Blueprints lay scattered over the long tables in his unofficial office, a room that was intended for purposes other than for a man to contemplate palaces, museums, and other official buildings; it was more likely supposed to be used for serving coffee to guests or playing billiards. However, it was on the front of the house where the sun caught the windows in the afternoon and he needed illumination—in more ways than just the light—to produce his vision of his latest project. Today the muse that drove him was obscure, elusive, and stubborn, and he’d scrapped his latest design, not liking the clumsy façade once he had it sketched out. He had ripped the vellum into shreds and tossed it on the floor in disgust. A nervous young footman said, “My lord, the Earl of Heathton is here to see you.” “Indeed he is.” Even as he turned, Christopher saw Benjamin Wallace walk into the sanctified space he used solely for contemplation and creation, his face set in uncharacteristic grim lines.
