The following morning, Patrick woke up early and drove over to Kyre House. Other than to move furniture around, he hadn’t stepped foot in the place since Georgiana’s last season. The enormous old house on Park Lane cost too much to run year around, especially since no one ever stayed there except for a few months during the spring. Patrick kept it open for as long as he could, but once Georgiana was married with a home of her own, it no longer made sense. He moved the most valuable furnishings to the attics of his country estate at Kyre—the only place he could ever call home—and threw sheets over everything else.
As he pushed open the front door that morning, a cloud of dust blew through the foyer, taking old newspaper and trash along with it. Patrick coughed. If he planned on having it ready for the Talbot-Martin’s fundraiser, he would have to hire an army to clean it.
His footsteps echoed on the parquet floor as he walked from room to room. The sheets strewn across the tables and chairs reminded him of ghosts. He pulled one away to reveal a beautiful mahogany side table. It was the one that always held fresh bouquets of flowers his stepmother insisted on having delivered every day.
He recalled the dinner parties held in the dining room. The heavy doors were pulled closed, but he could still imagine the lamplight glinting in the crystal glasses and the laughter of friends well into the early morning hours.
He walked down the long corridor that led to the carved wooden staircase. Every step groaned under his weight as he climbed his way to the upper floors. Even after their father died, Georgiana insisted on keeping everything the same as it was before. Patrick hated his stepmother’s decorating. At least on the main floor it had been restrained, but the family floors and servants quarters suffered from garish wallpaper and heavy Victorian furniture.
He pushed open the door to his father’s old bedroom. As master of the house, Patrick slept there in the years after he succeeded to the marquessate, but he always felt like an interloper. It would always be his father’s room.
The high, curtained bed still stood against the wall. As a boy, it had been the best bed in the house for jumping. Patrick and his older brother, John, could get so high their fingertips would brush the fabric of the canopy. He grinned as he climbed onto the dusty mattress for old time’s sake.
The bed sagged beneath him. Better not try jumping. With his luck, he’d go through the floor.
Rolling off the bed, he checked the rest of the rooms before heading back downstairs. The house could be ready in a week. All he really needed to fix was the ground floor—the foyer, drawing room, dining room, and the ballroom. Of course, it would cost him more than he would rather spend, but Linley was worth it.
***
“I see you’re no worse for wear,” Linley said, smiling as she joined Patrick in the drawing room. “How are you feeling?”
“Sore,” he replied.
She sank down onto the sofa beside him. “Poor darling!”
“I thought we could go for a walk in Hyde Park this afternoon,” Patrick said. “Would you like that?”
Linley smiled. “Of course.”
Berenice filed into the room, a copy of The Sketch in hand. “Good afternoon, Lord Kyre.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hastings,” he said. “I was just asking Linley if she would like to go for a walk in Hyde Park.”
“Lovely idea,” Berenice said, easing into her favorite chaise. “Have a nice time.”
Linley turned to her. “Aren’t you coming?”
“No, I don’t think that will be necessary. I believe Lord Kyre can be trusted to behave himself as a gentleman.”
Linley walked with Patrick downstairs, where his open-top motorcar waited unattended at the kerb.
“I felt like driving today,” he said. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
Patrick helped her into the front seat, and went around to start the engine before letting himself in on his side. Pulling onto the street, he shifted gears and sped off for Hyde Park.
He was a very good driver, maneuvering through London’s busy streets as if they were nothing more than country roads. Linley never once felt afraid crammed between omnibuses and lorries.
Patrick glanced over at her. “Do you drive?”
“Oh, yes,” she answered. “But I’d be too afraid to do it in London.”
He smiled. “It’s not as hard as it looks.”
They pulled onto Park Lane and stopped in front of a very large old house.
“Are you sure we can park here?”
Patrick nodded and climbed out of the motorcar. Linley didn’t even wait for him to come around and let her out. She hopped onto the ground, adjusting her little feathered hat.
A young couple on horseback clopped down Park Lane, fresh from a ride in Rotten Row. They nodded at Patrick, who tapped the brim of his boater hat.
“Does everyone in this town know you?” she asked.