Without hesitation, she opened the door and peered inside.
“Good morning, Miss.”
A friendly voice spoke, and Ivy stepped through to find a snug office, also spotlessly clean. There were books, shelves, a small fireplace with a charming screen, and several chairs, along with the large desk from behind which a short, portly gentleman arose. He wore a deep green jacket and matching waistcoat, and the red beard he sported fluffed around his chin, dusted with grey to match the hairs on his head. He was, Ivy realised, not unlike the pictures she’d seen of leprechauns.
“And how may I be helping you on this lovely morning?”
She smiled at the distinctive touch of an Irish brogue, perfectly in keeping with his appearance. “I’m looking for some assistance with a garden project, sir. Your organisation was recommended to me by Sir Laurence Sydenham?”
“Ah, foine man,” nodded the gentleman. “Please come in. I’m Darby McCarthy, and I manage most of the O’Malley projects.” He glanced around. “Would your maid care to take a seat while we chat?” He pointed at a chair tucked into one corner.
“I believe she would appreciate that,” nodded Ivy. “Thank you.” She glanced at Betty, seeing the relief flooding the girl’s face. She really needed to learn to tramp for miles. It would have to be Siddington Castle then, whether Betty liked it or not.
Turning back to Mr McCarthy, Ivy took a breath. “I’m here to ask about having a fountain built and a small garden created, sir.”
“I see,” he nodded. “Well, we can certainly do that.”
“Yes, we can, Darby. How about I speak with the young lady about her project personally?” A door, tucked away on one side of the room, had opened and a man stepped through.
Ivy caught her breath.
He radiated elegance from his slightly dishevelled gleaming black hair all the way to his matching shiny boots.
Apparel aside, it was his eyes that snagged Ivy’s attention. As green as the isle he obviously hailed from, they were so merry, inviting one to smile back. Amazingly long and thick black lashes framed them, and it was hard to pay much attention to the soft grey jacket that topped a rich green brocade waistcoat and spotless white shirt.
Everything impacted on Ivy’s consciousness at once, and it took her a moment to react.
“Goodness, I apologise if I was staring,” she said, blinking. “Your appearance was quite sudden.”
“No apologies necessary.” He smiled, doing serious damage to what was left of her mind. “I’m O’Malley. Ronan O’Malley.” He bowed. “At your service.” His eyes, filled with that wondrous wicked gleam, met hers. “And you are…?”
“Surprised, Sir Ronan.” She took the hand he extended and dropped a polite curtsey. “Do you always involve yourself with such minor jobs?”
“Only when they’re presented for consideration by a beautiful lass who has to have been blessed with magic by the Sidhe at some point in her life.”
Ivy frowned. “I do beg your pardon, but I’m not sure I catch your meaning?”
Mr McCarthy chuckled. “He’s telling you that the wee folk, the fae, have touched you somehow, Miss. It’s the colouring. The Irish like to think your particular combination comes directly from the fairies. The Sidhe we call ‘em.” He pronounced it clearly and the word, which sounded like ‘sheeay’, rang some bells in her mind from her childhood.
“Ah,” she nodded, as she recalled the conversation with the Sydenhams. “Well I’m sorry to say that if that were true, I’d probably know about it and I don’t, so I must disabuse your mind of the notion.” She glanced at Mr McCarthy. “I’m Ivy Siddington. Two ‘d’s’ if you need it for your files, since it appears you’ve accepted the work.”
Sir Ronan was watching her with unconcealed delight. “I’d never forgive myself if we let you walk out of here unsatisfied, Miss Siddington.” He paused, and tilted his head to one side. “It is Miss Siddington then?”
She lifted her chin. His pointed comment and question trod the boundary between polite and insinuating and irritated her. He was a little too sure of himself for her liking.
“I am here to explore the creation of a fountain and a small garden for the Duke of Maidenbrooke, Sir Ronan, at his town residence, Hartsmere House. I cannot see where my status has anything to do with it.”
“And I’m sure Sir Ronan agrees,” interpolated Mr McCarthy with a wide smile aimed at her. “His Grace is known for his particular attention to all that is appropriate. The O’Malleys can create exactly what is required and will doubtless meet or exceed his expectations.” A sharp glance at Sir Ronan followed.
Ivy pursed her lips at the poor little man’s attempt to defuse his employer’s inappropriate question. “Well, you certainly both possess confidence in abundance. How am I to judge your expertise?”
“We can provide references, of course,” McCarthy squared his shoulders. “We wouldn’t expect you to proceed without them.”
“That would be acceptable,” she nodded.
“I’d invite you into my office, but that would not be proper,” said Sir Ronan. His dratted eyes twinkled. “And I would not have you thinking that O’Malley’s is anything but correct. So…” He pulled up another chair. “Tell us about this fountain and garden, Miss Ivy Siddington. How can we bring your dreams to life?”
She sighed and sat. “You can start by eliminating the fanciful from your conversation, sir. I am here to hire your company for a construction job. That is all.” She shot him a firm look. “Flirting is not on my agenda today.”
“You wound me,” he said, his hand flying to his heart as he looked distraught.
Ivy remained unmoved.
“You are a cruel woman. But perhaps it’s that touch of Sidhe magic. They’re known for their cruelty as well as their charm.”
“My garden?” She tapped her fingers on the desk.
He sighed.
