brought Braedon up short. He turned to glare at her. ‘Brian Keller is an architect of keen eye and remarkable skill. He’s also a womanising rogue of the first order. Am I now to accept that for—’ he paused to count ‘—fifteen months—’
‘Nearly sixteen,’ she interrupted.
‘For sixteen months, Keller has been taking orders from you?’
‘No.’
Braedon’s mouth curved in triumph.
‘He’s been collaborating with me, which is something else altogether.’ She chuckled. ‘I admit, he was reluctant at first, but I won him over.’
‘How?’ He couldn’t hide the suspicion he felt.
She merely smiled. ‘He wasn’t able to get the Aislaby delivered in time.’
Braedon huffed. ‘Look, Miss … Hardwick?’
She nodded.
‘Perhaps you do indeed have a gift for organisation—or perhaps merely for manipulating men.’ He continued on past her wordless protest. ‘But George Hardwick was more than merely a manager for the building of this wing. He was in charge of my entire collection. Do you have any idea what that means? How far behind it must be?’ He moaned and increased his pace again.
Miss Hardwick, on the other hand, drew to a sudden halt. ‘Come with me, my lord.’ Turning abruptly, she headed for a corner of the room. Behind a hidden door she revealed a narrow passage and a door with double locks. From her pocket she produced a ring of keys.
‘Stay here,’ she said as the door opened onto a dark room. She entered and within moments light flared and grew.
It was a workroom, he saw, as she lit one lamp after another. Neatly hung brushes and small tools ringed the walls. Crates of many sizes were stacked against the wall. Near the back sat a desk covered with papers, parchment and books. And in the middle of the room, on a long table, revealed as she peeled back layers of cushioning muslin …
Braedon rushed forwards. It was a bronze short sword, tinged with the greenish patina of extreme age. Reverent, he lifted it. Months ago he’d found this treasure in a Hungarian curiosity shop, filth-encrusted and looking as if the proprietor had used it to pry open tins of food. What he held now was a masterpiece.
He ran a finger along the half-circle of highrelief carvings just past the hilt and leaned closer to the light to examine the sharpened edge of the blade. ‘Who?’ he asked. ‘Who restored it?’
The pride with which she beheld the weapon answered the question for him.
‘How?’
‘My father has been working with me. His speech is slow and his body seems to be gradually betraying him, but his mind is as keen as ever.’ She crossed to the desk and lifted a file. ‘I’ve done a bit of research. There are notes here on its possible age, construction and use, that sort of thing. I also jotted down a few ideas on how you might wish to display it.’
He looked up, his eyes narrowed. ‘What of the others I sent? The Egyptian dagger? The carved-ivory scabbard?’
‘All here, my lord.’ One by one she revealed the pieces he’d gathered over the last months, scavenged from collectors, pawnshops and junk heaps across Europe. Each one shone with new life and had been treated with the veneration it deserved.
He was impressed, despite himself. When he spoke again, he allowed respect to replace the animosity in his tone. ‘There is no doubt you’ve done a fine job here, Miss Hardwick. I have a full appreciation for the work you’ve done and I thank you for it.’
The relief he caught shining through those spectacles forced him to go on quickly. ‘A problem remains, however. I was woefully indulgent in staying away so long. A huge amount of work and a long list of duties await my attention now. I was counting on Hardwick to carry on with the collection, to take my place with some of the legwork and travelling. There is much involved in acquiring pieces like this: correspondence, business savvy, negotiation skills, the ability to travel with ease.’ Braedon sighed. ‘I had written your father about a piece I had particularly longed for—a rare Japanese pole arm recently brought back from the Orient. I hate to think that my chance at it is gone.’
Without a word, the girl produced another key and crossed to a tall armoire in the corner. She opened it to reveal a gleam of metal emanating from a long-hafted weapon.
Speechless, he stared. He rushed over to pull the piece into the light. Time passed as he traced reverent fingers and a sharp gaze over the masterfully crafted samurai blade, the long tang and longer staff. He looked at her in awe. ‘How did you do it?’
‘I followed the instructions you sent my father. I took William, your sturdiest footman, along and one of your tenants, a young woman recently widowed, as a companion. We made an effective team.’
Braedon knew there was more to the story. There were a hundred questions he should ask, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the incredible piece in his hand. ‘We’ll enlarge one of the niches,’ he said suddenly. ‘Design it around this piece—it will be one of the highlights of the collection.’
‘Actually—’ the girl crossed to the desk again ‘—I saw a magnificent display case in a private collection of manuscripts once. I made a few changes and came up with this. We could place the whole thing right in the centre of the room.’
He stared at the gorgeously rendered, ornate sketch. ‘You designed this?’
She nodded.
Braedon eyed her closely again. He fought back a short-lived twinge of disappointment at the idea of never probing beneath all of that packaging she wrapped herself in. He couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder, back in the direction of the main house. He was back at Castle Denning, wasn’t he? The place where he’d grown used to being denied what he wanted most. He shrugged off the thought. In any case, it wasn’t his habit to pry into others’ secrets, any more than it was to share his own.
The magnificent design caught his eye again and he made his decision.
‘Well, then, Miss Hardwick—how would you like to stay on as my Hardwick?’
Chapter One
One year later
‘Miss?’ The head carpenter poked his head into her workroom. ‘Would you have a moment? You might wish to see this.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the weapons wing.
Clutching her correspondence, Chloe instantly left her desk. ‘What is it, Mr Forrest?’ She groaned. ‘Not the gallery floor again, I hope?’
‘Now, miss,’ the carpenter said with a chuckle, ‘it does no good to always expect the worst.’
Plaster dust swirled about her skirts as she followed the man, ducking under scaffolding and stepping around stacks of wood. But there were far fewer obstacles than in months past, and in only a minute he paused to wave triumphantly at one of the niches set into the first-floor walls.
