He was presently trying to remove some of the dirt from the dog's face. Gryffydd was having none of it and soon cheerfully wriggled free to climb under the desk again.

Determinedly, Gate kept a straight face and suggested, "Perhaps you ought to go home and see to ... ah ... a bath for Gryffydd." In truth, she would be sad to see an end to the companionable time, but all good things, she knew, tended to end abruptly.

Tregaron grunted again, then stalked to the door, which Cate had not noticed him shut earlier. He paused there, hand on the k.n.o.b, and appeared to be engaged in some significant inner contemplation. He rattled the k.n.o.b several times, but seemed in no hurry to actually leave the room.

Cate waited as long as seemed polite, then queried, "My lord?"

"Yes, Cate?"

"Were you not departing?"

He shot her a caustic look over his defiled shoulder. "Trust me, my dear, nothing would please me more just now."

"Well?" Cate demanded, hands on her hips.

"1 cannot open the door."

Chapter 12.

"What do you mean you cannot open the door?" Cate VV demanded. "Of all the ridiculous things to say. Of course you can open the door."

Tregaron glanced back again, brows raised in challenge. "Care to have a go?"

She did, of course. And got less of a result than he had. She could not even find a k.n.o.b to rattle.

"I don't suppose," he said dryly after she'd spent a good minute searching the door, the floor, and even, for some reason, her pocket, "this is what you are looking for."

She turned slowly. He had his hand outstretched, the doork.n.o.b resting in his open palm. "Oh, for pity's sake," she snapped and, s.n.a.t.c.hing it from him, prepared to make her escape.

It did not take her long to realize there was another problem. The square spindle that connected the k.n.o.b on one side of the door to the k.n.o.b on the other was, in fact, on the other side. Meaning that while Cate held a perfectly good doork.n.o.b, she did not possess the piece necessary to engage the inner latch-bolt mechanism.

She dropped to her knees, hoping to see under the door. This detail, however, was like so many in the house-beautifully attended. The door fit snugly in its frame, not enough s.p.a.ce at the bottom to admit so much as a mouse. Cate remained where she was, crouched on the floor, useless k.n.o.b clutched in her fist.

"I would guess that I am getting a much better view than you are."

Realizing she was, in fact, giving him altogether too much of a view of her elevated posterior, Cate hurriedly rose to a point where she could sit back on her heels and glare at him.

"The door was already sticking earlier. You must have loosened the spindle when you closed it," she announced grimly.

"I suppose I could have, although I am but guessing what a spindle is." Tregaron had gone back to leaning on the desk, the picture of bored elegance, if one ignored the soot and twigs. "Only I did not close the door."