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.
Apollo couldn’t help but agree.
“IS WANTONISH A real word?” Lily asked Maude several days later.
She sat at the kitchen-cum-dining-room table while Maude hung their washing next to the fireplace.
“Wantonish,” Maude said, rolling the word around her mouth. She shook her head decisively as she twitched one of Indio’s shirts into place over the drying rack. “No, never heard of it.”
Damn! Lily pouted down at the play she was writing, A Wastrel Reform’d. Wantonish was such a wonderful W word—and she really needed more of those. “Well, does it matter if ’tisn’t a real word? William Shakespeare devised all sorts of new words, didn’t he?”
Maude gave her a look. “You’re right clever, hinney, but you’re no Shakespeare.”
“Hmm.” Lily bent back to her play. Wantonish sounded like a perfectly lovely word to her—quite sly and suggestive, rather like the heroine of her play. Just because no one had thought of the word before now didn’t seem like a good enough reason not to use it.
She dipped her quill in the inkpot and wrote another line: “A Wastrel might indeed be wantonish but he’d surely not be wastefulish as well.”
Lily cocked her head, eyeing the drying ink. Hmmm. Two imaginary words in one line. Best not tell Maude.
Someone knocked on the theater door.
Both Lily and Maude paused and stared at the door, because that had never happened before. Granted, they’d lived at the theater for less than a sennight, but still. It wasn’t the sort of place most people happened by.
Lily frowned. “Where’s Indio?”
Maude shrugged. “Went out to play right after luncheon.”
“I told him to stay close,” Lily muttered, feeling a faint twinge of apprehension. She’d walked around to Mr. Harte’s rooms the day after she’d met Indio’s “monster,” but the man had been ridiculously adamant that the hulking brute couldn’t be moved from the garden. None of Lily’s well-reasoned arguments had persuaded the stubborn man and in the end she’d been forced to come away again, quite unsatisfied. Fortunately the mute hadn’t ventured near the ruined theater since. Unfortunately Indio had acquired a strange fascination with him. Several times the boy had disappeared with Daffodil into the garden, despite Lily’s dire threats regarding pudding and little boys who didn’t mind their mothers.
She sighed as she rose to get the door. She was going to have to speak to Indio again about his “monster”—always assuming her son emerged from the garden.
Lily pulled open the door to find a man dressed in a violet suit standing without, his back to her as he surveyed the garden.
He turned and she was dazzled by his alarming prettiness. He had bright-blue eyes, long chocolate lashes, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and a soft, curving mouth that she really wasn’t envious of. And to top it all off—as if to prove Providence really, truly wasn’t fair—he had guinea-gold hair, smooth and curling perfectly.
When Lily had been a very small girl she’d prayed every night for golden hair.
She blinked now. “Erm… yes?”
He smiled. Lethally. “Have I the pleasure to address the illustrious Robin Goodfellow?”
Lily straightened and raised her chin, employing her own smile—which, she had on good authority, could be quite devastating. Lily Stump might occasionally have bad posture, might have hair that wasn’t gold and sometimes wasn’t perfectly arranged, might in the dark of night have fears and self-doubts, but Robin Goodfellow had none of those things. Robin Goodfellow was a very popular actress who was beloved by all of London.
And she knew it.
So Robin Goodfellow smiled with just the right amount of impishness at the very pretty man—and by God made him blink.
“You do indeed,” she said throatily.