Both men whirled at the gentle cough.
The aristocrat who stood just inside the door to Makepeace’s rooms wasn’t particularly tall—Asa had several inches on him and Apollo topped him by more than a head. The man was posed, one hip cocked gracefully, his hand languidly holding a gold-and-ebony cane. He was attired in a pink suit lavishly embroidered in bright blues, greens, gold, and black. Instead of the common white wig, he wore his golden hair unpowdered—though curled and carefully tied back with a black bow. Apollo had mentally named Valentine Napier, 7th Duke of Montgomery, a fop the first time he’d met him—the night Harte’s Folly had burned—and he’d had no cause to change that impression in the intervening months. He had, however, added an adjective: Montgomery was a dangerous fop.
“Gentlemen.” Montgomery’s upper lip twitched as if in amusement. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”
He looked slyly between them, making Apollo stiffen.
“Only my morning toilet,” Makepeace said, ignoring the insinuation. He grabbed a cloth and vigorously rubbed his hair. “Feel free to go away and come back at a more convenient time, Your Grace.”
“Oh, but you’re such a busy man,” Montgomery murmured, poking with his gold-topped cane at a stack of papers piled on a chair. The papers slid off, landing with a dusty crash on the floor. A tiny smile flickered across Montgomery’s face and Apollo was reminded of a gray cat his mother had once kept when he was a boy. The creature had loved to stroll along the mantelpiece in his mother’s sitting room, delicately batting the ornaments off the shelf. The cat had watched each ornament smash on the hearth with detached interest before moving on to the next.
“Do have a seat,” Makepeace drawled. He pulled open a drawer in a chest and took out a shirt.
“Thank you,” Montgomery replied without any sign of embarrassment. He sat, crossed his legs, and flicked a minuscule piece of lint off the silk of his breeches. “I’ve come to see about my investment.”
Apollo frowned. He’d been against taking money from Montgomery from the start, but Makepeace had somehow talked him into it with his usual glib tongue. Apollo couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d made a pact with the Devil. Montgomery had been abroad for over ten years before his abrupt return to London and society. No one seemed to know much about the man—or what he’d been doing for those ten years—even if his title and family name were well known.
Such mystery gave Apollo an itch between the shoulder blades.
“Good,” Makepeace said loudly. “Everything’s going just dandy. Smith here has the landscaping well in hand.”
“Sssm-i-th,” Montgomery drew out the ridiculous name Makepeace had given Apollo, making the sound into a sibilant hiss. He turned to Apollo and smiled quite sweetly. “And I believe that Mr. Makepeace said that your first name is Samuel, is it not?”
“He prefers Sam,” Makepeace growled, tacking on a hasty “Your Grace.”
“Indeed.” Montgomery was still smiling, almost to himself. “Mr. Sam Smith. Any relation to the Horace Smiths of Oxfordshire?”
Apollo shook his head once.
“No? A pity. I have some interests there. But it is a very common name,” Montgomery murmured. “And what plans do you have for the garden, may I ask?”
Apollo flipped to the back of his notebook and showed it to the duke.
Montgomery leaned forward, examining with pursed lips the sketches Apollo had made.
“Very nice,” he said at last, and sat back. “I’ll drop by the garden later today to take a look, shall I?”
Apollo and Makepeace exchanged glances.
“No need for that, Your Grace,” Makepeace began for the both of them.
“I know there’s no need. Call it a whim. In any case, I shan’t be denied. Expect me, Mr. Smith.”
Apollo nodded grimly. He couldn’t put his finger on why it bothered him, but he didn’t like the idea of the duke sniffing about his garden.
Montgomery twirled his walking stick, watching the glint of light off the gold top. “I collect that we’ll soon be in need of an architect to design and rebuild the various buildings in the pleasure garden.”
“Sam’s just started work on the garden,” Makepeace said. “He’s got quite a lot to do—you’ve seen the state the place is in. There’s plenty of time to find an architect.”
“No,” Montgomery replied firmly, “there isn’t. Not if we’re to reopen the garden within the next year.”
“Within a year?” Makepeace squawked.
“Indeed.” Montgomery stood and ambled to the door. “Haven’t I told you? I’m afraid I’m quite an impatient man. If the garden isn’t ready for visitors—and the money they’ll spend—by April of next year, I’m afraid I shall need my capital repaid.” He pivoted at the door and shot them another of his cherubic smiles. “With interest.”
He closed the door gently behind him.
“Well, bollocks,” Makepeace said blankly.