Love In The Library (5 page)

That face he knew so very well smiled upon him. "And you're the kindest and most brilliant of brothers."

"You know I don't like you to say I'm- - -"

"Brilliant."

Melvin's lids—and his voice—lowered. "She said it, too."

"Mrs. Bexley?"

Melvin nodded.

"I am told women are attracted to brilliant men."

"I assure you, my arrangement with Mrs. Bexley is purely business."

Elvin dropped onto the sofa and peered up at his twin, a cocky smile on his face and devilment in his eyes. "Did she call you Aristotle?"

Melvin glared. "I pray she never hears about that."

"Then you must ensure she doesn't cross paths with any of our friends."

"Speaking of friends, is Appleton in Bath?"

"Yes, in fact we're going to a cock fight this afternoon. Care to join us?"

Melvin regarded his brother through narrowed eyes. "You know better than to ask."

"I know you haven't been in an age, but you did enjoy a good cock fight when we were at Eton."

"I was a lad of thirteen!"

"Why did you want to know if Appleton was in town?"

"I wish to consult his copies of the
Morning Chronicle
."

"I believe we've got the past three or four days here."

Melvin was surprised his brother had noticed. It was usually just Melvin who read the
Chronicle
cover to cover every day. As thorough as the
Times
was, it still appealed to Tory tastes. And Melvin was most decidedly a Whig—the party appeased by the
Morning Chronicle
. "I'm a bit more interested in the past three or four months, actually."

"Appleton's the man to see, then." Elvin shook his head morosely. "I pity his poor parlor maids. It's a nearly impossible task to tidy up after him."

"Without throwing out what looks to the rest of us like rubbish."

"Will you go to see him today?"

"Yes. In fact, I thought I'd go now."

"I'll just get Suskins to fetch my hat, and I'll join you."

* * *

Less than three hours after he had left Number 17 Royal Crescent, Melvin returned. By the time he climbed the staircase while carrying a box piled high with newspapers, he had quite lost his breath. Mrs. Bexley was writing at a little French desk when he entered the drawing room.

She looked at him, her brows lowered with concern. "My dear Mr. Steffington, you did not need to carry that heavy box up here!" She put down her pen and stood. "Come, let us go to the library. I perceive you've brought back copies of the- - -" She peeked into the box. "The
Morning Chronicle
."

"I've two more boxes."

"My footman will bring them. I wish to use your brain every available moment and allow Simpson to be the brawn." She looked from his chest to the tip of his head, which made him feel deuced uncomfortable. "Not that you're not possessed of both."

So she thought him brawny? How was he supposed to respond to a remark like that?

He chose to ignore it.

Within a few minutes, Melvin and Mrs. Bexley were seated at a large desk facing one another over a stack of yellowed newspapers. "We should be able to cut the work in half with both of us doing it," she said. "Do you have an efficient method you'd recommend? Surely someone who has the discipline to earn a Doctor of Letters knows much about the best way to manage one's time."

"I have stacked them by month. I thought perhaps we could each take two months. I'll start with July. You take August. When I finish July, I'll take September."

"As I move to October. It's good, I think, that we'll use chronological order."

He nodded. He handed her the stack of August editions. "Have a care. They're rather heavy."

She plopped her stack in front of her. "I do hope the thief is not a Whig."

Why was the exasperating woman babbling about Whigs when they were in search of a thief? Did her comment mean this lady was sympathetic to Whigs? Very surprising. Had her late husband not stood as a Tory in the House of Commons? "Pray, madam, why do you say that?"

She peered up from the August 1
^st
edition she was now perusing. "It's just that in my mind, I had the thief pegged for a Tory because I find I don't like them as well as I like Whigs – though I could not own to such an opinion while my dear Mr. Bexley was alive."

Odd that she and her husband had been so diametrically opposed, but Melvin was happy she felt as she did since he, too, had a long-standing abhorrence of Tories.

Before she got too intent on the task at hand, he needed to broach an awkward subject. He cleared his throat. "I should like to bring up a rather personal question."

She stopped thumbing through the newspaper and regarded him with dancing eyes. "You don't strike me as the type of man who bombards one with personal questions."

"Oh," he said in an apologetic voice, "it's not a personal question that actually pertains to
you
."

"That's comforting."

"It's more about your . . . I suppose it's about your financial situation. I noticed that you have not replaced your housekeeper. Would it be impertinent of me to ask if you plan to?"

"No. My mother served as housekeeper of our large home most ably, and since Mrs. Higgins left, I have taken over her duties. Thanks to my hard-working staff, this has been a most agreeable arrangement."

She was obviously too proud to tell him she could no longer afford a housekeeper. He felt compelled to say something that would compensate for the brutally honest reply she'd given. "Then you have hidden talents. Your home appears to be run by a most efficient person."

She bestowed a wide, dimpled smile upon him, then returned to August 1st.

His attention was once more directed at the box in front of him as he ruffled through the pages to give her the other half of the August editions. "You said you read through every word in the
Times
, but I don't think that's necessary. I wouldn't expect, say, to see an advertisement for a Chaucer manuscript in the middle of an account from Parliament."

She started to giggle. At first he did not understand why, then he realized the humor in his own last comment. Melvin had no sense of humor. No one had ever accused him of being funny. But now, he realized that what he said could be considered humorous, and he, too, began to laugh.

"Are you always right, Mr. Steffington?"

He did not lie. Looking her squarely in the eye, he said, "Usually."

During the next twenty minutes as they went through the papers, the only sound punctuating the silence was the turning of the oversized pages.

"This is really too shabby!" She flung down the paper she had been reading and met his gaze. "Can you credit it? His friends have launched a subscription to help poor, penniless Robert Sandworth!"

Did everyone in the kingdom know Sandworth had foolishly lost his fortune at the gaming tables? This woman obviously did. "It speaks well for a man when his friends think so highly of him."

She put down the paper. "Tell me, Mr. Steffington, do you enjoy play?"

"I play, but I fail to understand the appeal of high stakes gambling."

"How sensible you are!"

"It seems we've found still another thing upon which we are in perfect agreement."

She gave him a quizzing look. "Pray, what was the first thing upon which we so perfectly agreed?"

He cleared his throat. He wasn't used to declaring his opinions to others unless those opinions concerned Greeks who died 2,000 years previously. "Actually, I am not overly fond of Tories myself."

"How delightful." Her attention returned to the newspaper she'd been reading. "Forgive my outburst. I shall try in the future to behave myself."

She spoke of herself as if she were an errant child, and despite that she must be the same age as he, he had been struck that sometimes there was a childish aura about her. The pouting. The foot stomping. The tucking of her feet beneath her as they sat upon a sofa. Exceedingly immature behavior. The propensity to thrust out her elbows while planting hands at her hips and glaring at him. All of these habits were something Lizzy might do.

Yet in spite of all the lady's semi-transgressions, he found Mrs. Bexley enjoyable to be around. Was that because it was the first time in his seven and twenty years he'd been able to speak coherently to a female? Perhaps it was her child-like qualities that made him feel so at ease with her.

Of course, he didn't have an inkling how he was supposed to act around a lady of quality. He supposed he was going to have to seek advice from Elvin. His twin never had any humiliating lapses when talking with women. In fact, Elvin was popular with the ladies. Very popular.

Then again, Melvin might not need assistance from Elvin or anyone. As long as their conversations dealt with the missing manuscript, he was comfortable conversing with this woman.

During the next hour, the sun slowly left the chamber. Each of them was so intent on searching their respective newspapers they hadn't realized there was only barely enough light to read.

Before the library was in complete darkness, Simpson came and lighted the various candles throughout the chamber.

"Forgive me," she said to Melvin, "for having you sit in a dark room. I tend to get entirely too caught up in what I'm reading."

"It's the same with me."

"That makes three things!"

 Had the woman gone mad? Then he knew very well the three things she referred to were their three mutual commonalities. He offered a false laugh. "Right-o."

She sighed, put down her newspaper, and eyed him. "What date are you on?"

"Just the seventh."

"Me too. It's slower going than I'd expected."

"At least it's not tedious, like studying Latin verbs or something dull like that."

She turned up her nose. "That does sound dull." She yawned, covered her mouth, then stretched. "I daresay we need a break. You must dine with me. I shall be ever so happy of the company."

He hated to think of her eating all alone. And, besides, the smells from the kitchen had made him quite hungry. "That sounds very good. I just realized I've not eaten a bite since breakfast."

She stood and stretched some more. "I shall probably continue this work after dinner, but you mustn't feel pressured to do so. I truly don't mean to monopolize all your time."

He straightened. A break was most welcome.

* * *

Catherine Bexley made a discovery at the dinner table that night. Brilliant he might be, but Mr. Steffington was particularly clueless at the art of conversation, especially polite conversation with a person of the opposite sex. When she broached the weather, his responses were of a single syllable. When she asked if he enjoyed shooting, his response consisted of but one syllable. When she asked if he were enjoying residing in Bath, he answered her in a single syllable.

The subjects at which she thought he might speak with proficiency, unfortunately were ones at which she was likely to be inept. But she decided to take a stab. "Pray, Mr. Steffington, you must tell me who your favorite authors are."

He glanced up from slicing his mutton. "Contemporary or classical?"

She had stuck a vein! A Y-shaped vein, at that. "You must tell me both." When he did not respond, she prompted him. "Start with contemporary books."

"I don't like poetry or works of fiction. I like to read about what men think. Philosophy."

Now she hesitated. She wasn't knowledgeable about philosophy. As in Aristotle. But he was discussing contemporary thinkers. Would political theory fall under philosophy? "Do you mean authors like Paine?"

His dark eyes flashed. "I find much to admire in Paine."

"I do as well. Pray, who else do you find who's of a similar mind?"

"Burke is a most logical thinker who also expresses himself most eloquently."

"And what about Voltaire?"

He shrugged. "He and Rousseau led the Enlightenment movement, so their influence has been monumental."

She wrinkled her nose. "But I daresay you don't read their poetry."

He chuckled. "No, I don't. There is one more type of contemporary work I greatly enjoy."

"What is that?"

"England has some demmed fine historians." His hand flew to his mouth. "Forgive my vulgar language. I'm. . . not used to speaking to women."

She peered at him over the rim of her wine glass. "I have heard that particular adjective used with such frequency by my late husband that I had quite forgotten it was not acceptable to be used in mixed company." She set down her glass. "Which historian do you admire most?"

"Gibbon."

"Oh, but Mr. Gibbon writes about the ancients!"

"But he is a contemporary."

"There is that."

"Have you read him?"

How humiliating for her to admit she had never read
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
. "I was just about to begin." She sighed. "I would think that's the kind of work a man like you would like to have written."

"Indeed."

For the rest of the meal they were able to converse in a most amiable fashion. After the sweetmeats were laid, she smiled upon him. "Do you know, Mr. Steffington, I marveled that anyone could tell identical twins apart, and now that I've been talking so much with you I believe I can easily differentiate between you and your brother simply by hearing you talk. There's a vast difference in the way you speak."

"The most difficult thing about being a twin is that everyone assumes you are identical in every way."

"I wonder if that explains why you embarked upon scholarly pursuits? Perhaps that was your way to become your own person."

He shrugged. "I suppose it could have been an unconscious decision to blaze my own path, so to speak, but my interest in the classics was inherent."

"And I take it your brother does not share your interest?"

"We have few interests which are the same. As lads, though, we did everything together."

"I'm sure you must be very close to him."

He nodded. "He is not only my brother. He's also my best friend."