Part 10 (1/2)

Cate smiled fondly as the foreman stomped from the room. His manner might not be gracious, but his intent always was. He looked out for her, more avuncular, perhaps, than the uncles. In truth, she wasn't at all sure that Angus was in the house. He had taken over a sunny little room near the lower garden door and had promptly filled it with clay, plaster, and all the various tools of his art. Cate had yet to see anything complete emerge, but he seemed happy in the few hours he spent there each week, and couldn't do any damage the workmen couldn't repair when they finally got to the house's lower levels. Both he and Ambrose were chomping at the bit, ready to be done with the tedium of the house-as limited as their partic.i.p.ation was-and left to their art. Cate sympathized.

If her uncle was, in fact, sculpting happily, she would collect him on her way out. If not, she would simply wander home alone. She'd done so often enough, leaving through the rear door and garden gate -just in case.

As it turned out, she made quick work of checking the designs for the remaining bedrooms. Monsieur Henri desJardin of Piccadilly, ne Henry Gordon of Aberdeen, would be arriving within the sennight, his minions bearing swatches and bolts of fabric to be matched for draperies, bed hangings, and upholstery. Later, as other rooms stopped resembling ruins and began to show off the Buchanan touch, Archibald Stewart, the Bond Street rug dealer, would arrive, as would James Wallace with his silver sconces and John Paul MacQuarrie with his designs for crystal chandeliers, all to replace what had not been salvaged.

Uncle Ambrose was to paint one wall-and one wall only-under Cate's stern direction. She had relented enough to allow a lively cla.s.sical scene for the ballroom, but it was to be utterly free of carnage. Together, they had agreed on a Dionysian revel: the G.o.d with his wine, Pan with his pipes, dancing sylphs. Ambrose was already planning the faces he would use for various characters. Cate hoped that, should the Duke of Wellington ever attend a ball at the Tregaron home, he would not object to seeing his visage atop a centaur's body.

As for Angus, he was busy sculpting away at G.o.d only knew what. He'd been muttering about a tribute. If his subject was his present employer and extended beyond a bust, Cate could only pray that her uncle would relent a bit from his strict traditional steadfastness and add a fig leaf.

Neither uncle's project had been approved by, or even described to, the marquess for that matter, but Cate wasn't overly concerned. Ambrose and Angus were cheerfully occupied, and their wares were as suited to a fine house as that of the old friends they had hired to provide rugs and crystal and silver.

So went the artists. And a jolly bunch they were. While the London contingent might be elegant and elite now, they would, to the Buchanan brothers, forever be the lads from years gone by and miles above the Border: Dancing Henry Gordon, Archie the Stew, Jem Wallace, and Jackie MacQ. Lord Tregaron was a fortunate man, if unwittingly so, indeed.

Smiling to herself, Cate quitted the chamber and headed for the stairs. At the landing, she rested a hand on the wonderful stair rail that curved all the way to the first floor. So many houses these days were using the Adam design of slender mahogany handrail atop intricate, delicate, painted cast-iron bal.u.s.ters. Not Cate. Not in this house. Nothing on earth could have persuaded her to remove the huge, heavy, amazingly graceful sweep of oak atop its solid bal.u.s.ters. There was nothing delicate about the design, the carvings simple, the spindles meant to stand for a hundred more years.

The wood was especially fine oak, expensive even in its day. It bore the rich patina of a century of hands and. Cate hoped, youthful bottoms. It was a banister meant to be ridden.

She stood at the top of the stairs and glanced down to the floor below. Not surprisingly, there was no one in sight. This was one of her weaknesses and, while Cate knew she had a great many, was one she did not regret. Gathering up her skirts, she settled herself on the rail at the top of the stairs, pushed off, and flew.

It was a huge thrill, a long breathless moment as she coasted along on the polished oak, gaining speed as she slid downward, around the grand curve, into the final stretch that ended with a very large, very solid finial. That's where her skill as a banister-slider of many years and fearlessness aided her. At the last possible instant, she grabbed the finial, shaped like an acorn and large enough to fill both her hands, and used it to swing herself off the banister and into a flying arc that carried her a good six feet from the base of the stairs.

It wasn't her best landing. Her heels. .h.i.t the floor with a jarring thump. She managed to stay on her feet, but it took some windmilling of her arms and a few stumbling steps that had her b.u.mping into the rich paneling of the wall. Her first thought, when she felt the wood give, was that she had somehow broken it. Then, as she regained her balance, she discovered the truth of the matter.

What had looked to be a single panel in the lowest part of the wall was actually the door to a small cupboard. Such cupboards were not unusual and were intended to hold a variety of items, but Cate had missed this one entirely in both her explorations of the house and her occasional occupation of various presses and wardrobes. Bending over, she peered inside.

There was only one object there, a painting in an ornate frame, tilted so its subject was hidden. Curious, a.s.suming it had come from either the drawing room or the dining room, both of which were nearby, she pulled until it was free of the cupboard.

It was a portrait of a young woman, blond, green-eyed, rosebud mouth curved in an enigmatic smile. She was impossibly beautiful, even for a creature of paint and canvas. Beautiful enough to make Cate do something she very rarely did-wish that Mary Buchanan had pa.s.sed on to her even a tenth of the aristocratic beauty she had possessed.

There was little in the few visible inches of gauzy white dress to give the image a specific date. Nor did the woman's halo of pale curls help. Sometime in the last thirty years, Cate thought. A masterful study, certainly an expensive one.

She heard a step in the hall behind her. ”Uncle Angus,” she called, ”come see. I do believe this might be a Reynolds.”

”Sir Thomas Lawrence, actually. Reynolds was . . . not available.”

Cate was startled enough by the unexpected voice that she promptly let go of the corner of the frame she held. The whole thing dropped with a clatter to the floor. ”Lord Tregaron!”

When she turned, it was to see him standing in the drawing room doorway. ”Miss Buchanan.”

He was clad, as usual, in his somber colors and ever-present austerity. In the late afternoon light he looked drawn, tired. In contrast, his dog stood at his ankle, golden and grinning. Not for the first time, Cate thought them an incongruous pair and wondered what moment had brought the friendly, cheerful little beast into its master's lair.

”I suppose I could have put that somewhere else.” Tregaron pointed to the portrait. ”Should have.”

An odd statement, Cate thought, and one she didn't understand. She did, however, suddenly comprehend something else. ”This is your wife.” It was not a question.

He gave a terse nod. ”Belinda. The year we were betrothed.”

”She is ... was very beautiful.”

Tregaron's mouth twisted into what might have been a wry smile-or a sad one. ”Yes. She was. Very beautiful.”

”And the work is so very fine. There is no reason to lament the fact that Sir Joshua was . . . was . . .” She could not recall the word he had used.

”Dead, Miss Buchanan. Reynolds was quite dead at the time.”

Barely giving Cate enough time to scuttle backward out of the way, Tregaron stalked across the floor, shoved the painting back into its niche, and closed the panel. ”Have you been seeking to entertain yourself here?”

He watched as several expressions flitted across Cate's mobile features. Embarra.s.sment, he thought, and . . . annoyance. Cate was annoyed with him for asking, or perhaps for catching her nosing through his house. Perverse creature, he mused. It was, after all, his house. She was neither employee nor guest. And he was not going to discuss Belinda.

Finally, pulling in her endless limbs, she clambered to her feet. He didn't think she would accept his a.s.sistance, but proferred a hand anyway. She refused it. When she was on her feet, the top of her familiarly unruly head at the level of his nose, noteworthy chin lifted, she announced, ”I did not intend to open this cupboard, my lord, nor any other in the house. It was inadvertent.”

”Inadvertent.”

Now she flushed, no doubt realizing how unlikely it was that such a portal would open of its own volition. ”I struck the panel.”

Tregaron sighed. In the various scenarios he had imagined, expecting to meet with her in the past fortnight, this did not come close to any of them. ”You know, Cate,” he said wearily, ”I really do not care -”

”I struck it when I came off the banister.”

”I beg your pardon?”

Now her face, from lofty Scottish brow to high Scottish cheekbones, was a red to rival the fiery lights in her hair. ”I was sliding down the banister. I landed poorly.” ”Landed poorly. I see.” He glanced up along the curve of the rail and winced. ”Do you often slide down banisters?”

”Not so much now. Truly. But as a child . . . Didn't you?”

”No,” he said shortly. ”I did not.”

”Never?”

”Never!”

Cate seemed momentarily taken aback-either by his tone or by his very revelation. But to her credit, she did not press the matter. Instead, she shrugged. ”Well, I was a fanciful child. I slid down things, climbed others, dug for treasure, and searched for faeries. I am much more sensible now.”

Tregaron found his pique slipping away. He was oddly charmed by her words. Charmed, too, by the way her chin had pushed forward as if she were waiting for him to challenge her.

”What of dragons, Miss Buchanan?”

Now her jaw seemed to go just a bit slack. ”What of them?” she demanded.

”Perhaps Scotland is known for its faery folk, but Wales has dragons.”

He managed not to smile when she responded with a snort that might well have shot fire. ”Hmph.”

”You do not believe in dragons?”

”Scaled, clawed, winged creatures? p.r.o.ne to devouring overconfident knights and hapless virgins?”