If a Lady Lingers Page 9

  “This letter is addressed only to me, not to Papa,” she murmured. “If they didn’t want women to assist the architect, they would have sent this to him and told him that. But they didn’t. They sent it to me. They never mentioned him at all.”

  The only way they would have known that she’d created the house plans was if…

  She looked up at Whitby. When she read the guilt on his face, a horrible realization flooded through her. It felt like ice water freezing in her veins. She knew…

  “What did you do?” she whispered, barely louder than a breath.

  “I only wanted to help you.” He reached for her shoulder again. “To show everyone how amazing of an architect you are.”

  She batted his hand away. “What did you do, Whitby?”

  He dropped his gaze to the letter. “I removed Elias’s name from the entry and attached yours,” he admitted quietly. “But I only did it because I wanted you to have all the recognition for—”

  “And ruin me!” She scrambled to her feet, clenching the letter in her fist. She shook it as her humiliation turned into anger. “Everyone will know now that I’ve been creating house plans—I’ll never be able to build a house again in Papa’s name without being suspected. All of our current clients—Baron Hansen and his wife, Mr. Shockley, Mrs. Bean—they’re all going to demand proof now that it was Elias Daring that created their plans and not his daughter. And how do I prove that to them when he didn’t?”

  He stood and reached to take her shoulders in his hands, but the last person she wanted to touch her at that moment was him. The man who had just ended her world. “It won’t be like that. Your clients won’t care if—”

  She laughed bitterly. “You know society better than that! Names matter to them. Reputations matter more than actual skill.” She stepped back because if he reached for her again she would scream! Unable to stand still, she began to pace, and with every step her heart pounded brutally in her ears. “They’re all going to ask for their money back at best. At worst, they’ll sue us for fraud. Everything my father has worked his entire life to build will be destroyed.” She dropped her hand to her side as powerlessness and dread coiled into a knot in her belly. A terrible whisper fell from her lips, barely louder than a breath, “We’ll be penniless…homeless. Destroyed.”

  Mrs. Jones paled. Not saying a word, she slipped off the chair and hurried from the room.

  “Daisy, I promise you—I won’t let that happen.”

  “It’s too late to stop it!” A sob tore through her as the first tear fell down her cheek. “Do you think Nash and the others on the committee are going to keep silent about this? You think they won’t take this chance to destroy a man who has been one of their staunchest critics and competitors for the past three decades?” With a sound of anger and anguish, she threw the crumpled letter at him. “It’s all your fault!”

  He let the paper smack him in the chest, not moving to dodge it, not looking away. A dark look of grief and regret gripped his face, and for once, there was no trace of grins or laughter visible anywhere in him.

  “You have exposed my deepest secret to the world, and they—” She choked, forced to swallow down the knot of emotion in her throat as she struggled to keep from letting the mounting sobs overtake her. “They laughed at me.”

  The tears came freely now, sliding down her cheeks in rapid succession. She swiped at them in anger and was unable to stop the feelings of betrayal from overwhelming her. “I trusted you, and I thought…I thought you cared about me.”

  “I do.” Pain poured from him so intensely that he shook, and a wounded expression darkened his face. “Daisy, I love you.”

  The confession shattered something deep inside her. “If you loved me,” she countered, biting back her anguish, “you wouldn’t have done this. Even if Papa’s reputation somehow survives this, even if we don’t fall into the poorhouse—my dream is over.”

  “No, it’s not. Listen to me. We can—”

  “I’ll never be taken seriously as an architect now. I’ll never be able to plan another house or—” She broke off to battle down the scream that rose up at the back of her throat. Keeping careful control, she sucked in a deep and ragged breath that shuddered through her. “I don’t ever want to see you again.”

  He staggered a step back in surprise as if she’d physically struck him. “You don’t mean that,” he whispered.

  “I do.” She nodded jerkily and scooped up her notebook, cradling it against her bosom like a baby. Or a shield. “Never again.”

  5

  Month Five

  “What a magnificent job Elias Daring did on these rooms!”

  Daisy smiled at Lady Gantry as the woman approached, clutching a glass of champagne in one hand and her full, old-fashioned skirt in the other. “Thank you, my lady.” She bobbed a shallow curtsy. “It was a great deal of work but worth every minute.”

  The baroness didn’t mean the compliment to be for her, yet Daisy glanced around the room with pride. The newly built garden room shined in the lamplight, every inch of it freshly bright and decorated with the finest décor—every inch deserving of the appreciative murmurs and compliments of the guests.

  Baron and Baroness Hansen had opened their Belmont Square house tonight to all their friends and acquaintances—and seemingly another two hundred or so more people beyond that. All of them were curious to see the new renovations.

  Daisy knew they wouldn’t be disappointed.

  What they were seeing tonight was simply nothing that had been used in any of those rapidly built, identical boxes comprising the rest of the terraces in London’s West End. Everyone who stepped into this house knew it, too. Their necks craned to take a better look at the fireplace in the drawing room whose mantel of plasterwork grapevines and climbing roses seemed to grow right out of the half-circle end wall. Their mouths fell open when they stepped into the oval-shaped stair hall whose marble and ironwork stairs circled seemingly unsupported toward a stained glass doom above, now lit at night by a blaze of hidden lamps behind it.

  But it was the dining room that took everyone’s breath away when they saw its amber window. A design of twining honeysuckle had been cut through the curving overlay that hid the long horizontal window gracing the top of the wall. During the day, warm sunlight filtered through the design and made the flowers come alive with an amber glow, while at night, hidden lamps and mirrors directed the light downward onto the built-in marble topped sideboard. Its single mahogany leg was deeply carved to look like the twisting wooden stems of a honeysuckle vine flowering in the window cover above.

  “It is certainly a beautiful house. Doesn’t look like the same home at all.” Lady Gantry’s gaze searched the crowd around them. “And where is Mr. Daring? I wanted to personally congratulate him on his achievement.”

  “I’m sorry to say that my father couldn’t be here this evening.” As the guest of honor, his absence was conspicuous, yet he hadn’t been feeling well enough to attend the party with its crush of people and all its heat and noise. So she’d come in his place, only to disappoint the guests when they asked for her father and were directed to her instead. “But if you have any questions, I could answer them for you.”

  Lady Gantry patronizingly clucked her tongue. “Oh, but you know nothing about architecture, my dear!”

  “Actually, I know a great deal.” But now wasn’t the time nor the place to argue. So she waved a gloved hand at the beautiful new garden room around them and explained instead, “I did all the interior decorations.”

  “Ah, yes. Hmm.” She glanced dismissingly around the room and sniffed. “Lovely pillows and upholstery. But what your father’s done here with the walls and stairs—”

  Daisy pulled in a deep breath but kept her smile firmly in place as Lady Gantry gushed praise upon her father’s work. On her work, rather. But neither the baroness nor anyone present—including Lord and Lady Hansen—had any idea of the truth.

  Elias Daring had had no input at all
in this house.

  “Congratulations to your father,” another woman cooed when she approached Daisy and unceremoniously nudged Baroness Gantry away. “What beautiful work he’s done!”

  Daisy was engulfed by guests as if she were part of a receiving line instead of what she was truly doing—hiding from the crowd in the corner. The compliments came in a well-meaning barrage, with the guests having no idea how much their words grated on her heart.

  “Pure genius with the walls and windows!”

  Daisy could only smile uncomfortably, assure the guests that she’d pass along their appreciation to her father, and regret that she couldn’t claim the credit herself. The most she could do was let everyone believe that her father had done the structural plans and that she’d done the decorations. He was the walls, she was the wallpaper. Yet every time she tried to focus their attention on the designs—

  “What wonderful work Mr. Daring has done with the layout of these rooms!”

  Her shoulders sagged. They wanted to see the man whom they believed had ingeniously restructured the public rooms of the piano nobile and magically found space for the addition of the new garden room on the property by painstakingly moving the service yard area into a newly extended basement. They weren’t interested in the woman who’d overseen the crafting of sconces made to look like tulips, who had spent hours designing the fireplace plasterwork and struggling over the unique dining room window.

  But Whitby would have been.

  Her chest squeezed. She missed him, more than she wanted to admit.

  A month had passed since they’d fought. His house was almost finished now, with only a few last touches to complete before he and the boys could move in. But he’d stopped coming to visit at the Daring townhouse, not even to see her father and spend afternoons together as they used to. Not that Daisy would have agreed to see him anyway. She was still too hurt by what he’d done, still too embarrassed to forgive.

  He’d violated her trust, and she wanted nothing more to do with him. Yet she couldn’t abandon the house project this far along, not when professionally she needed to see it through. And not when her family still desperately needed the money. Worse, they were indebted to Whitby because he’d paid her brothers’ tuition. It was no longer a simple matter of handing back what was left of the retainer and allowing another architect to finish it.

  So she now drove the builders and craftsmen at breakneck speed to have it finished—and Hugh Whitby completely out of her life—as quickly as possible. All information about the house was sent via messenger to the Gatewell School rather than directly to Whitby, and she carefully planned each site visit to make certain she wouldn’t accidentally see him there, although when she’d casually asked after him, her lead builder had told her that Whitby hadn’t been to see the house since their visit.

  Her only concession in her resolve to have nothing to do with him again had been a second visit she’d taken to the Gatewell School. She’d gone herself, even knowing full well that she might run into him there, to deliver a special gift. A doll bed she’d had specially made for little Martha—a miniature poster bed with a pink canopy edged in white lace. Daisy had wanted her to know that she hadn’t forgotten about her and what kind of bed she should have in the girls’ house, even if Daisy wouldn’t be the one who built it.

  Whitby hadn’t been there.

  Perhaps, though, that had been for the best. She had no idea how she’d react when she saw him again, or what she’d say. What he’d done still felt like an act of betrayal.

  Baroness Hansen beamed her a bright smile as she weaved her way toward Daisy through the sea of guests, took her arm, and led her away to circle the room. “Congratulations, my dear. Your work is a grand success.”

  “Thank you.” Daisy smiled tightly. “I’ll pass along your compliments to my father.”

  “No.” She gracefully snatched two flutes of champagne from the tray of a passing footman and handed one to Daisy. “Not your father.” She gently tapped her glass against Daisy’s in an appreciative toast. “You.”

  Her heart skipped with a painful jolt as panic shot through her. Did the baroness know that Daisy had been impersonating her father? Had she somehow learned from the contest judges what Daisy had been up to? “I—I don’t know what you mean…”

  “Don’t play modest with me.” A knowing sparkle gleamed in the baroness’s eyes. “I know what you’ve done here.”

  “Pardon?” she squeaked.

  Lady Hansen leaned closer and lowered her voice so she wouldn’t be overheard by the guests lingering nearby. “My husband and I know how ill your father has been lately.”

  “I see.” Daisy dropped her gaze to the rug—one she had specially chosen for this new room—and quickly gulped down half her champagne.

  “And we know how difficult it must have been for you, not only to care for him and your two brothers but also to convey all the information to him from our townhouse so that he could continue with our renovations from your home.”

  So the baroness didn’t know—thank God. Daisy fought not to let out a deep sigh of relief.

  So far, she and Papa had managed to escape ruin. If any of the judges had spread word of her name being on the contest entry, she hadn’t heard rumors. None of their former clients had demanded any kind of explanations or assurances that Elias Daring had truly created their house or led their renovations.

  No, business was exactly the same as before. Practically nonexistent.

  Most likely, the judges had had a good laugh when they saw her name on the entry, then simply tossed it away, not giving her or her plans another thought. But then she’d also acted quickly to put a stop to any trouble before it could start by immediately writing to the committee to tell them that there had been a mistake. A friend with a very bad sense of humor had removed Elias’s name from the entry and put hers on it, thinking he was making a grand lark of it all. She assured them that her father had created the plans and that she had only assisted with the interior details whenever he’d needed a woman’s input. She’d assured them that she was nothing more than a secretary and a convenient female opinion, swallowing her pride to assure them that she would never dare to presume that she could be an architect equal to a man.

  It had worked. Last week, she’d received another letter from King George, John Nash, and the committee. This time her entry was a finalist.

  The news was bittersweet. She knew she deserved to be a finalist, that her plans deserved a chance to be seen. That the public recognition wasn’t what mattered and that she knew how worthy her talents were.

  But lying to herself didn’t ease the pain.

  “Please don’t misunderstand me.” Baroness Hansen patted Daisy’s arm as they continued their turn about the room. “While your father’s plans for the structural elements are wonderful, it’s your decorative touches that have transformed our home. The plasterwork, the fabrics, the patterns of flowers and vines—beautiful yet still comfortable and welcoming. And all because of your talents, Miss Daring.”

  Daisy blushed at that true compliment. This was the first time all evening that she’d been recognized for her hard work, and she couldn’t have asked for better praise.

  “I hear that you’re working on a catalogue for your interior designs and decorations.”

  “Yes, my lady. I took some of the ideas from it for your renovations.” With all the work she’d been putting in lately on Whitby’s house, she hadn’t been able to finish the catalogue as she’d hoped. But she would, and soon. After all, if she couldn’t be a true architect, then she’d be the next best thing—London’s most celebrated decorator.

  Another lie to herself. She winced and took a sip of champagne.

  “Then I’m honored to be able to spread word of your work, although everyone here seems to recognize your talents themselves and will undoubtedly help me in that regard.” She released Daisy’s arm. “Best be prepared, Miss Daring,” she warned as she walked away to rejoin her guests.
“I foresee endless project requests in your future!”

  Daisy sent up a prayer that the baroness was right.

  She swept her gaze around the new garden room. It had been added to the rear of the townhouse to create a comfortable space where Lord Hansen could relax from his duties in Parliament and where Lady Hansen could recuperate from the many hours of charitable work she spent helping the poor. On the ground floor and separate from the more public spaces, this room was purposefully planned by Daisy to be a sanctuary where all tensions and stresses could melt away.

  Oh, how Daisy loved this space! She lifted the champagne flute to her lips as she swept her eyes over the room. Overstuffed chairs and deep cushioned settees, a small pianoforte, delicate floral plasterwork perfectly matching the more—

  Whitby.

  She froze for a beat as her gaze landed on him. Then she tossed back the rest of her champagne with a single, gasping swallow.

  He stood on the other side of the room near the open set of French doors that looked out into the new garden, most likely having just arrived and looking for the baroness to give his respects. Daisy couldn’t have missed him, not in that bright cornflower blue kerseymere jacket, apple red waistcoat, and dark blue cravat with its ruby pin that sparkled in the lamplight. Leave it to Whitby to stand out like a beacon among the crowd, tonight even more than usual.

  But it was the woman he was with who snagged Daisy’s attention.

  She was tall and beautiful with raven black hair, bright eyes, and full red lips that curled into an easy smile. Daisy had never seen her before, but the way she leaned in to speak into Whitby’s ear indicated a deep familiarity between them. So did the way he laughed at whatever she’d said, tossing his head back in that boisterous way he had which always left Daisy grinning. Apparently, he had the same effect on this other woman…whomever she was.