Page 1 of A Figure of Love

Chapter One

Kent

1817

Gareth Lockheart looked down at the snuffling brown and white balls of fur in some perplexity. “Do I really need so many?” he asked the Honorable Sandford Featherstone.

The puppies stirred and whimpered at the sound of his voice and the mother dog—or bitch, Gareth supposed she was called—gave him a look of reproach for waking her sleeping brood. Or flock. Or whatever one called a herd of puppies; puppies with a finer pedigree than Gareth Lockheart could claim.

Featherstone’s head bobbed up and down with an enthusiasm Gareth found exhausting. “Oh yes, this many and more if you are to hunt.”

Ah, hunting. He’d forgotten all about the supposed need for hunting. Gareth frowned at the prospect but didn’t bother arguing with the fussy, fine-boned aristocrat. After all, this was exactly the type of information he was paying Featherstone for: how to behave like a nob; how to build and furnish a house that looked as if toffs had been living in it for centuries.

Gareth had to pause for a moment in order to remind himself why he was doing this.

Ah yes, he recalled now: He was enduring all this upheaval and irritating discussion and excessive expenditure because his business partner—Declan McElroy—claimed they needed to present a civilized front if they were ever to gain credibility with the aristocracy and Gareth was more likely to be successful in such a venture. Gareth supposed the man had a point, although why he should trust Declan’s judgement on anything English was beyond him. After all, Declan despised the English and took great joy in acting more Irish than Irish, even though he’d never stepped foot on the Emerald Isle.

“And about those hunters, Mr. Lockheart.”

Gareth looked up from the sleeping puppies at the sound of Featherstone’s voice; a grating voice with its clipped consonants and condescending cadence. The smaller man was watching him closely; his expression one of concern mingled with . . . something.

While Gareth might not be good at reading people he knew what aristocrats saw when they looked at him: an upstart cit with more money and influence than such a mongrel deserved. He found such an attitude neither offensive nor amusing; just irrelevant.

The truth was that the thick walls of the aristocracy had been breached by wealthy merchant princes like Gareth; the power of the peerage was leaking through that breach like water draining from a ship’s scuppers.

But the change was happening slowly and England’s ancient, landed families still wielded influence in government that was disproportionate to their numbers or wealth.

The resulting equation was simple: aristocrats needed men like Gareth as much as he needed them.

Featherstone shifted from foot to foot under Gareth’s silent regard. “My cousin has a very well-respected stud farm in Yorkshire and—” words poured out of his mouth and filled the close air of the stables like a cloud of gnats. Words, words, and more words.

Gareth began to get the flying-apart feeling that invaded him whenever he was too long in Featherstone’s company—or in the company of anyone who wasted his time with trivial matters that had already been discussed.

Controlling the unpleasant sensation required mental gymnastics and a great deal of effort on his part.

First, Gareth directed his attention away from his current situation. Next, he focused on the Goldbach Conjecture, an open mathematical problem dating from 1742, as yet unsolved. Pondering such a conundrum never failed to calm him.

Every even integer greater than two is the sum of two primes—

“Mr. Lockheart?”

Gareth forced his eyes to refocus on Featherstone’s narrow, anxious face and recall what he’d been babbling about. Horses. He’d been talking about horses.

Gareth frowned. “I’ve already told you to purchase whatever stock you think fitting, Featherstone. I have entrusted you with such decisions so that I will not be taxed by them.” And yet you are taxing me with them, he wanted to add, but didn’t.

Instead, he pivoted on the heel of his boot and strode toward the exit. He’d hoped the other man might stay behind, but he could hear his footsteps struggling to keep up.

“But Mr. Lockheart, you don’t even want to talk about your own hunters—”

“No.” The sound of their footfalls echoed through the vast and, as yet, unoccupied stables like the sharp reports of a pistol. Gareth deliberately changed the subject. “When does Hiram Beech arrive?”

“Mr. Beech will be here late in the afternoon.”

Gareth bit back the irritation he felt whenever he thought of Beech. He’d wanted Amon Henry Wilds to design Rushton Park but the famous architect refused to take a commission so far from his beloved Brighton. Gareth had not been able to lure him away even by offering triple his usual fee. A man without a price was singular in Gareth’s experience and he discovered he did not like it.

Instead of Wilds he’d chosen Beech, who was highly recommended as an architect known to favor the Indo-Saracenic style; a style which Gareth had been told was all the rage. He could not care less what style the country house was built in—he only wanted it to be built by the best. Otherwise, what was the point of all this?

To be honest, Garth had lost interest in the sprawling pile of bricks after the construction phase ended. He had no aptitude for design, décor, or furnishings and had only enjoyed the engineering aspects of the project.