Love In The Library (23 page)

“That explains why you’re not enamored of poetry.”

“Perhaps. I like things to be logical. As you know, I was almost a mathematician.”

“And there’s nothing logical whatsoever about falling in love.”

 “I know nothing of falling in love.”

She fervently wished she could change that. If only there was more time. “I do hope that’s an emotion you will one day experience.”

He gave a little chuckle. “If the poets are to be believed, falling in love's typically accompanied by pain. I would do well to steer clear of such a thing.”

It was too painful to think of him living under Mr. Whitebread’s roof. How could something mental cause her breath to shorten or her heart to beat in a most erratic fashion? This awakening to new love made her feel like a schoolgirl.

Then there was the opposite swing of the pendulum: from joy to gloom. The
probability
was that much pain was in store for her. The probability was not great that he would return her affection. And the probability of them living happily together forever was so remote as to be miniscule. “You may be right about the pain that accompanies love.”

He flashed a sympathetic look at her. No doubt he—like everyone else, except Felicity and Glee—thought she was mourning the death of a much-loved husband.

She had best change the conversation. “Did you get the opportunity to speak with Blanks last night?”

"I did. He has significantly tamed, but then it was always Lord Sedgewick who was his catalyst."

"In uncaging the beast?"

He chuckled. "You might put it that way."

Thinking of Lord Sedgewick and Blanks brought a smile to her face. Now that they were married, they were as tame as aging felines.

When would Sir Elvin be wanting to follow suit? She could understand where his future decision to wed would impact Airy. It was only normal that Airy would wish to carve out an independent life of his own away from his brother.

And her.

A deep chill penetrated every centimeter of her body, yet it was oddly comforting to be ensconced with him in this small coach as cold winds whipped throughout the countryside.

"What do you know of Mr. Whitebread?" she asked.

"Not much. I seem to recall something about him inheriting sugar plantations."

"I daresay that's as good as owning coal mines."

He nodded.

"You got his direction from Appleton?"

"I did—before we went north to Granfield Manor."

"How does Appleton know Mr. Whitebread?"

"Appleton knows everyone—and he has an extremely competent, well-organized secretary who can instantly retrieve any kind of information the rest of us would never deem important."

"Things like the direction of those with whom his employer corresponds?"

"I'm not clear that Appleton actually corresponds with the fellow. It may be that Whitebread was acquainted with Appleton's late father."

"The father from whom Appleton inherited the efficient secretary?"

Airy's black eyes glittered. "Exactly."

They rode on in silence, each of them peering from the coach window. It was a blustery day which made her glad to be inside a coach. On days like this she sympathized with the poor coachmen who were exposed to the worst weather conditions. At least it wasn’t raining.

She looked up at Airy. "I see you didn't bring your Euripides today."

A mischievous glint in his eyes, he touched the knot on his forehead. "I shouldn't want to inflame my traveling companion again."

Her first instinct was to hurl something at him for his unmerciful teasing, then as she observed the bruise she'd inflicted upon his brow, she was filled with remorse. "Oh, Airy, I am so sorry I threw that apple at you. Please forgive me." She hadn't meant to call him Airy to his face. The name had—at least to her—become synonymous with intimacy.

And there was also the fact he hadn't liked her to use it.

"If I held any rancor," he said, "be assured I wouldn't be sitting here."

She smiled at him, pleased that he'd not objected to her use of the nickname.

He shrugged. "My former nurse would tell you one admonishment is all I ever needed."

She started giggling.

"May I ask what you find so amusing?"

"I was picturing you as a little boy being punished. I daresay it took your brother more than once to learn proper behavior."

"I was always nurse's pet."

"Because you were no doubt a model child."

"I doubt that. I wasn't everyone's favorite. An heir generally commands more respect than a second son. This even applies to one's mother."

"I daresay that's life's compensation. He gets the title, you get the brains—not to say your brother has no brains."

He nodded knowingly. "You sound exactly like Elvin. We were recently discussing something similar. I accused him of stealing the Graces in the womb, and he acknowledged that I had hoarded the intelligence."

They both laughed.

"The weather has turned very cold."

She nodded. "It must be the coldest day of the season."

"We are on winter's doorstep."

As they rode on in a comfortable silence, the winds howling beyond the thin coach walls, she felt oddly secure. And incredibly content.

This was one of those days she never wanted to come to an end.

* * *

At nightfall, they stopped at The Crow’s Nest Inn which was within ten miles of Stipley Hall. "We can call on Mr. Whitebread the first thing tomorrow morning," Melvin said as he helped her from the coach. "I'll send a messenger with a letter to announce our arrival."

"Will you say you just happened to be in the area and thought to call on him?"

"I don't like to start off with a lie." He would be glad to be inside. It was bloody cold and had begun to rain. By morning, the ground would be covered with frost.

To enter the inn’s worn timber door, Melvin had to duck down because he was too tall. They went directly upstairs and down a long, L-shaped corridor until they came to her chambers where a fire was already blazing in the brick hearth of her large parlor. He took her valise into the adjacent bedchamber and set it down.

"I forgot to ask," she said from the doorway. "Are we Mr. and Miss Smith again?"

"Yes, we are." His strode back into the parlor, his gaze flicking to a table near the fire. "Our tea should be here any minute. Excuse me while I sit here and scribble a letter to Mr. Whitebread." He sat at the table and began to write.

"I shall be glad of a hot cup of tea. It's beastly cold." She went to stand in front of the fire. "The fire must have just been built."

He nodded. "I know. The room's still cold."

She peered solemnly at him. "Thank you for respecting my irrational fears and stopping when darkness fell."

He looked up from his writing, his eyes locking with hers, a grin pinching the lean planes of his cheek. "I have no desire to ignite Madam's fury."

"I just may throw something at you. Something that's not too hard." Her gaze went first to the knot above his brow then to the cut on his scalp which was partially covered with his hair. “How’s your other wound? When I returned home last night I started thinking about you becoming concussed, and I grew worried about you.”

She was as bad as Elvin. But her concern was rather endearing. “I told you yesterday I was fine.” He felt her gaze on him as he continued to draft the note.

“Does your head not hurt? I beg that you be honest with me.”

“I’ve a bit of a headache. Daresay it could have been worse.”

There was a knock at the door, and a serving maid with a tea tray came into the parlor. After she set, up Melvin produced his quickly written letter, along with a crown. “I would be ever so grateful if you could see that this is delivered to Stipley Hall tonight.”

Her youthful face lit up. “I’ll send me brother straight away. Thank you ever so much.”

Mrs. Bexley poured the tea, and he came and sat across the table from her.

She took a dainty sip. “Hot tea is just the thing on a bitterly cold evening like this.”

He was glad they had stopped here. The coach had gotten very cold. “Chamber’s warming, too.”

She nodded. “When you wrote to Mr. Whitebread initially, did you mention my name?”

“Of course not! If he’s such a committed book collector, he’d be bound to associate the name Bexley with
Canterbury Tales
.”

“And if he were behind the theft. . . “

“He’d hide any sign of the Chaucer from us.”

“So how will you introduce me tomorrow?”

“Who says I’m taking you? There’s no reason you can’t await me here.”

She pouted. Even her pout displayed her dimples. “Oh, Airy, you know I must go with you.”

Good lord! That was the second time today she’d called him Airy. And she’d had nary a drop of wine. “Now see here, Mrs. Bexley, you can’t be calling me by that ridiculous name.”

That lower lip of hers worked once more into a provocative pout. “It’s just the two of us. I promise not to use it around others.”

“Give me your word?”

Her lashes lowered. “Yes, of course.”

“Why do you think you have to go with me tomorrow? Do you not trust me?”

“I’ve told you before, I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted any man.”

Why did her words make him feel as if he’d just grown by two feet? Once more he vowed to do everything in his power to restore the Chaucer to her. “I pray I’m worthy of your confidence.”

“To answer your question, I must go tomorrow. I promise not to go around snooping into closed cupboards or anything like that. It’s not that I don’t have supreme confidence in you. But there are some things at which a woman’s . . . perception is needed.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I believe I would be able to tell if the man is dishonest with you.”

“I mean no disrespect, but that’s impossible.”

“It is not impossible. Allow me to rephrase. There is a high
probability
that I will be able to determine if he’s lying.”

“It’s back to women’s intuition, is it?”

“Perhaps. You just don't understand it because it’s not logical.”

Before he could respond, their dinner was delivered by the same young serving girl who couldn’t be a day older than Lizzy. He wondered if she was the daughter of the inn’s proprietor—or perhaps his granddaughter. Since the huge tray was as much as she could manage, he leapt up and helped her set the food upon the table.

And a lot of food it was for just the two of them. There were three good-sized veal cutlets, a macaroni pie, a loaf of bread with good country butter, pig’s feet jelly and an assortment of sweets.

When they finished setting the table, the girl reached into a huge pocket on her apron and produced a bottle of wine which she proceeded to decork.

When it was just him and Mrs. Bexley again, she met his gaze with a sheepish grin. “Will you allow me to imbibe wine?”

His eyes flashed with mirth. “I am not your master.”

"I shall promise not to drape myself over your person." She began to pour wine for both of them.

His heart thumped erratically when she mentioned
drape myself over your person
.

"Shall we toast?" she asked, holding up her glass.

He nodded, and their glasses clinked. "To our success," she said.

After the toast, their gazes locked. “Go on, Mrs. Bexley, I know you wish to eat your apple tart first.”

She let out a little giggle. “I’m not accustomed to anyone taking notice of my eating patterns.”

He shrugged.

For the next ten minutes or more they ate in relative silence. They had each drunk a small glass of wine when he refilled their glasses.

She was buttering a slender slice of bread as he stabbed the last cutlet, put it on his plate, and began to eat it.

“You haven’t told me if I’m to be permitted to accompany you to Mr. Whitebread’s tomorrow.”

“Since I am somewhat in your employ, I shall have to yield to your wishes.”

“And how will I be introduced?”

He’d lied already to Lord Seacrest and had no desire to continue such deceptions with Mr. Whitebread. He found himself wondering if Lord Seacrest had somehow found out that he and Mrs. Bexley were attempting to find the stolen Chaucer. Was he the one who ordered the attack on Melvin?

Even though Melvin had taken an instant dislike to Lord Seacrest, he’d felt relatively certain the man was not in possession of the Chaucer. Could he have been wrong?

“Are you certain you’ve never before met Mr. Whitebread? Is there any possibility he could recognize you either as Mrs. Bexley or Miss Hamilton?”

Her mouth dropped open. “I am flattered that you recall my maiden name.”

“Actually, it was Elvin who reminded me of it.”

“Then I’m impressed that you remembered it if you’d heard it just once.”

He ate the last bite of meat. “A good memory can also be a curse.”

Having finished eating several minutes earlier, she eyed him as he cleaned his plate. “So. . .?”

“I suppose the easiest way to explain your presence in the morning is to lie.”

“Will I be your wife again?”

The sound of
your wife
rolling off her tongue struck an oddly satisfying note. Not that he had any desire to wed. It was just. . . He was powerless to understand these peculiar feelings. Their eyes met, and he shook his head. “I cannot have a wife since I plan to give serious consideration to accepting a position at Stipley Hall.”

Her face fell.

“You shall have to be my sister.”

When he finished eating, they moved to the sofa. It was not even seven yet. Far too early for bed. He proposed a game of two-handed whist, and she was agreeable.

He cleared his throat. “It goes against my nature to approach something without a plan, but I think tomorrow we’re basically just trying to determine if he has the Chaucer.”

She nodded. “As you said the last time, if he’s so passionate a collector, he would quite naturally want to display the library’s most valuable acquisition.”

He cleared his throat again. “You must start making plans. What will you do if he doesn’t have the Chaucer? It pains me to say it, but I do believe he’s our last hope.”