Love In The Library (4 page)

Upon her doorstep, Mr. Longford stood like a pup with its tail between its legs. "I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Longford," she greeted. "My footman should have shown you in."

As his foot crossed the threshold, she apologized. "Unfortunately, something of grave importance has come up which prevents me from joining you this afternoon."

His glance flicked to a tilbury tethered in front of Number 17.

"Please forgive me." She offered him a smile. "Tomorrow afternoon?"

He could not have looked any sadder had she announced the death of his favorite hound. "I thought after last night. . . after you responded so affirmatively to my . . . my declarations. . ."

Declarations?
To what had she responded to so affirmatively? She cast her memory back to the previous night when this gentleman had proceeded to sit beside her and watch the dancers at the Upper Assembly Rooms. Unfortunately, she hadn't paid the slightest heed to what the poor man was babbling about. He was so outrageously boring. Always had been. Even when he had attempted to court her before she married Mr. Bexley.

She would never subject herself to his company if it weren't for the fact they were related. His mother, after being widowed, married Catherine's father's brother, who happened to be Catherine's favorite uncle.

It would serve her right if Mr. Longford had misunderstood her affirmative remark, whatever that affirmative remark was. How deplorable that she never listened to him, and it certainly put her in a quandary now. Should she own up to her lamentable shortcomings and confess that she had not been listening? Doing that, though, might offend the poor man. He already looked woefully sad.

Hopefully, when next she saw him, she would be able to use his contextual clues to know just what she had agreed to the previous night. But, of course, she would have to listen most politely. Which was beastly difficult for her to do when she was with Mr. Longford.

Postponing the trip to Sydney Gardens might allow her to dream up a plausible-yet-inoffensive excuse for not having paid attention to what the man was saying the previous night. She bestowed what she hoped was a sweet smile upon him. "My dear Mr. Longford, I shall greatly look forward to our meeting tomorrow. Now, with the greatest disappointment, I must return to my pressing business." The bit about her disappointment ought to appease him.

* * *

Melvin looked up when she re-entered the chamber. That halo thing around her dark golden locks had vanished, but she still exuded an elegant countenance. She was fair and slender and looked like she needed a man to take care of her. He was surprised that he'd had no difficulty whatsoever speaking with her, even if she was a female.

"Now, where were we?" she asked, returning to her seat on the sofa. She sat upon the cushions, tucking her feet beneath her skirts, then she faced him in the same relaxed way his 13-year-old sister did. But in no other way did she resemble Lizzy. The expression on Mrs. Bexley's face convinced him that she found him interesting. No woman had ever before been interested in what he had to say.

But, then, most women didn't like discussing classics and rare manuscripts.

"Permit me to ask how you think a thief gained entrance to your house," he said.

"He must have come when no one was home."

"And when would such an occurrence be?"

"The only time all the servants are gone at the same time is on Sunday morning."

"When they go to church?"

"Yes."

"And what do you do on Sunday mornings?"

Her dimples creased. "Why, I go to church, too."

"That is the only time when your house is not inhabited?"

"Yes, though I suppose the thief could steal in during the night while we slept."

"But how would he get past your locked doors?"

"Actually, I'm not altogether certain the doors were kept locked—though they are now."

He would refrain from chiding her. The poor woman had obviously suffered a great deal because of that omission.

"I know what you're thinking," she said, glowering at him.

"You couldn't possibly."

"You believe I'm an imbecile."

"I do not!"

"Yet you're thinking that not seeing to the locking of my doors was the most stupid thing you've ever heard of."

"I'm sure I must have heard of something more stupid." His dark eyes flashed with mirth.

And she burst out laughing.

He, too, laughed, and when he was finished, he eyed her seriously. "You have shown me where the manuscript was kept. You gave me an approximate date of the theft. You told me what servants are here, and which one has left since it went missing." He met her intent gaze. Yes, her eyes were an aquamarine. Quite lovely eyes. If one were interested in such things. "And the only other fact I have learned from you—save for your lamentable negligence in not locking the doors—is that Mr. Christie came to appraise the manuscript not long before it went missing."

"And you don't believe in coincidences."

He nodded. "The question now is how would one go about trying to sell so valuable a manuscript?"

She hopped up and scurried across the chamber's Turkey carpet to the desk where she snatched a plume and a piece of velum. "I propose to make a list."

Unlike his twin, Melvin had never made a list in his life. He saw no reason to when it was ridiculously easy to remember anything that would be put on a list.

She came back to the sofa.

"Now," she said, "what shall we list?"

He would refrain from complaining about her unnecessary list. "Most importantly, you must query Mr. Christie. Nothing of value in England is brokered without the man's hand in the pie."

She wrote the numeral one and put
Christie
beside it.

"Next, I would proceed to search through every
Times
that has been published in the last four months."

She had started to write number two, but paused. "I've already done that."

"Every single edition?"

Nodding, she added, "Every single paragraph, no matter how insignificant it looked."

"Of course the
Times
isn't the only newspaper."

"But it may be the one most appealing to a discriminating collector of great literary works."

She wasn't stupid as he'd first thought her. "True. We must now endeavor to go back over the other major newspapers published the last four months. Fortunately, our friend Appleton never throws anything away. I believe he subscribes to the
Morning Chronicle
."

"Capital!" She wrote the numeral two and next to it,
newspapers
.

"Now, about your former housekeeper. How can we learn if she's living beyond the means of a retired servant?"

"I can hardly ask her."

"I know that."

"Perhaps—if the perusal of the
Chronicles
isn't productive—I could dispatch you to the city where she lives."

He nodded. "I could make inquiries."

She nodded as she wrote number three and next to it,
Mrs. Higgins
. "And you're so intelligent, I know you'll think of the most clever way to do so. Though I assure you, the woman doesn't have a dishonest bone in her body."

"Hopefully our investigation won't progress to your former housekeeper in Cheddar."

"Do you have any other lines of inquiry?"

"If none of these actions yield a clue about the manuscript's location, I shall have to seek permission to view some of the great private libraries in Britain. With Dr. Mather's help."

"I suppose he's one of the men of letters at Oxford?"

He nodded.

"You'll have him write letters of introduction for you?"

She really wasn't stupid. "Yes." He cleared his throat. He seemed to do that a lot when he was with this woman. "I should like to make a request."

Her brows lifted.

"I beg that you not speak of my. . . my purported intelligence or. . .forgive me if I sound conceited, my brilliance."

"Do you mean when we're visiting the private libraries—if it comes to that?"

He nodded. "Yes, of course, but I shouldn't like for you to say those things to me. Makes me deuced uncomfortable."

She sighed. "I shall endeavor to abide by your wishes—decidedly difficult as it will be." She took up her pen and proceeded to write number 4,
private libraries
. "I assume we can eliminate Lords Spencer's and Oxford's libraries because they already have Chaucer manuscripts?"

"Yes, I think it best to eliminate those."

"Lord Agar?"

"This will give me the opportunity to see his library."

"I must go with you."

His eyes widened. "That would be most improper."

A flash of anger singed her eyes. "I am not a maiden, Mr. Steffington. I can rent a carriage, and the two of us could travel. We might need to use false names."

"And when we reach the libraries? Am I not to extend my letters of introduction?"

That pouty look reappeared on her face. "Could we not say I was your wife?"

If the wealthy—and probably titled—owners of the libraries had ever gazed at Mrs. Bexley before, they would not be likely to forget her. (He realized other men were not as ambivalent as he to a pretty face.) "Is there not a chance that you might have met some of these gentlemen previously?"

She put hands to hips and stared at him. He was learning that she did this with great regularity. "I suggest we cross those bridges when we come to them."

Of course, she was right. He met her gaze and nodded almost imperceptibly.

"There is one more thing I must ask of you," she said.

He effected a mock bow. "I am your servant."

"I shan't want anyone to know what the nature of our relationship is. You cannot mention the Chaucer to anyone." She paused, her voice softening. "Not even to your brother, with whom I know you're exceedingly close."

He could understand how distressing it would be for her if Bexley's siblings learned of the theft. "My brother is not given to gossip."

"I am sure your brother is all that is gentlemanly, but I would rather he not know exactly what we are doing. He could inadvertently let something slip."

"I will not lie."

"I'm not asking you to."

He got to his feet and peered down at her. "Will that be all for now, madam?"

"There is the matter of me weeping on your cravat. Won't you allow me to have my maid iron it for you?"

He raised a flat palm. "It's not necessary. My brother and I share a most capable valet."

She walked him to the front door. Unaccountably, he disliked leaving the library. He could never remember being in a cozier room.

Chapter 3

When Melvin entered the library in their Green Park Road house, Elvin leapt to his feet and threw down the newspaper he'd been perusing (the reading of which was a most unusual occurrence for his brother, to be sure). "Well?"

"Your tilbury has been restored to you intact."

"That's not what I want to know," Elvin said with impatience.

Melvin looked askance at his twin. "Pray, what do wish to know?"

"What the bloody hell did Mrs. Bexley want with you?"

Owing to his promise to the widow, Melvin was not at liberty to tell his brother. Yet, in their seven and twenty years, he had never once lied to Elvin. And he could not do so now. Melvin did not like doing anything dishonorable, and lying to the person he was closest to would cut him to the quick.

He had neither anticipated that Elvin would be curious, nor had he thought of how he would explain the day's meeting at Number 17 Royal Crescent – or the subsequent investigations he would conduct on the widow's behalf.

"Mrs. Bexley is consulting me regarding some research into old documents. I daresay it would bore you to death if I told you anything more."

"Does this mean you'll stay in Bath?"

"For now."

"Then I shall be indebted to Mrs. Bexley."

The beastly thing about taking a position in a library would be the separation from his brother. Despite their vast differences, they were exceedingly close. He offered his twin a smile.

"She's paying you?"

"We haven't actually come to exact terms with that at present." Which wasn't a lie. Even if he was able to earn the fifteen percent fee, neither he nor Mrs. Bexley knew how much the rare manuscript would fetch.

Elvin cleared his throat. "So. . . did you find her attractive?"

Melvin shrugged. "I hadn't thought of it."

"How could you not? She's very pretty. Do you not remember the Season she came out that I was rather taken with her?"

"As good as my memory is, it is incapable of remembering all the females you've been
taken with
this past decade." If a lady was possessed of a single attractive feature, Elvin was certain to be attracted to her.

Just another way in which the brothers differed.

"I cannot believe you don't remember how unhappy I was when Harold Bexley and Maxwell Longford started dancing attendance upon her." Then he spoke as an aside. "That was when Papa was alive, and I had no money of my own with which to compete with those two gentlemen."

And apparently Harold Bexley's fortune was all a sham. Except for the Chaucer. "You believe she was a fortune hunter?" He was disappointed in that.

"What woman isn't?"

"She repelled you?"

"No. It's just that I didn't think I stood a chance of competing with them, and I dropped back and worshipped from afar."

"I daresay not for long. I can remember at least two dozen other ladies you worshipped—many of them definitely
not
from afar." He wondered if his brother was still interested in Mrs. Bexley. "Are you still seeing that actress?"

"Mrs. Harrigan?"

Melvin nodded.

"No. She had the opportunity to go to Drury Lane."

Which probably meant Elvin had been tiring of her.

"If you were interested in Mrs. Bexley—when she was Miss Hamilton, that is—you should not have stepped aside. You're a far better man than either Bexley or that bore Longford."