Stroke of Genius Read Online Free Page B

original as an ash catcher?
    “Ah! I have it. Wyckham!” His manservant appeared in an instant. “Show Miss Makepeace to the attiring room and let her pick from the Grecian costumes. That should bare her arms sufficiently. Then escort her to the studio. And be quick about it!”
    Then he turned and strode away, his walking stick rapping the flagstone floor.
    “This way, if you please, miss.” Wyckham took Grace’s pelisse from Claudette with a slight bow and a rakish wiggle of his russet brows.
    The unhappy Allen wallowed before Claudette like an untrained puppy, but she barely tossed him a glance. Grace noticed she favored Wyckham with a saucy smile.
    Mr. Wyckham led them in the opposite direction from his master. Grace followed him through the tunnel-like foyer into…another world.
    After seeing nothing but unyielding stone from the outside, Grace was unprepared for the dance of light in the open atrium spread before her. Flowers rioted in fragrant profusion and a small willow wept in one corner. A fountain pattered in the center of the courtyard and statuary dotted the open space. Her gaze swept up, past the many onion-domed windows opening to the atrium and on to the skylights above. The sun sent long shafts of liquid gold creeping down the western wall of interior windows.
    “Oh, my!” Grace ground to a halt, drinking in the unexpected beauty and tranquility of the place.
    “Forgive me, miss. I forget sometimes how Mr. Hawke’s home affects visitors the first time. I should haveforewarned you,” Wyckham said. “If you would be pleased to walk with me, I will tell you about what you are seeing. But we must step lively. My master doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
    My master. Himself. Crispin Hawke might not be a titled lord, but he’d certainly carved out a little kingdom and populated it with willing subjects here in Cheapside.
    “By all means, let us not inconvenience a genius,” Grace said. “Proceed.”
    “Mind the flags. Some have settled unevenly, but that, Mr. Hawke says, is part of their charm. Do be careful, though. He’d be upset with me if you should trip and fall aga—”
    Wyckham caught himself, turned back to give her an apologetic shrug, and then continued along the colonnaded edge of the garden. Grace followed. She was too taken with her surroundings to care that Wyckham teetered on the edge of rudeness.
    Like master, like servant, she supposed.
    “Mr. Hawke purchased this structure after the interior was completely gutted by fire. Only the stone outer walls were still standing. What you see here is his own design. He says he drew inspiration from his time spent studying in Venice.”
    “I’d heard he studied in Paris,” Grace said.
    “As you will, miss,” Wyckham said cryptically. He threw open a door and bade Grace and Claudette enter. Floor-to-ceiling wardrobes lined the walls. “Please choose whatever strikes your fancy and I shall wait without.”
    Grace allowed Claudette to select a gown. Her mother claimed French maids were supposed to possess exquisite taste. In this instance, Claudette proved her mother correct. She picked out a beautiful palla, but Grace hadto remove all her undergarments for the Grecian costume to drape properly.
    “This feels so…” wicked, she finished silently as she turned slowly before a tall looking glass. “I doubt they’d smile on this costume in Boston.”
    “Oh, la! They smile on nothing in your Boston!” Claudette tossed the excess fabric over one of Grace’s shoulders and fastened it with a cameo brooch. “In London, this is—how you say?—‘quite the done thing.’”
    Grace had heard the ton was mad for all things classical, but the gossamer fabric was so sheer, it made her feel as though she were clad in next to nothing.
    Her little pointy-toed boots, which were the first stare of fashion for strolling in St. James Park, looked ridiculous with the palla. So Grace permitted Claudette to fit her with a pair of slim, gilded