Instead of Wilds he’d chosen Beech, who was highly recommended as an architect known to favor the Indo-Saracenic style; a style which Gareth had been told was all the rage. He could not care less what style the country house was built in—he only wanted it to be built by the best. Otherwise, what was the point of all this?

To be honest, Garth had lost interest in the sprawling pile of bricks after the construction phase ended. He had no aptitude for design, décor, or furnishings and had only enjoyed the engineering aspects of the project.

Oh, he was pleased enough with the house, he supposed. Not that he spent much time in it. He’d hoped all the fuss and mess would be over last spring, when the structure had been completed. But now he’d been told he needed some sort of pleasure garden or ancient ruin or other such nonsense. It seemed Beech was the man to arrange the design and building of such things as he already knew the property, and to Gareth, employing him sounded like the least painful and time-consuming option.

They reached the steps to the front entrance—twenty of them, made of the finest breccia marble quarried and transported from the Continent, now that the War was over—and Gareth stopped and turned to Featherstone, eager to be shed of him.

“I have a great deal of work to do and will be in the library, I trust you will handle whatever arrangements need to be made for Beech.” Even to Gareth’s untutored ears his words sounded abrupt and uncivil. “I will leave you to your business,” he added to soften the rude directive.

Featherstone nodded, his hands moving in the compulsive washing gesture Gareth found distasteful and annoying. The man was an unpleasant combination of condescending and unctuous, but Beech had recommended him. “Mr. Beech will be bringing—”

Gareth held up a hand. “Yes, you’ve already said. He will be bringing a stone-worker or sculptor or gardener or what-have-you. I will speak with both or all of them before we dine this evening.” Gareth tossed the words over his shoulder, impatient to get back to work.

He strode through the great hall and then turned right to pass through the portrait-less portrait gallery on his way to the residential wing of the house. He spent most of his time at Rushton Park in the library, which was composed of three massive rooms linked together. The size seemed excessive to Gareth but the design apparently aped an ancient library from some place Gareth had never heard of. All he’d requested of Beech was that it be well-lighted and commodious enough to contain a desk, his journal collection, and a comfortable chair. And all Gareth had required of Featherstone when the man began stuffing the house with furniture and other frippery was that the library remain free of distracting clutter.

Two footmen stood at attention outside the double doors, waiting for nothing other than his arrival. Gareth ignored the unease he felt at such excess; after all, this was what he’d wanted, a country home that was as gratuitously sized and overstaffed as one of the royal dukes’ residences. Actually, Gareth had more servants and a larger house.