arrival. Coggins appeared wearing a nightcap and rubbing his eyes. “Lady Beatrice?” he croaked. “What time is it?”
“Time for carpentering.” She marched into the entrance hall and he locked the door behind her.
“Mr. Wright is still abed,” he informed her.
“Perfect.” She’d be hard at work when he came downstairs. “I need a quick start to my day. My mother owns the second half of it and I’m determined to own the first. Is Mrs. Kettle in?”
“Not yet. She never arrives until later.” He yawned. “I’ll make you some coffee. Could use some myself.”
“I need tools, Coggins.”
“Tools, milady?”
“Hammers, and nails, and such things.”
“Mr. Wright left a bucket of tools in the front room.”
“Excellent.”
She changed her clothing in Mrs. Kettle’s little sitting room under the stairs. It was a difficult feat to wrestle out of her gown and corset with no maid, but she managed it. She put on the shirt, tucking it into the trousers. Rafe was slimmer in the hips—the trousers were quite close fitting.
Lady Beatrice Bentley. Displaying your limbs. Shameful!
She banished her mother’s voice. She had no jurisdiction here. This was Beatrice’s domain. She could wear trousers, wield a hammer, revel in her new library, and do it all on her own terms.
When she emerged, Mr. Coggins stared at her, his brows closing into one straight line.
“Do stop staring, Coggins. You don’t expect me to carpenter in my frilly gown, do you?”
He handed her the coffee. “What’s the world coming to?” he mumbled. “Ladies in trousers. I’m going back to bed.”
She sipped her coffee and opened Practical Carpentry, Joinery, and Cabinet-making by Peter Nicholson, written “for the use of workmen” with “fully and clearly explained” instructions.
She turned to the chapter entitled, “Flooring for First-Rate Houses.”
So these rotting floorboards in the showroom were nailed on top of the joists. But which type of construction was it? She’d have to rip up a floorboard to determine the structure beneath.
She found a hammer in the bucket. This one was much smaller than the one they’d used for knocking down the wall. It had a metal head set crosswise on a wooden handle. The curved end was obviously meant to pry things apart. But how to insert it beneath the board? And, once inserted, how did one succeed in dislodging the board?
What felt like hours later, but was probably only ten minutes, Beatrice’s back ached and her knees hurt from kneeling on the floorboards.
She’d only managed to pry up one small wedge of timber. “Come loose, damn you despicable board!”
“Cursing at it won’t help,” said a deep voice over her head.
Ford. She glanced up and then quickly back down again. Sunlight kissed the angular contours of his face. The smile teasing his lips demolished her resolutions to remain impassive and industrious.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.
“Proving you wrong.”
“About what?”
“I’ve received definitive confirmation that I own the property and will be able to sign it over to the league of lady knitters. Therefore, it’s of the utmost paramountcy that we finish repairing the property swiftly so that Foxton can’t claim it’s in a state of hazardous dereliction. You said you wouldn’t require my help, but since we can’t hire another carpenter as your assistant, I believe I may be of use. I understand the basic principles of floor joists and floorboards.” She frowned at the board she’d been attempting to remove. “At least I thought I did.”
“What in the name of God are you wearing?”
She smoothed her palm over the front of the shirt. “My brother Rafe’s clothing. He’s not in London so he won’t miss it.”
His gaze raked the length of her body leaving her feeling exposed, and uncharacteristically feminine. If he was going to stare at her so boldly, she’d take an inventory of her own.
He looked delicious enough to spoon into her coffee. Dark hair tousled, loose white shirt open at the neck, sunlight softening the hard angles of him, the stern set of his lips and the sturdy plane of his shoulders.
“You look good in trousers,” he said.
The compliment startled her. She’d expected him to order her to change back into her feminine frills and march upstairs to the reading room where she belonged.
She wiped a damp palm on the sturdy fabric of the trousers. “My friend India, the Duchess of Ravenwood, wears trousers when she goes on archaeological digs. And when she infiltrates all-male societies. I find I quite like the freedom they afford. I may never wear a gown again.”
“I liked the gown you were wearing