“Good morning, Mr. Lockheart.” She gestured to the drawings. “I will bring the plans with us today.”

“Very good.” Gareth didn’t need plans to know there was a problem, but he did not demur. She still had more than half a plate of food and had just poured a cup of coffee so Gareth ordered a pot for himself and proceeded to fill a plate.

He saw she was wearing a different riding habit—this one an unusual shade of burnt orange with dark gold piping, the style and cut somewhat old fashioned. Gareth had dressed in the clothing his valet, Chalmers, set out for him after learning of today’s plans: leather breeches, a dark brown clawhammer, and green waistcoat with narrow brown stripes. Chalmers was responsible for choosing and caring for his clothing, two chores Gareth found beyond fatiguing. His only stipulation was that the fabrics be comfortable and that the cut did not hamper his movement beyond good sense. His memory, all but faultless in most matters, seemed to develop a selective amnesia about clothing and the correct suit of clothing for different occasions. Chalmers did not dress or shave him, but the dour valet did administer Gareth’s haircuts, which seemed to be necessary ever more frequently.

She looked up from the plans when he sat across from her. “Mr. McElroy did not change his mind and decide to join us?”

Gareth paused in the act of opening his napkin. “Did he tell you he had changed his mind?”

Her cheeks, already somewhat rosy, turned an even redder shade. “No, I just thought he might have.”

Gareth had prepared for today by composing a list of conversational gambits and rehearsed responses. He’d found such lists helpful for those occasions when he expected to be in prolonged company with a person who was not Declan or a servant, the only people with whom he felt no social compunction to make pointless comments or idle conversation. Today’s list had been easier than usual as he seemed to have developed an actual curiosity about Mrs. Lombard and her son, an unusual development for him. It was not that he did not like people, of course, but he rarely wished to become any better acquainted with them.

“Your accent is very slight, Mrs. Lombard.”

She gave him a look of such surprise he wondered if he’d erred once again. Were accents—like bodily functions—yet another taboo subject? But, no, she did not appear scandalized. More than likely she was stunned that he would generate a question of this sort.

“My father spoke English to me when I was growing up. He wanted me to be fluent in his mother tongue.”

“How long have you lived in England?”

“It will be ten years soon. I came just before my son was born, in 1807.”

Her answer spurred a new question, one that had not been on his list. “You told me the last time you were here that your father groomed you to become a sculptor? Is that not unusual in France?”