Love In The Library (2 page)

Felicity giggled. Then apologized. Then gripped her friend's arm with her gloved hand. "Look, Catherine! There's one of the twins. I declare, I haven't seen them in an age, and as soon as we speak of them, one of them materializes."

The widow Bexley spun around to gaze at the door to the card room. There stood one of the dark haired, well dressed, taller-than-average twins. His black jacket fit perfectly. In fact from head to toe, his dress was impeccable. She studied him. Any sense of weakness implied by his slim build was quickly offset by the power of his countenance and the solidity conveyed by his patrician nose. From the man's haughty demeanor, Catherine was almost certain this twin must be the baronet. Is that how Blanks told them apart?

She remembered Glee telling her the smart twin was a bit of an introvert.

Introvert or not, Catherine knew that the smart, introverted twin was precisely what she needed. But how could she enlist him to help her? She had no money, and she refused to use her feminine charms even if that particular twin would be susceptible to such a ploy—which she was convinced he would
not
be.

Catherine turned back to Felicity. "Since your brother's one of his best friends, I beg that you beckon him to join us."

Felicity raised a quizzical brow. "If you like, dearest."

As the solitary twin's gaze connected with Felicity's, a smile crossed his face, and he began to cross the lofty chamber toward them.

He bowed before the beautiful blonde, kissing her proffered hand, then nodded at Catherine.

"You remember my friend, Mrs. Bexley?" Felicity inquired, coyly refraining from addressing him so as not to mistake him for his brother.

"Indeed I do." He smiled upon Catherine. "I trust your period of mourning is up?"

"It has been up these two months past," Catherine replied.

"Then you must do me the goodness of standing up with me."

"Alas, I have not yet returned to dancing."

"Speaking of dancing," Felicity said to the twin, "it has been an age since I've seen you at the Assembly Rooms, though my brother keeps me informed about all his friends—including you and your brother."

He frowned. "I daresay the reason you haven't seen me in an age is that Bath has lost its lure since your brother and Blanks have wed and gone to their estates. Even my brother don't hang around anymore."

So this twin definitely was not the scholar
.

"You must be very proud of your brother," Catherine said. "I understand he's obtained a Doctor of Letters—a most impressive accomplishment."

"I've always been proud of him, but I do wish he were a bit more fun loving."

"I'm going to sound like an older sister," Felicity said, "and tell you that it's time you settle down and marry like George and Blanks have done."

Catherine's gaze flicked to him, and she nodded. "You must own, those two men appear to be deliriously happy."

"Pray, don't think I'm not vastly pleased that my old friends are happy." He looked at the space on the settee beside Felicity. "Would you permit me to sit beside you, my lady?"

"Please do."

He lowered himself onto the settee and commenced to talking almost as if he were thinking aloud. "Sedgewick certainly deserves the happiness he's found after his grievous loss."

Felicity nodded solemnly. "I know you miss him."

"The fun we used to have before Blanks and Sedgewick were married!"

Though Catherine had never spoken more than fifteen words to either twin, she felt compelled to interject her opinion. "It's my belief, Sir Elvin, that you're simply blue-deviled because you're about to lose your brother's companionship."

His brows squeezed together. "Don't know why he thinks he's got to make his living. I've told him he can live with me always."

Felicity's voice gentled. "I daresay he's exerting his independence. How old are you now?"

"Seven and twenty."

The same as Catherine. "I think he sounds like a most admirable man."

"Oh, that he is," his twin said.

"Where is your brother?" Catherine prayed he was in Bath.

"Oh, he's with me now. . .well, not actually now. What I mean is, he's here in Bath, but he don't like assemblies. He's one who prefers his books to the ladies—which is just another way in which we're different." He gave a little chuckle as his appreciative glance raked over Catherine.

Felicity nodded. "Everyone knows the two of you are vastly different."

"Even if you do look the same," Catherine added.

He gazed at her. "You wouldn't know it if you didn't see us side by side, but Melvin's a full inch taller than me."

"Actually, I once commented on that at an assembly," Felicity said with a little giggle, "but I didn't know which of you was the tall one!"

The dancing had now ended, the musicians were packing away their instruments, and the thousand or so who had filled the chamber moments before were now leaving. Catherine had to act before the baronet left. "I beg that you give me your direction for I should like to send a note around to your brother in the morning."

He gave her a querying look. "We have a house on Green Park Road. Number 4."

* * *

From that house on Green Park Road the following day, Melvin Steffington set off in his brother's tilbury to the Royal Crescent, where Mrs. Bexley resided. Why in the devil did the woman wish to see him? Her short missive had been particularly vague.

Try as he might, he could not remember a Catherine Bexley. He could not even remember Catherine Hamilton—the name Elvin told him she was known as before her marriage.

A pity he could remember every single character in
Plutarch's Lives
, but he couldn't remember a single female. Except for Pixie. Who wasn't really Pixie. She was Glee Blankenship now that she'd married Blanks. But Pix wasn't like other females. She was one of the bloods.

He tethered his horse in front of Number 17, the address of this Mrs. Bexley. The forty or so houses of the Royal Crescent were some of the finest in Bath—if not the finest. Melvin supposed the vast parkland in front of the semicircle of stately residences contributed to the homes' desirability, but for his taste, he appreciated most the clean classical lines employed by the architect. He was enamored of all things that originated with the Greeks and Romans.

He mounted the steps. Before he even knocked, the door swung open. "Mr. Steffington?" asked a man in lime green livery.

Melvin nodded.

"Please follow me upstairs to the drawing room. Mrs. Bexley's expecting you."

He wasn't particularly interested in furnishings and such, but he could not help but to notice how lovely was the Bexley home. The stairway was constructed of fine marble, and the iron banisters were gilded. Turkey carpets lay below, and a glittering chandelier hung above.

In the pale yellow drawing room he was shown to, light from tall windows illuminated the woman who sat on a silken cream-colored settee in the center of the room. It seemed almost as if the chamber's light framed her face rather like those hooded halos in Renaissance paintings of the Madonna.

He supposed Elvin would find her pretty, but all Melvin could notice was that she was on the smallish size, was not unattractive, and she was of a similar age to him. Possessed of light brown (or was it dark gold?) hair, this woman looked vaguely familiar.

It suddenly occurred to him that in his seven and twenty years he had never been alone with a woman. Other than his mother. And possibly his nurse when he was in leading strings. He could converse for hours with his dons at Oxford, but he was moronically inept when it came to speaking with a women.

She sprang to her feet and moved to greet him, a smile on her face, her hands outstretched to him. What in the bloody hell was he supposed to do with her hands? Though Melvin was unaccustomed to noticing women, he found himself thinking of how lovely was her smooth, creamy skin. And exceptionally large bluish-greenish eyes. At so close a distance he was able to determine that her hair was golden. Yes, indeed, Elvin would find her lovely.

The woman was remarkably friendly. She took both his hands in hers as if they were lifelong friends and proceeded to gush her gratitude. "It is so very kind of you, Mr. Steffington, to come to me today. Please do sit by me so I can tell you why I so desperately need you."

Of what use could he possibly be to this self-possessed woman? Bereft of words, he dropped onto the settee.

Mrs. Bexley had no problem speaking to men she scarcely knew. "When I heard your name mentioned last night at the Upper Assembly Rooms, I knew you would be the very one to answer my prayers."

Good lord! Did the woman have designs on him? He'd heard of women like that before—women who thought like a man, acted like a man, and—at least Mrs. Bexley didn't look like a man. He cleared his throat. "I fear you have me confused with someone else."

She shook her head vigorously. "Not at all! Are you not the gentleman who's looking for a post at a private library?"

His experiences with private libraries convinced him that this townhouse was far too small to hold the kind of library to offer him employment, and he did not think her late husband was in possession of a country home, either. He raised his brows hopefully. "You have such a position to offer?"

Her shoulders sagged. "Not actually."

Their eyes locked and held. He noticed hers were green, or perhaps blue, or perhaps a blending of the two colors. That particular shade reminded him of the Adriatic, which he had greatly admired on his tour of Italy.

"I have a dire problem that I believe a man possessed of your knowledge can help me solve."

"Are you saying you wish to employ me to help solve this problem, madam?"

"Not actually."

Then what?
Had this unfortunate woman been dropped on her head as a babe? "I confess that you've roused my curiosity."

"My dear Mr. Steffington, you must think me the silliest scatterbrain. Allow me to explain. I need your help in tracking an extremely valuable book that was stolen from my late husband's library."

"May I know the title of the book?"

"Chaucer's
Canterbury Tales.
It's one of the earliest—hand lettered on vellum with lovely coloring as well as drawings."

His eyes widened. "That manuscript's 400 years old!"

She nodded. "Yes, I know."

"Such a book would be worth a fortune." A sudden desire to see the rest of the late Mr. Bexley's library seized Melvin. "Are there not only three such manuscripts in existence?"

Her brows lowered as if she were in deep contemplation. "I believe Mr. Bexley, my late husband, may have mentioned something to that effect."

He met her gaze and nodded. "Gutenberg came along in the same century that Chaucer died, and those lovely old holographs went the way of chain mail."

"Pray, Mr. Steffington, what is a holograph?"

"Forgive me. My brother says I have a deplorable habit of not communicating in a readily understood manner. A holograph is merely a document or manuscript that's written entirely by hand."

A radiant smile brightened her face, giving her a child-like quality. "I knew it!"

"Then why, madam, did you ask me what a holograph was?"

"Oh, I didn't know what a holograph was, but I knew last night at the Assembly Rooms when Felicity spoke of you that you were the very one to help restore the manuscript to me!"

In what way did this woman think he could be of assistance? Did she think he cavorted with criminals? "I am truly sorry for your loss, but I fail to understand why you believe I might be able to aid in the recovery of your late husband's book."

"Oh, I understand that you have no expertise in recovering stolen goods, but you, Mr. Steffington, are extremely knowledgeable about old books. Only a person with such knowledge would be interested in a position at a private library. And are you not interested in such a post?"

"I am. But- - -"

She raised a dainty hand, palm facing him. "Please, hear me out. I believe you possess the skills to research all the private libraries in England."

That was true. "But some of these libraries already have manuscripts of
Canterbury Tales
. I believe Lord Spencer's library has one in its possession, and so does Lord Oxford's library, which I've had the honor of visiting. You do realize, Mrs. Bexley, you can't just waltz into someone's library and claim their works as yours?"

"You see, you are the very one for this commission!" The crazed woman sat there smiling at him. "You already have knowledge of some of the finest private libraries in the British Isles."

Had she not understood anything he said? His brows lowered. "I am humbled by your confidence in my abilities, but I assure you I am not the man for this assignment."

"That is simply not true. You are the perfect person." Her voice lowered. "I mean to sell the book when I recover it, and I shall give you fifteen percent of whatever amount I receive from the sale."

He calculated what that fee would be based on the recent sale of a Shakespeare first folio and adding fifty percent. Since Chaucer predated Shakespeare, his works were considerably more valuable. Melvin had not heard of anything as valuable as a Chaucer holograph coming on the market in the decade he'd been a serious student, but his knowledge of books told him it should be worth half again as much as a Shakespeare first edition. Perhaps double. After all, Shakespeare wrote a great many plays, but Chaucer had just one major work.

With his cut from the
Canterbury Tales
sale, Melvin would have enough money to buy a cozy home in Oxford—which held all the attractions he could want: namely, libraries.

He would never have to be a financial burden to his twin, of whom Melvin was exceedingly fond.

Mrs. Bexley's proposal was enticing.

But he had no idea how to track stolen literary works. Melvin Steffington did not like to do anything he could not do well. In fact, he not only liked to do things well, he liked to do things
better
than anyone else could do them. He detested failure, and Mrs. Bexley's proposal was primed for failure.