“Occupation?” Drew asked.
“I work at the theatres in Drury Lane. Building sets and scenery.”
“And you can build furniture?” Drew’s eyebrow arched high.
“I can.” Said with only slight hesitation.
Drew looked to Atlas.
Atlas cleared his throat. “Moldings. Stair rails.”
Drew returned his sharp gaze to Mr. Mathews. “Can you do those?”
The man snapped his hat from his head, clutched it tight. “Joiner work. I can learn.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mathews. We’ll let you know.” Drew did not even stand.
And as Mr. Mathews took himself off with a curse, Atlas blessed his brother. Better him doing all this than Atlas. Much better. Especially after five other applicants came and went in the same fashion.
A ripple of pain made Atlas’s muscles clench. Bloody hell. He’d been standing too long. He’d tormented himself over the chair only to never use it. Had to now, didn’t he? When the fifth applicant crept out of the room, head bowed, Atlas sank onto the spindly seat. Why were chairs made as if they were spider’s webs, all fragile curves and flossy spun silk? Hardly useful for a man of his proportions, a man more used to a worn leather saddle than silk, a man who’d caught bullets in his hide like spiders caught flies.
Hm. A song there. Not that it would sell. No one wanted truth. They wanted moonlight and pretty lasses, fluttering hearts and sunsets. Well, so too did Atlas. He looked for it every day, fell in love with each spot of beauty he discovered so he could cling to life instead of shadows, needing to remind himself life still contained moments worth living even after all that death.
He stretched his leg out, shifted onto the left side of his arse, and tried not to think of Waterloo despite the constant waking reminder.
Drew and Mrs. Dart hissed back and forth.
“What do you think?” she asked. “Lord Atlas, don’t you think the third applicant showed promise?”
“Who?” Atlas didn’t grimace when he spoke. Had years of practice hiding pain.
“Mr.”—she dropped her gaze to her notes, rifled through them—“Clapton. He has many years of experience.”
“But he said several questionable things.” Drew removed his glasses, scowled at his secretary. “We would be inviting the man into Briarcliff and the surrounding area. We cannot admit a man there who exhibits questionable sense. He has a family. And would leave them here to work there.”
“Some people must make desperate decisions,” Atlas said. He certainly had.
“Yes, but he talked about it as if he considered it a holiday. If a man has children, he should not think of them as burdens.”
“No.” Atlas agreed there. “He should not.” Their own father had never treated them like burdens. And yet he’d made them feel that way, nonetheless. Their father had possessed an addiction to art that had brought the family near to ruin. He’d spent every penny of the family fortune, neglected each responsibility, to buy his art and support every rising artist that asked for a penny. When Atlas and his brothers had finally discovered how bad it was, they could do little to improve matters. Only after their father’s death year and a half ago had they begun to climb out of the hole he’d dug with every painting and sculpture.
Though they’d tried to do so sooner, each in their own ways. His oldest brother, now the Marquess of Waneborough, had taken hold of the estate, managed it as well as he could. Zander had loaned particularly valuable paintings to those who wanted them for a small time only. Theo sold satirical drawings to the printshops, Drew ran an agency for governesses and tutors. Their only sister, Maggie, had married a wealthy man.
And Atlas had gone to war.
He’d not been able to purchase a commission. No money for that. But he’d not minded joining the militia and blending in with those not born in a big house to a man with a title. Untilit came time to move up the ranks, until opportunity presented itself to earn a pretty pence through death.
Each battle a victory, and each victory a prize to send home for whatever improvements were needed, to keep his brothers and sister well. He’d do it again for them. Would do anything for his family. Including acting as groom, gardener, and footman when they could afford none to work those positions. Including writing songs and selling them. Including fixing the dower house so it would attract the highest price from the best inhabitants willing to rent it. But first he needed someone to help with the final touches, the fancy sort of carpentry that required an elegance and skill Atlas lacked.
A knock on the door.
“Come in,” Mrs. Dart called, but the door already crept open.
A slippered foot first, then the hem of a sensible brown gown. But nothing else about the woman entering could be called sensible. She was a song in human form. Deep auburn hair, thick and silky, shiny and smooth. Lush pink lips and a birth mark just beneath her right eye. Creamy skin and the body of a goddess, all gorgeous curves draped like velvet over a tall, strong frame. Not as tall as him, but he’d not have to bend at the waist to kiss her.
Kiss her?
God, yes. His heart thumped to make it happen. Palms itched and that pain in his leg? Who the hell cared. He sat up straighter as she sat in the chair before Drew, the large windows behind her drowning her in sunlight.
