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the Thames. In its glory days, when the river was London’s main thoroughfare, the Arms had been an upriver watermen’s haunt—and the haunt of a few less reputable fellows, too. Nowadays, it was just a village tavern frequented by merchants and farmers rather than dashing smugglers and highwaymen.
    Merrick MacLachlan used it often as a place to meet prospective stonemasons, carpenters, and the like, as the nature of his business required. Such men were not always comfortable in a gentleman’s office, and when it came to his pet projects like Walham Hill, Merrick refused to employ so much as a ditchdigger without eyeing him across a pint of porter or a tot of whisky first.
    Merrick was notorious for his insistence on controlling every step of the building process, from the first spade of earth that was turned to the last bit of slate on the roof. Indeed, he did not care to let out any work at all if he could avoid it—even the brick manufacturing, it now seemed, would fall under his purview.
    On top of all these more mundane details, Merrick negotiated all the leases and purchases of the land he would build upon. He wined and dined bankers and investors from three continents. And, when it was absolutely unavoidable, he rubbed an elbow or two at a society affair. Those were few and far between, thank God, since most of London’s upper-crust hostesses seemed to fear that Merrick MacLachlan might carry mud in on his boots—or might, God help him, smell of an honest day’s work.
    Inside the cool, shadowy interior of the Arms’ taproom, Merrick wasn’t sweating at all. Instead, he was leaned back in his chair, impatiently drumming his fingers on the ancient trestle table. Already he had waved off the serving girl twice. Where the devil was Wynwood, anyway? Merrick hated irresponsibility in any form, and believed tardiness to be its worst incarnation. Then abruptly, he checked himself. He was being unreasonable again. It was not like Wynwood to be late.
    Just then, Merrick heard the sounds of a small conveyance pulling up in the Arms’ yard. He got up and peered through a window to see Wynwood leap down from his curricle, toss a coin to the ostler, then start toward the door.
    “You are late,” said Merrick, when his friend sat down. “Did no one ever tell you that time is money?”
    “Terribly sorry.” The earl was looking, Merrick realized, just a little unwell. “Be a good fellow and send for a bottle of brandy, won’t you?”
    “It’s dashed early for that.” But Merrick waved down the serving girl and did so anyway. “Are you perfectly all right?”
    He watched as Wynwood’s throat moved up and down. “Well enough, I suppose,” he said. “I came upon an accident near Drayton Gardens. A young girl, plowed down by some lunatic in a phaeton. I think—I think she was trying to cross the road.”
    “Dear God! What did you do?”
    Lord Wynwood looked into the depths of the public house. “I leapt down, and tried to help,” he said quietly. “But there was no helping her. Her pale blue dress—the blood—it was ghastly. The King’s Road is straight as a stick, Merrick! How could anyone be so careless?”
    “I can guess.” Merrick gritted out the words. “Another of our fine Mayfair whips headed out on a lark.”
    Wynwood leaned intently across the table. “Do you understand now, Merrick, why I worry about the children? London has grown too dangerous.”
    “Aye, it has that.” The brandy came, and Merrick poured then pushed one in Wynwood’s direction. “Drink it. It will settle your nerves.”
    Wynwood was silent for a long moment. “I want you to build us a big house, Merrick,” he finally said. “Quickly. A house where the children can still see the trees, and aren’t apt to get mown down by a mail coach. A place where Vivie can have a little peace.”
    “Your wife is feeling the strain of her career?” asked Merrick.
    Wynwood smiled wryly. “No, to be honest, my wife is feeling the