By the end of the morning, the downstairs had been emptied. Even the dining room table was gone. “It’s scarred,” Isidore told Honeydew. “I love that black oak, but it needs work. And frankly, I would prefer a table with more graceful lines. I have a mind to order a complete dining room set by Georges Jacob. He created a beautiful set for Queen Marie Antoinette in her Petit Trianon.”
Honeydew gulped. “From France, Your Grace?”
“Yes, of course,” Isidore said. She was ticking off a mental list on her fingers. “The furniture is dispatched to Mr. Seddon’s workshop. This afternoon I’ll send to Signora Angelico about an appropriate person to sew new curtains, and another to Antoine-Joseph Peyre about the broken statuary in the ballroom.” She paused because Honeydew looked confused. “Monsieur Peyre did some work on my palazzo in Venice, and it so happens that he’s in London. I’m sure that he will help us.”
“Palazzo?” Honeydew enquired.
Isidore smiled at him. “If only it were closer, I would have furniture shipped from there. Monsieur Peyre worked all my walls in Venice with delicious flowers, in the style that I most prefer.”
“By next week?” Honeydew said faintly.
“He won’t finish by then, of course.”
She turned about as she heard the study door open: the study was the only room on the first floor that they had not yet stripped of its furnishings. Simeon walked out. His hair was standing on end and there were dark circles under his eyes. “Honeydew,” he said, apparently not even seeing her, “have you ever heard of the Brothers Verbeckt?”
Honeydew frowned.
“They are asking for a large sum and though the reference is rather obscure, they seem to be talking of hunting. I thought perhaps the author was German.”
“That would be Verby, down in the village,” Honeydew said, his face clearing. “Now that’s a pack of nonsense! For hunting, does he say? Verby used to go along with your father as a gun-cleaner now and then, and only when the duke had no one better to take with him. Brothers Verbeckt indeed!”
Simeon turned to Isidore and bowed. “Forgive me, duchess; I didn’t see you were there.”
That was a lie. Isidore knew the moment his door opened. She could feel his presence even behind the door, as she made her lists. And the moment they were standing together in the same room, desire strung between them like an invisible thread.
But she smiled at him. He wanted to preserve the illusion of his life without desire, without fear. “Good morning.”
His eyes drifted over her and even though she was rather dusty and tired, suddenly, under his gaze, she felt all curves and female beauty.
“I’ve heard mysterious thumps,” he said, recovering first. “What on earth has been happening, Honeydew?”
“Her Grace has sent all the furniture to London,” Honeydew said. He was no fool, and was backing toward the hallway. “If you’ll forgive me, Your Graces, I must see to luncheon.” He stopped. “The table!”
“We’ll eat in the Dower House,” Isidore said soothingly. “Her Grace will undoubtedly wish a light luncheon in her chambers, just as she did last night.”
“What happened to the table?” Simeon asked, once Honeydew disappeared. “Did a leg fall off?”
“Oh no,” Isidore said. “I’ve sent everything to London, just as Honeydew said. Wouldn’t you like to see?”
They walked into the dining room. Without furniture, and with the moldering curtains torn down, it was a wide, echoing room. Honeydew had sent maids in the moment the furniture was gone, and even the walls glistened.
“The house should be ready to receive guests in a few weeks at most,” Isidore said, since Simeon seemed to be silenced by the total lack of furniture.
“You got rid of all the furniture?”
There was a kind of controlled anger in his voice that made Isidore’s eyes narrow. “I didn’t get rid of it,” she said. “Well, I got rid of some it. But everything that could be refurbished has been sent to London.”
Simeon walked to the door leading to the great sitting room and stopped. Isidore knew exactly what he was looking at: the empty, stained floor where there had been two threadbare Aubussons and clusters of furniture in various states of disrepair.
“You sent away all my furniture,” Simeon stated. He ran a hand through his hair.
Isidore stared at his back. His shoulders seemed very tense. “It is presumably my furniture as well,” she told him.
“If we remain married,” he said. Then he whirled about. “You have no right to send away every stick of furniture in this house. People live here. I live here. You could have done me the nominal courtesy of asking my permission.”