Gasthorpe, the majordomo, a thickset man with crisp salt-and-pepper hair, came hurrying down the path from Number 12. Reaching them, he bowed. “Miss Carling.”
She’d made a point of meeting Gasthorpe the day after he’d taken up residence. She smiled and inclined her head.
He turned to Trentham. “My lord, forgive the interruption, but I wanted to make sure you called in. The carters have delivered the furniture for the first floor. I would be grateful if you would cast your eye over the items, and advise me if you approve.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be in in a moment—”
“Actually”—Leonora gripped Trentham’s arm, drawing his gaze to her face—“I would love to see what you’ve done to Mr. Morrissey’s house. May I come in while you check the furniture?” She smiled. “I would be happy to help—a lady’s eye is often quite different in such matters.”
Trentham looked at her, then glanced at Gasthorpe. “It’s rathe
r late. Your uncle and brother—”
“Won’t have noticed I left the house.” Her curiosity was rampant; she kept her eyes wide, fixed on Trentham’s face.
His lips twisted, then set; again he glanced at Gasthorpe. “If you insist.” She took his arm and he turned toward the path. “But only the first floor has been furnished as yet.”
She wondered why he was being so uncharacteristically diffident, then put it down to being a gentleman more or less in charge of fitting out a house. Something he no doubt felt ill equipped to do.
Ignoring his reticence, she swept up the path beside him. Gasthorpe had gone ahead and stood holding the door. She stepped over the threshold and paused to look around. She’d last glimpsed the hall in the shadows of night, when the painters’ cloths had been down, the room stripped and bare.
The transformation was now complete. The hall was surprisingly light and airy, not dark and gloomy—an impression she associated with gentlemen’s clubs. However, there was not a single item of delicacy to soften the austere, starkly elegant lines; no sprigged wallpaper, not even any scrollwork. It was rather cold, almost bleak in its eschewing of all things feminine, yet she could see men—men like Trentham—gathering there.
They wouldn’t notice the softness that was missing.
Trentham didn’t offer to show her the downstairs rooms; with a gesture, he directed her to the stairs. She climbed them, noting the high gloss on the banister, the thickness of the stair carpet. Clearly expense had not been a consideration.
On the first floor, Trentham moved past her and led the way to the room at the front of the house. A large mahogany table stood in the middle of the floor, eight matching chairs upholstered in ocher velvet surrounding it. A sideboard stood against one wall, a long bureau against another.
Tristan glanced around, swiftly surveying their meeting room. All was as they’d envisaged it; catching Gasthorpe’s eye, he nodded, then with a wave, directed Leonora back across the landing.
The small office with its desk, bank of drawers, and two chairs, need no more than a cursory glance. They moved on to the room at the back of the house—the library.
The merchant from whom they’d purchased the furniture, Mr. Meecham, was overseeing the siting of a tall bookcase. He glanced briefly their way, but immediately returned his attention to directing his two assistants, waving first one way, then that, until they had the heavy bookcase positioned to his satisfaction. They set it down with audible grunts.
Meecham turned to Tristan with a wide smile. “Well, my lord.” He bowed, then looked around with patent satisfaction. “I flatter myself you and your friends will be excellently comfortable here.”
Tristan saw no reason to argue; the room looked inviting, clean, and uncluttered yet with plenty of deep armchairs dotted about and numerous side tables waiting to support a glass of fine brandy. There were two bookcases, presently empty. Although the room was the library, it was unlikely they would retire here to read novels. News sheets assuredly, periodicals and reports, and sporting magazines; the library’s primary function would be as a place of quiet relaxation where if any words were spoken, they would be in a deep murmur.
Glancing around, he could see them all here, private, quiet, but companionable in their silence. Returning his gaze to Meecham, he nodded. “You’ve done well.”
“Indeed, indeed.” Gratified, Meecham waved his two workers from the room. “We’ll leave you to enjoy what we’ve thus far wrought. I’ll have the rest of the items delivered within the week.”
He bowed low; Tristan nodded a dismissal.
Gasthorpe caught his eye. “I’ll see Mr. Meecham out, my lord.”
“Thank you, Gasthorpe—I won’t need you again. We’ll see ourselves out.”
With a nod and a speaking look, Gasthorpe left.
Tristan inwardly winced, but what could he do? Explaining to Leonora that females were not supposed to be inside the club, not beyond the small front parlor, would inevitably lead to questions he—and his fellow club members—would much rather were never asked. Answering would be too risky, akin to tempting fate.
Much better to give ground when it didn’t really matter and couldn’t really hurt than explain what was behind the formation of the Bastion Club.
Leonora had drifted from his side. After trailing her fingers along the back of one armchair, noting the amenities, he thought with approval, she’d wandered to the window and now stood looking out.
At her own back garden.