Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Suffolk House was not the first time Cerys had stayed in a grand home.
She ran tame through Greenfield, the estate of Sir Hewitt and Lady Vaughn not a mile outside Newport, and she’d spent many a summer at Penrydd Castle.
She had been a frequent guest of the Viscountess Penrydd at their London home or other estates.
She’d taken tea with marchionesses and gone to balls in the homes of dukes.
She’d even seen the Prince Regent once, before he was Regent, passing St. James’s Park in his carriage on his way to Carlton House.
But Suffolk’s home was gracious in a way she’d never seen, and at every corner, some new delight caught the eye.
The reception rooms with their high ceilings and paneled walls were proportioned in a way that made the large space seem intimate.
The prevailing sense was of balance and serenity.
Rooms flowed into one another, design motifs repeating and echoing in subtle ways.
Each room seemed to have two or three lovely features to draw the eye, but no one element overpowered another.
She felt she had stepped into an ongoing conversation about the virtues of philosophy, beauty, intelligence, and art, all the qualities that made life fulfilling.
It was a house made for comfort and display at the same time. Not an easy balance to achieve.
She found the library and gave a little sigh of happiness.
Bookcases lined three tall walls, with open shelves above and drawers below, the whole recessed under a design like the facade of a temple.
Staggered pillars crowned with leafy designs held up the molded piece that circled the room at the joint of wall and ceiling.
On one end of the room, a bay of windows opened onto a vast green lawn.
A rosewood chaise longue sat centered in the bay, the perfect perch for one to relax, stare out the window, and spin grand dreams. Birdsong sounded without, a soothing murmur of noise.
The room was designed to catch the light but not expose the books to it. What a splendid idea, to blend a library with a garden.
A heavy pedestal desk sat at one end of the room, covered with books and scrolls, and Cerys drifted in that direction.
The large sketchbook held designs of buildings, inside and out.
Some were mere drafts in pencil or charcoal, and some rendered in meticulous detail, with numerical notations and notes alongside in a firm, strong hand.
There was such grace and charm to all the sketches that Cerys found herself lifting page after page, fascinated.
One design in particular was returned to over and over, worked up from every angle, the proportions measured and measured again, the architectural features mapped in every detail.
It was a house, not the size of Suffolk House, but a gentleman’s house all the same, and even more inviting than this one.
The rooms had a symmetry that soothed and a graceful elegance that suggested the ease of the inhabitants, and not the impressing of guests, was the purpose of the design.
Window upon window said the owner didn’t give a fig for the window tax.
It was precisely the kind of house Cerys would long to have herself, all the necessary functions in the most pleasing proportions, generous but not excessive.
A music room that opened onto a conservatory.
A library that doubled as a study. Salons that could be divided into cozy parlors or opened up for a ball.
Bedchambers as lovely as her own abovestairs, every comfort accommodated.
She traced the names below some of the sketches for bedrooms. La donna di casa. Mamma. Nicola. Julieta. Francesca. Daniele.
It was Mr. Manelli’s sketchbook, of course. These were his designs. Cerys traced the plan of a music room, which imitated the temple design of the library she stood in, though with additional windows. He’d sketched in instruments: a pianoforte, a stand for a violoncello, a harp.
Who were the women whose names he had doodled in the margins of his book? Acquaintances? Clients? Lovers?
Mr. Manelli was responsible for the divine elegance of Suffolk House, for the sense of gracious harmony that attended every step, opening into every new room.
He had taken the severe beauty of classical Greece, the soothing symmetry of the Italian school, and combined them with all the comforts of the modern world to achieve a home that calmed the spirit and delighted the senses.
The sketches showed his immaculate attention to detail, his rigorous adherence to accuracy, and the visions that filled his head.
For all his unpleasant qualities—and there were many—Mr. Manelli had a beautiful mind.
Booted steps sounded in the next room, along with an unfamiliar masculine voice. Out of a reflex that went deeper than thought, Cerys looked around for a place to hide.
As soon as she dove into the chaise, huddling against the swoop of its back, she realized she was being foolish.
All she’d needed to do was step away from the desk.
She couldn’t be charged with snooping; Manelli had left his sketchbook open to the eyes of the world.
It was a common room, and it wasn’t as if she’d been confined to her chamber.
No one had said they weren’t at liberty to enjoy the house.
Nevertheless, she crouched into the upholstered chaise as if she were six years old again and guilty of stealing Gwen’s bara brith from the kitchen. She turned her head to stare out the window as if hiding her face could make her invisible.
“—the tramway can bring the stone from Leckhampton more easily than ever.” This was Manelli’s deep voice. It provoked the familiar pinching feeling beneath her clothes, like the bites of tiny insects on her skin.
“The problem will be payin’ for it.” This was the voice she didn’t recognize, though the West Country accent was familiar. Manelli’s speech was clipped and precise in comparison, as if cultivated at Oxford or some other posh school.
A thump came from the desk, and Cerys jumped, then cowered further, hiding her startlement.
Had Manelli slammed a fist on the desk? A display of temper at last, when he’d been so cool and distant until now.
Well, blood would show itself, so it was said, and Italians were said to possess a particularly heated version of that humor.
“We’ve more plans for the Crescent,” Manelli said. Yes, that sounded like barely contained rage in his tone. “And plans for over sixty houses in St. James’s Square. What does Masters intend to do about them?”
“Take the credit for what’s built, and blame the developers if they don’t see it through. Word is the Read brothers are out of feathers to fly with,” answered the other. He appeared to have much less invested in the entire enterprise.
A growl emanated from behind her, and Cerys pulled her shawl more closely about her. Good heavens, Mr. Manelli was barely civilized. Had the Earl known this when he invited the man to take up residence in his house?
“So that leaves me having done all the work to get this far, and nothing more to show for it,” Manelli snapped. “Not even the credit, as Masters has appropriated all that to himself.”
The sound the other man made demonstrated his indifference to his host’s plight. “So pocket the pay, and touch up another with weighty pockets who wants to make his mark on Cheltenham.” He slurred the word together, Chel’enum.
“Yes, thank you for that advice.” Manelli’s teeth clicked together. “It seems that is the only recourse left to me.”
“It’s a bad turn, but thas the way o’it.” The visitor hesitated. “Not often the genmum does such a turn to one another, though.”
“As I have recently been reminded, I am not a gentleman. No doubt Masters does not see me as his equal, and that is why he hadn’t allowed me to work with the Read brothers directly.
Or perhaps they feel that only Masters and Pitt harbor any ideas worth listening to.
” The ensuing sound, Cerys guessed, was Mr. Manelli grinding his teeth.
She knew what that felt like. When you had marvelous ideas—superb, stupendous ideas—but no one around gave them proper audience. Because you were young. Because you were inexperienced. Because things had always been done a different way, or someone else knew better.
Or, sometimes, because the other face was a pale and English-looking one, and yours was not.
The other man departed, and Cerys contemplated her situation.
She was attempting to nonchalantly conceal herself on a low-backed chaise while a guest in the house of a man she didn’t know, alone and unchaperoned in a room with another man she knew nothing of.
Her mother would be casting her eyes to the ceiling and muttering prayers for patience and strength.
Well, Cerys knew some things about this man she was trapped in the room with.
He was a large and well-built man, and none of his bulk seemed due to fleshiness from a too-soft life.
She knew he had some Italian blood. She knew he was an architect who was proud of his work and supremely skilled.
The designs she had looked over and this house itself spoke to his talent.
She knew she most decidedly should not be alone in a room with him, here or anywhere.
“Madonna santa,” he muttered. “How long do you intend to sit there and stare at me? Just long enough to cast il malocchio, I suspect.”
Cerys rose, smoothing her skirts so she could look downward and attempt to hide the tight heat in her cheeks. “I beg your pardon. The what?”
“The evil eye.” He spared her an impatient glance. Dear God, the man was easy to irritate.
He had also, somehow, become more attractive since she’d seen him last, his cravat tugging free of its careless knot, his coat creased over the stretch of his broad shoulders, one lock of hair defying its styling to fall over his brow.