Once she’d realized, a bit belatedly, that Sandy’s plans involved bilking Gareth Lockheart, she refrained from commenting on anything other than gardens and statuary. Who could have guessed that Lockheart—for all his renowned prowess as a shrewd businessman—was no better than a babe-in-the-woods when it came to those matters nearest and dearest to the aristocracy’s heart: estates, country houses, and horses.

Serena shook her head, her stomach tight with shame. Sandy must truly be below the hatches to be behaving in such a dishonest, unscrupulous fashion. Buying hunters from their cousin Leeland—Landy, as they mockingly called him—was disgraceful. Landy’s “stud farm” in Yorkshire was a once-prosperous property he had destroyed in the decade since inheriting it. Serena had heard of Landy’s current embarrassment, a liaison with one of his tenant farmer’s daughters that had resulted in a child that Landy wasn’t supporting. He had no money, certainly he had no bloodstock. She supposed he and Sandy would procure some broken down nags and sell them to Mr. Lockheart for many times their value.

She glanced around her room, which was so stuffed with furniture and gewgaws she could only assume Sandy had done a similar thing when it came to filling Rushton Park—spent money in ways that ended up lining his pockets. Mr. Lockheart was ripe for exploitation and it seemed there was no shortage of people willing to take advantage of him, some her relatives.

“Lord,” she muttered, pushing back the heavy silk and velvet bedding and—with great reluctance—leaving her pleasurable bower.

She rang for hot water and considered the result of last night’s meeting. She had decided to take a week to consider Lockheart’s proposition—that she both design and implement his landscaping project. He had already informed her she would have carte blanche when it came to all aesthetic considerations. Not only could she create the piece de resistance and as many of the works she deemed necessary, but she would also be in the position to share commissions with other sculptors and artists.

The door opened and a maid entered bearing a steaming ewer.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning. Am I the last one up?” Serena poured water into the basin.

“Mr. Lockheart is at breakfast, ma’am, but Mr. Featherstone has not yet come down.”

Serena would go down to the breakfast room and see about her return journey.

“Mr. Jessup had me slip in earlier and take your gown ma’am. I sponged it and gave it a pressing, it looks nice and fresh.”

Serena smiled. “Thank you so much. Mr. Jessup thinks of everything.”

“That he does, ma’am. The breakfast room is on the first floor, in the family wing. Shall I send up a footman to guide you down when you are ready?”

“Thank you, but I can find my way.”

Serena washed, combed, and dressed with her usual efficiency and was down in the breakfast room within the half hour.

Mr. Lockheart stood when she entered the delightful, sunny room, his tall, well-proportioned person attired in fawn pantaloons, Hessians, and a navy coat that made his gray eyes more blue than gray. He was quite devastatingly handsome in the stark light of morning, his dark brown hair and pale skin striking against his crisp white linen. Beside his half-eaten plate of food were several large books, open. It pleased her to know his fancy library was not merely for show.