I Love the Earl by Caroline Linden

new arrangements such as Berkeley Square, where Durham House stood. She could tell they weren’t going that way, though, and finally she just asked.
    “Er . . . yes,” said Dowling ruefully. “My father wanted a grand showplace, but the only suitable property he could find was in Paddington. He had plans to found a great museum to house his collection, and designed the house accordingly. It’s practically a country manor.”
    Margaret had been to fine houses in London, some of which included a great deal of open space. “I see.” But she didn’t, not really, until the hired carriage stopped in front of a grand building that looked more temple than home, quite isolated.
    “It’s very impressive,” she said when he helped her down.
    “Isn’t it?” Lord Dowling shook his head. “Wait until you see the interior.” He led her up the shallow steps to the enormous front door, and to her surprise took a key from his coat pocket. Servants were always standing by to open the door at Durham House, and even in Holborn they’d had someone responsible for that. But Dowling let them in, closing the door behind her with a quiet boom that echoed through the empty house.
    If he hadn’t said he lived here, she would have thought it was deserted. Wide double doors stood open to her left into a high-ceilinged room that contained not a stick of furniture or a single object on the walls. The hall they stood in was similarly bare, with only a single candle shedding a dull light. The stairs at the side climbed into absolute darkness above. It was utterly silent.
    “I didn’t anticipate visitors.” The earl took up the candle and lit a candelabrum on the mantle of the cold fireplace. As more light filled the hall, Margaret could make out the shabbiness of the room, from the scratched and scuffed floor to the cobwebs in the corners. Dowling looked around, his face grim. “Bunter, my man, goes off to bed early, and the cleaning is too much for one person. It’s really not fit for ladies.”
    Margaret roused herself. “Nonsense. I’m not so hen-hearted as that. Is this the drawing room?”
    He followed her into the cavernous room to the left. “I believe so. Nearly every room was designed more for the purpose of display, and less of living.”
    Her footsteps echoed in the dusty stillness. There were no draperies at the windows, and the light of the full moon lit the room. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out rectangles on the walls where paintings had been. “What happened to the collection?”
    “Sold.”
    “Was it valuable?”
    He hesitated. “Not as valuable as my father thought.”
    Meaning he had lost money selling it. Margaret walked on. “It’s a lovely room,” she offered.
    “When the cupids aren’t falling, I suppose.”
    “Cupids?” She stopped to look at him in bemusement.
    He swept one arm through the air. “Hundreds of them. The plasterer must have been very fond of the little devils.”
    He was right. Margaret peered upward and saw dozens of fat-bellied cupids clinging to every foot of the elaborate cornice. It was too dark to see what they might have looked like, but in the moonlight streaming through the windows the effect was almost sinister. “How original,” she said faintly.
    “How damned ugly,” Dowling countered.
    She glanced at him, and burst out laughing. “Perhaps.”
    He was grinning. “They’re hideous—you should see them in the bright light of day—and even worse, they’re murderous. At least once a day there will be a smashing sound as one of them finally loses his grip on the wall and plummets to an ignominious end. I beg you stand away from the walls.”
    “Are they all over the house?” She could make out a few spots where cupids had obviously parted ways with the cornice.
    “In every room,” he said with resignation. “For uniformity, you see.”
    They strolled on through the dining room, the gallery, and the earl’s study. The empty bookshelves had a forlorn