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Lord Crimson was a self-made man. His vast fortune had been amassed by sweat and hard work, and his title, handed him on a silver platter by the Queen of England. Love, adoration, respect-these he had in abundance. And while a fraction of what he possessed would surely have been enough for any man, for Lord Crimson there was only sorrow and remorse. What horrific crime had he committed that his conscience should weigh so heavily upon him? A good question, but one whose answer had forever remained a mystery, for Lord Crimson had led a good and decent life and had never once failed to let another’s needs stand above his own. According to those who knew him best, there was no reason for his sadness. At least, that’s how it seemed.

At the outset, let’s be clear about one thing. References to Lord Crimson as a young man, and stories of Lord Crimson’s rise to fame and fortune, though as interesting and inspirational as any you’re likely to hear, will not be found among these pages. The tale with which we are concerned had its start on the day Lord Crimson turned seventy-five and began an adventure that can scarcely be imagined. Perhaps you’d best sit down.

Lord Crimson awoke, on the morning of that fateful birthday, to the usual tugging on his blankets. Without opening his eyes, he reached over the side of his bed to find Charlemagne’s neck, and in the hopes of gaining just a few seconds more of precious rest, rubbed it persuasively. The dog, however, would have none of it, and with that annoyingly insistent bark of his, ordered his master out of bed. In grim defeat, Lord Crimson sat up.

“All right boy, you win,” he said, and slowly he removed himself from his bed.

Together they walked to the enormous corner window which allowed the morning sun to shine in with a vengeance, and they stood looking out over the vast estate. With a heavy sigh, Lord Crimson bent down and gave his dog a pat.

“I know that technically you’re older than I am, but I feel it more than you do, don’t I, boy?” The bloodhound whimpered softly and nuzzled his head against Lord Crimson’s gentle hand. “Come on, Charlemagne. Let’s take a walk, shall we?”

That morning, like every morning, Lord Crimson and Charlemagne made the rounds of the estate. It was just over a mile, start to finish, and while not especially large when measured in terms of the great eighteenth and nineteenth century manors, in modern-day England, it was enormous.

The main house came into view as they walked over the hill toward the end of their hike, and the two friends stopped to rest. His Lordship scanned the countryside, and as his eyes came to rest on the manor, he made his thoughts known to his faithful dog. “Time’s run out, Charlemagne. I’m afraid they’ve given up.”

“The post has come, sir,” the head butler said, as he opened the door letting Lord Crimson and Charlemagne into the house. “There’s a letter from . . . them.”

“Thank you, Mr. Portico. I’ll be in the living room.”

The letter, fetched and brought to his side, Lord Crimson said, “Do me the favor of reading it aloud. I’m afraid I haven’t the energy.”

“Very good, Milord,” the butler said, and with a twenty-four-karat-gold letter opener, sliced the envelope in two. He removed the contents, shook out the single page communication, and holding it at arms length, read as follows:

“To the Honorable Charles Albert Crimson III.” Mr. Portico cleared his throat dramatically before continuing.

“Dear Lord Crimson: We regret to inform you that we have exhausted our current supply of ideas and must now insist that you foist your eccentricities off upon one of our other able associates. We will be more than happy to make a recommendation as it would serve no end of delight for us to witness any of our competitors in a turmoil while attempting, futilely, to satisfy your impossible and outlandish demands. We remain very sincerely yours . . . “

Lord Crimson turned to Charlemagne. “I told you, didn’t I, boy?” Wearily, he stood up and walked out of the room. Charlemagne tried to follow but was told, firmly, to stay. His Lordship wished to be alone.

For as long as he could remember, Lord Crimson had been plagued with nightmares. Nightmares which remained as much a mystery as the sorrow that seemed interwoven with his soul, for never could he remember even the slightest detail about them. But the cries he heard coming from his lips, and the torment and anguish he felt upon awakening-these he had no trouble at all remembering.

That night, with some trepidation, Lord Crimson lay in his bed. Any added stress always brought with it another unwanted dream, and now, with one more architectural firm giving up the ghost, his distress had become wearisome indeed. The best in London were exhausted. He’d have to look elsewhere. But where?

The dream that night was different in one respect, and even as he sat, bolt upright, screaming, with the tears and perspiration pouring down his face, and his heart attempting to pound its way out of his chest, Lord Crimson realized what it was. Seconds later, when Mr. Portico came rushing into His Lordship’s chambers, the butler was greeted by an almost frantic request for pen and paper. The items were quickly rounded up and handed to his Lordship, who then, and hardly knowing what he was about, wrote something down.

“Put this on the desk, please, and we’ll decipher its meaning in the morning.”

The butler did as requested and then hesitated, his concern weighing heavily. “May I get you something, sir? Perhaps some chamomile?”

Lord Crimson shook his head, but still Mr. Portico didn’t budge. He desperately wanted to do something-anything-in order to be of some little use.

“I’m all right, Mr. Portico,” Lord Crimson said. “Now please, go back to bed.”

The butler bowed. “As you wish, sir. Good night.”

The next morning, and for the first time since he’d made the purchase, Lord Crimson didn’t make the rounds of his property. Instead he sat at his desk pondering the meaning of what he had written. Where could the name have come from? How should he act on it, if at all? And then, with a certainty that was as mysterious as the origin of the message itself, he understood that herein lay his final chance. He reached over and gave Charlemagne a pat. “Get Mr. Portico for me, will you boy?” Charlemagne barked and trotted out of the room. A few moments later he returned, with Mr. Portico in tow.

“Milord?”

Lord Crimson handed him the sheet of paper. “Give this to Miss Haversham,” he said. “I wish to know if a firm by this name exists, and if it does, I want a meeting with whoever runs the company. Whatever it takes, I want a meeting this week.”

Later that day, at the Falstaff Architectural Firm in New York City, the CEO, Johnny Falstaff, and his lead architect, Rick St. Michael, were chatting over a cup of coffee. It was an easy-going, comfortable sort of conversation such as a father and son would have done, had they been close.

“So let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Rick was saying. “This Lord Crimson character is paying you a hundred grand, just for a meeting?”

Johnny shrugged his shoulders and nodded.

“It’s a good idea,” Rick said. “I mean, at the very least, you could use the diversion, don’t you think?”

“I guess. I’ll tell you what, though. I’m definitely intrigued. I’ve done a little digging around and apparently this guy’s driven at least a dozen firms stark raving mad.”

“What?”

“That’s right,” Johnny said. “It seems that His Lordship doesn’t know what he wants. And at the same time, he knows exactly what he wants.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

Johnny chuckled. “Join the club.”

The following day found Johnny Falstaff somewhere on the outskirts of London being escorted by Mr. Portico into Lord Crimson’s office. Upon Johnny’s entrance, His Lordship stood up and extended his hand. Johnny took it and was impressed by the sincerity with which he was greeted. Mr. Portico was dismissed, Johnny was asked to have a seat,
the two men looked each other over, and Lord Crimson broke the ice.

“Thank you for making this time available to me.”

“It’s my pleasure, sir.”

Somehow Lord Crimson doubted that.

“Yes, well-before I explain why I requested this meeting, why don’t you tell me a little something about this chap who works for you. This . . . Rick St. Michael.”

Johnny couldn’t help smiling. Rick was probably his favorite topic in the world. Maybe Lord Crimson wasn’t as loopy as he’d been led to believe.

“There’s an awful lot to tell,” Johnny said. “I’m not sure, even, where to begin.”

“Why not start with the reason you think so highly of him?” Lord Crimson said. “Tell me why you lit up like a Christmas tree at the mention of his name.”

“All right. In a nutshell, the way I feel about Rick is that he’s the son I never had. Quite frankly, Rick is without equal on so many levels that-” Johnny caught himself. He loved to brag about Rick’s attributes apart from his architectural abilities, but this was hardly the time. Let’s focus on the issue at hand, he told himself, and picked up the subject again. “Forgive me-I assume it’s his design skills you’re most interested in, so let me make it simple for you. Rick St. Michael is the best architect I’ve ever known. He is, in fact, in a class by himself. Aside from a keen eye and disturbingly good artistic skills, Rick has an uncanny knack for knowing, better than the client, what he wants.”

Johnny paused to study Lord Crimson’s face. He was touched by the sadness in his eyes and could see that the man needed more. And after a moment’s reflection, he went on.

“Something I like even more about Rick, is that even though he’s treated pretty much like royalty in most circles, he remains completely unassuming. Not to mention the fact that he could have struck out on his own, years ago. But I gave him his start, and now that our friendship has grown into something we both cherish above almost anything in the world, he remains loyal and will stay at my side forever.

Johnny’s expression softened, and his voice took on a whole new aspect. “There is one other thing, sir, and to me, it’s the most important of all. I’ve a feeling it will be to you as well.”

There was an inherent goodness in Johnny’s manner and voice that struck even the granite-laden Lord Crimson, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, his sadness took a back seat to another feeling entirely: Fascination.

“Rick has,” Johnny said, “the most unusual-indeed the most extraordinary little girl I’ve ever encountered. And their love for each other?-It just makes me feel that all’s right with the world.”

Johnny paused. This was it. “Now, Mr. Crimson, why don’t you tell me what it is that I can do for you?”

Two weeks later, Lord Crimson and Charlemagne were standing by the window watching the sunset. Lost in thought, Lord Crimson heard nothing, least of all the butler’s entrance to his room.

“Milord?”

Startled, His Lordship turned around.

“Yes, Mr. Portico, what is it?”

“Miss Haversham asked me to let you know, sir. She’s just received a phone call from Mr. Falstaff. Mr. St. Michael has agreed to take on your project. He’ll be free to start on it next week.”

To this, Lord Crimson replied, with a desperation that lay just below the surface, “Let’s pray for better luck with this one, shall we, Mr. Portico?” Then, barely audibly, he added, “Because, my friend-I fear the road ends here.”