“It’s the end piece,” he explained, showing her two samples of engravings in the wood. “We are unsure if we should finish it with rosettes or diamonds. In addition, we currently have the shelves meeting in the corner, but I thought perhaps they might be better placed on either side of the fireplace.”
“An interesting thought, Mr. Burton,” she said, picking up the plans from the middle of the room. “My father and I will review them.”
She collected her father and the two of them departed for their makeshift workplace in the parlor. While her father admired the view of the windows beyond, Rebecca began to make quick sketches, in an attempt to see the room from different angles and a different light.
Perhaps Mr. Burton had a point, she considered. If the shelves were moved, the window could allow greater light to enter and reflect on—
“Miss Lambert, just what do you think you are doing?”
23
Rebecca froze.
Mrs. St. Vincent was peering over her shoulder, her voice just behind Rebecca’s ear. Rebecca had been so engrossed in her sketches that she hadn’t heard Valentine’s mother approach. She swallowed.
“I am just making a few of the changes my father has suggested,” she said quickly, hoping that would appease Mrs. St. Vincent. The woman reached over Rebecca’s shoulder and snatched the papers up into her fingers. Rebecca stood quickly, whirling around to face her, but was helpless as Mrs. St. Vincent’s eyes roved over them.
“What you just drew…” she began, looking from Rebecca to the paper and back again, “looks to be in the same hand as the rest of the drawings.” She looked at the papers spread upon the desks. “As all of the drawings.”
“My father and I have a similar hand,” Rebecca attempted, looking her in the eye.
“Is this true, Mr. Lambert?” Mrs. St. Vincent asked, her hands on her hips now as she took her focus from Rebecca to her father. Rebecca prayed he wouldn’t say anything incriminating.
“Oh, hello,” he said with a pleasant smile. “Who might you be?”
“Pardon me?” Mrs. St. Vincent said as Rebecca’s heart dropped.
“Lovely to meet you,” her father said, holding out his hand. “Are you calling upon Lady Blackburn?”
“Who the devil is Lady Blackburn?” Mrs. St. Vincent asked, turning round eyes onto Rebecca, who was panicking.
“That’s enough, Father,” she said desperately. “Do stop teasing Mrs. St. Vincent.”
“Mrs. St. Vincent!” he said, recognition flaring in his eyes and Rebecca released a sigh of relief.
“I knew a Vincent once. Splendid dog, he was.”
The relief fled.
“Miss Lambert.” Mrs. St. Vincent turned toward her, her words clipped and her face beginning to turn a mottled red. “Just what is the meaning of all of this? Your father seems to be addled in the head!”
“He’s not, Mrs. Vincent, he really isn’t,” Rebecca said, shaking her head, both wishing that Mrs. St. Vincent would forget all of this while at the same time feeling the need to defend her father. So a man forgot something now and again. That didn’t mean that he should be sent to Bedlam.
But Mrs. St. Vincent was no longer listening to her. She was turning in circles around the parlor, a hand upon the side of her head.
“Please,” she said, closing her eyes and shaking her head, “please tell me that you have not been the one designing my homes all this time. That your father, a man renowned over all of England, did not lose his mind as you began to work on the magnificent homes of the Duke of Wyndham.”
“I have not been the one designing the Duke of Wyndham’s homes,” she said, emphasizing his name, for, as much as Mrs. St. Vincent seemed to have taken over the design, it was still her son’s home. Rebecca only wished he would act like it was. “Not alone, at any rate,” she added, unable to completely lie.
“This is unacceptable,” Mrs. St. Vincent said as she resumed her frenetic pacing, not even seeing when the door opened and Valentine walked in. “Unacceptable. Why, if we are found out, we will be the laughingstock of all of London. Even more than we already are. New duke, the former pugilist, hires a fraud. Oh, for goodness sake, I—”
“What is happening here?” Val asked, looking back and forth between Rebecca and his mother. Tension began to radiate in the back of Rebecca’s shoulder blades, which then wound their way up through her muscles to the sides of her neck.
“What is happening?” Mrs. St. Vincent said, stopping and pointing a finger at Valentine. “What is happening is that I am being proven right. As I always am. You have hired a fraud, Valentine. A fraud! Collect your silly sketchbooks, Miss Lambert, leave this house, and never come back. Do not send an invoice as you will most certainly not be paid!”
“Mrs. St. Vincent, I—”
“Will someone tell me what in the blazes is going on here?” Rebecca had never heard Val raise his voice in such direct anger before, and she flinched.
“From what I can ascertain, it seems as though Mr. Lambert here has not had the capacity to actually complete any of the designs of your homes himself. Instead, he has been relying on his daughter. These drawings aren’t from the hand of the architect whose name is renowned over all of London. Oh, no, Valentine, they are from her. A woman with hardly any education to speak of, with no experience, and no idea of what the results of her little sketches will be. I can hardly believe it.”
Rebecca took slow, deep breaths as Mrs. St. Vincent talked, willing away all of the building resentment. The woman was looking out for the best interests of her children, she reminded herself, though her anger burned hotter than her patience.
“How are we supposed to become respected members of the nobility if we have the worst-designed house in all of London?” Mrs. St. Vincent continued.
Valentine ignored his mother now, his gaze focused intently on Rebecca.
“Is this true?”
She didn’t say anything for a moment as she simply stared back at him, wishing that she could run to him and that he would enfold her into her arms and tell her that everything was all right.
But she feared that he would never be telling her that again. Rebecca knew what his reaction was before he said a word. For the look he gave her was filled with such disappointment, anger, and melancholy that his response was evident.
“Is this true?” he repeated, giving each word a sentence all to its own.
“Yes,” Rebecca said, louder than she originally intended. Despite the deception, she was proud of what she had done. Her work was good. So good, in fact, that Mr. Burton hadn’t even questioned it, nor had Valentine when he had previously reviewed the plans. “Did you like them?”
She knew they did, but she wanted to hear them say it.
“You lied to me,” Valentine said instead, ignoring her question. “This entire time… you deceived me. Made me out to be a fool.”
“No,” Rebecca said firmly, her heart beating quickly now, her blood pumping through her veins as panic ascended into her throat. “Never, Valentine. That was never my intent. I— I have been working with my father for some time now. He is still involved in the designs, he always has been. It’s just… well, some days he can do more than others.”