Page 8 of If a Lady Lingers

The boy nodded and slowly took the package, then looked quickly around to make certain the gift wasn’t some kind of trick, that the baker wasn’t going to come running back out, this time to beat him with a rolling pin.

“Thank you, ma’am.” He climbed to his feet and wrapped his arms around the package as if it were more precious than gold. But then, Whitby decided, to the boy it was. Gold wasn’t edible.

Whitby bent down onto his heels to look the lad in the eyes. He reached into his pocket, removed one of his cards, and held it up. “If you ever get in trouble again, show this to a hackney driver and tell him to take you here.” He tucked it into the boy’s jacket pocket. Then Whitby fished out his handkerchief and wiped gently at the trickle of blood at the boy’s ear. “I’ll help you.”

The boy nodded and mumbled his thanks. Then he scrambled away as fast as he could.

Whitby watched the boy dart out of sight into a side alley. Maria put her hand reassuringly on Whitby’s shoulder.

“It’ll only be a matter of time before he’s caught stealing again.” She’d said what they were both thinking.

“Perhaps.” Whitby folded the soiled handkerchief and put it away, then squared his shoulders and looked up at her. “But maybe he won’t.”

Silently, Mariah slipped her arm around his and gave him an affectionate squeeze. Nothing more needed to be said.

2

Month Two

“Here they are, Mr. Whitby.”

Daisy traced her fingers over the house sketches she’d rolled out across her father’s drafting table. Her chest swelled with pride that the plans were now completely finished. Only her half signature on the bottom corner dampened her spirits, but just slightly. While she could never claim complete recognition for them, she let Whitby believe that the great Elias Daring had taken her ideas and made them into reality, while only the interior decorations had been left to her.

In truth, the entire house was hers. From attic to cellars…all her floor plans, all her interior ideas, all her innovations. Allhers.

Her first house! She could barely believe it.

“Congratulations.” Excitement percolated inside her, and she beamed up at Whitby. “Your house plans are finished.”

“Deuces, I hope so! The builders have already broken ground.” He returned her grin with a toothy one of his own. “Too late to stop now.”

“Indeed.” She’d sketched out the initial plans two weeks ago, then sent word on behalf of her father to the builders who had promptly begun excavating the basements. There had been no need to wait to start on those while the floor plans for the house above were being finalized. “You’re the proud father of a great big hole in the ground.”

He let out a hee-haw laugh, and she had no choice but to giggle at his happiness. His laughs were always like that—loud, boisterous…infectious. In the four weeks they’d worked together, she’d come to appreciate that joyful quality in him. Whitby had a way of lighting up a room when he entered. And not only because of his colorful clothes.

“A hole in the ground that will some day have a lovely house standing over it,” he corrected, scanning his eyes over the plans. “Thanks to your father.”

Her father.Not her.

His words hurt, but she didn’t let her smile waver. She had no choice but to continue the ruse that Elias Daring was the architect while she was only the wallpaper. Certainly, Whitby seemed intrigued by her sketches and ideas, but the gap was huge between finding her innovations interesting and actually letting her build his house. If he ever learned that the plans were actually hers and the builders taking orders not from Papa but from her, he might stop the project right then, demand his retainer back, and hire another architect to finish the house. Then her family really would be headed for the poorhouse if anyone found out. At best, no client would ever hire them again. At worst, their past clients could cry fraud and demand their money back. She didn’t dare believe that any of them would be willing to empathize with why she’d lied to them, not once society began to ridicule them for trusting the Elias Daring Architectural Firm, or be unwilling to take them to court to claim restitution.

He added quickly, as if afraid he’d offended her, “And to you, too, of course. A house without interior details is…well…”

“Still a house?” she prompted with wry amusement.

“A hollow shell of a house,” he amended. “One that isn’t at all a true home.”

“Well then, Mr. Whitby.” She tapped the sheet and drew his attention back to it as she corrected her earlier statement, “Congratulations. The plans for your hollow shell of a house that will some day be a true home are now finished.”

He thrust out his chest with pride. “Indeed they are!”

Now, during this morning’s meeting, she would take down his thoughts and opinions on any last changes that absolutely had to be made and walk the plans downstairs to hand them over to her father. Papa would look over them and discuss a few details with Whitby to make it seem as if he’d been working on them all along. Then Daisy would make corrections herself after Whitby had left, and in the morning, she would turn everything over to the lead builder, with instructions forged in her father’s handwriting. The house would be on its way, and no one would be the wiser about whose mind had actually created it. Including Whitby, who after today she would have no reason to see again for several months.

Disappointment panged oddly hollow in her chest.

Since he’d given them the commission, he’d dropped by nearly every day. First, he’d stopped by to bring the retainer money himself, and then he came frequently after to check on the plans’ progress, even on the days when she’d had nothing new to show him. He would look at the plans, nod, and then engage her in conversation that had nothing to do with architecture or his townhouse. As if he’d come purely for a social call.

He’d visit with them for hours some afternoons, talking not only to her but also with her father whenever Papa felt up to accepting visitors. With Whitby, her father seemed always eager to chat. The two men had even taken short strolls together when the weather cooperated, which led to long debates over some peculiar issues…whether members of Parliament should wear matching uniforms, if theatre should be allowed in non-licensed venues, and which was better on boots, buckles or tassels? But the exercise had done Papa a world of good, and he’d begun to look forward to Whitby’s visits—and to their odd little walking debates—with excitement.