Poetic Justice (14 page)

The anxiety that had plagued her since his cold dismissal of her class vanished.
Our case,
he said. Jessica still had her ally, one she could trust to be ruthless enough to match Alfred Wiley.

***

As Jessica entered the dining room for supper, she heard thunder roll in from the east and a sudden spatter of rain on the windows. She should have known better than to doubt Sir John's prediction.

She took her seat as the windows rattled from the force of a thunderclap. In the next moment, the room glowed eerily from a lightning flash, then dimmed again. Jessica thought of lightning fires and library destruction, and resolved, as soon as she inherited, to modernize the house's defenses.

Grace was interrupted by another thunderbolt. Aunt Martha shuddered. "And after such a lovely day. You saw no sign of rain, did you, Jessica, when you went on a drive with that Sir John?"

"No, Aunt. But he said there was a storm coming. He's a sailor, you know."

Aunt Martha leaned back to let the footman ladle soup into her bowl. "What an unusual man that Sir John is. Where did you meet him, dear?"

In Aunt Martha's parlance, unusual could mean unacceptable or simply uncommon. Jessica decided that to be safe, she'd best bring in the heavy defensive weaponry. "At a ball at Devlyn Keep. The princess herself introduced us."

"The Princess Tatiana?" Aunt Martha brightened. "Such a charming lady. And Sir John was at her ball?"

"Yes. He's a boyhood friend of Lord Devlyn, I believe."

Her aunt Martha accepted this identification without demur, but Uncle Emory hurrumphed, then went back to his soup. Jessica wondered if he had heard about that other connection between Lord Devlyn and Sir John, but knew better than to ask. Still, she had an inexplicable desire to discuss this enigma of a man, and so she turned back to her aunt, who loved harmless gossip. "He is very discerning, don't you think? He knew right away that portrait of Trevor was from Lawrence's studio."

"Quite the gentleman. It's hard to believe he's in trade. Of course," Aunt Martha said, ruminatively breaking her bread into small pieces, "I suppose a royal art consultant isn't quite in the same sort of trade as a haberdasher. He cuts a rather striking figure, I think."

"Looks like a foreigner to me." After making this pronouncement, Uncle Emory sank back into silence, gesturing to the footman to fill his wineglass.

Jessica knew a moment's unease. If Sir John was to aid in her quest, he needed to win the confidence of her uncle. But it sounded as if he had lost it already—and she had a good idea who might be to blame.

Aunt Martha, oblivious as usual to the tension at the table, confided, "Your uncle is hoping that Sir John will persuade the Regent to visit Parham House. Sir John sent a note by this afternoon, offering to survey the collection to find items that might lure him here."

Sir John had apparently wasted no time. But, to judge by her uncle's expression, neither had Mr. Wiley. Deliberately she introduced that name into the conversation. "Did you tell Mr. Wiley that Sir John might be coming again? It might prove a bit embarrassing, if Mr. Wiley would turn away the Regent's consultant, or discourage him from looking around."

Her uncle's head snapped up at the mention of the librarian. "I told him to give Dryden reasonable access to the collection. And Mr. Wiley told me a thing or two about this consultant."

"Oh?" As if unconcerned, Jessica buttered her bread with long, smooth strokes of the knife. "I didn't know Mr. Wiley got out enough to learn anything of those around Carlton House."

The mention of the royal residence mollified him a bit. "Well, he's encountered him in this antiquary society. Doesn't fault his ability, mind you, for Dryden's very well thought of there at the society. But—"

The arrival of the footman with the next course cut off his comment. But Jessica knew what was coming. Her uncle waited only for the footman to walk out with their empty soup bowls before picking up his fork and pointing it at her. "His antecedents are cloudy, my dear. Mr. Wiley suggested he is a mere tradesman's son, dressed up as a gentleman."

Dressed up as a gentleman. That annoyed Jessica enough to impel her to intemperance. "Sir John behaves as a gentleman, too, Uncle. And his antecedents aren't the least cloudy. He told me straight off that his father is an apothecary in Dorset. I can't see what that has to do with his consulting on the collection."

"It has nothing to do with his consulting, but it has everything to do with your going out driving with him."

Jessica's heart sank. It hadn't taken Mr. Wiley very long at all to start his poisoning. At least this time he had done it openly. "It was an open carriage, and in the middle of the afternoon. Even so wicked a creature as an apothecary's son can't get up to much under those conditions."

Her irony made no impression on her uncle, who only regarded her dourly. "He is utterly ineligible."

Aunt Martha, who had been so complimentary of Sir John only a few minutes earlier, chimed in. "Yes, dear, he's not of our sort. Even if he does associate with the Regent, and has a title, truly, you can't be seen with a tradesman's son."

"And," Uncle Emory declared, "don't you think of presenting him to me as a suitor."

"A suitor!" Jessica felt the heat rise in her face. "That's absurd. I haven't any intent of—of snaring him." Her voice shook as she continued, "I know you can't understand this. But more than anything I want to ensure that my family's collection is secured. And I've told you before, I don't trust Alfred Wiley, and I don't think he's doing an adequate job. Sir John is an objective observer, with great experience in the field. While he's doing the Regent's work, I hope he might—" For a moment she couldn't think of a plausible reason for them to associate, but she took a deep breath and found that the words came to her eventually. "That he might—unofficially, of course—make some recommendations on what volumes most need to be restored, and which might be best preserved under glass. The sort of duty," she added bitterly, "that Mr. Wiley hasn't seen fit to perform for years now."

Uncle Emory glowered but only remarked, "I don't know why Sir John should go to the effort to do so, unless he has some ulterior motive."

"His motive might just be the desire to keep the collection from deteriorating further! Perhaps he just cares about preserving the nation's heritage!"

Her ringing endorsement had an unintended effect. Uncle Emory couldn't accept an altruistic apothecary's son, but self-interest he could understand. "No. He's a tradesman. More than likely he knows what's what, and knows once your father's bequest is executed, there will be items selected for sale. He thinks that, if he is in on it from the first, he will be chosen as the dealer."

Aunt Martha said helpfully, "Well, I don't know what's wrong with that, Emory. After all, he certainly knows his business. And only think if the Regent would ask to be shown some of the library. We could have a reception, with music, perhaps, or a Venetian breakfast?"

He nodded slowly. "Perhaps. Well, I know one thing. He's no fool. He'll want to stay on my good side as long as I let him into the library. So you can just cross him off your list of potential suitors, my girl. He won't be likely to jeopardize his future by courting you."

Jessica felt the panic rising in her—fear that this new association would be barred to her, anger that her own wishes counted for nothing, dread that Sir John would face insult because of her. "Uncle, please! Don't please say anything of the sort to him! I'm sure he hasn't the slightest intention of that, and it could only embarrass all of us if you do."

Uncle Emory considered this grudgingly. "That's so. I should be charitable, I suppose. His birth is no fault of his own, after all, and he's making himself useful, and hasn't once mentioned sending us a bill. And, as I said, he's no fool. I'm sure he learned long ago to keep his distance, or he wouldn't be tolerated as he is. But you, miss, you just keep your distance too, and don't be thinking you might make him lose his head and pay you court. I assure you, I will never, never approve such an unequal marriage."

Jessica had won her goal: Sir John would be allowed access to the library. But she knew a gnawing dissatisfaction. She pushed away her roast beef, unable to eat it for the sour taste in her mouth. "I don't know why you think that will intimidate me, sir. After all, you haven't approved any of the equal marriages that have been proposed for me."

"Don't you be impertinent, young lady! I am your guardian, and—"

"And I am of age," Jessica cried, to remind herself if not him, "and if I want to learn to stand up on a horse and join Astley's Circus, I can! You can do nothing but deny me my collection, and you're intent on doing that anyway!"

Uncle Emory rose slowly, and his voice trembled with fury. "Go to your room, Jessica. I won't have such insubordination at my own dinner table."

Jessica was glad to escape, knowing that she had suffered too much provocation and gone too far in retaliation. But she didn't go directly to her room. She stole through the front hall into the west wing, and found her way by lightning flash to the door of the library.

It was locked, as she knew it would be. She leaned her forehead against the cool wood, drawing deep breaths, calming herself with the thought of the wisdom of the ages that lay just beyond this door. She had to take the long view of her situation.

As bleak as her prospects seemed at the moment, she had made some progress. If nothing else, she had enlisted Sir John in her quest to secure, if not inherit, the collection. And she had gotten her uncle to consider that Alfred Wiley might not be the world's greatest authority on rare books. If she could just keep chipping away, perhaps Uncle Emory would relent and let her marry. And even if he didn't—

She raised her head from the door, listening to the relentless rain and the erratic rumble of thunder. There was a message there, she thought, if she could only translate it. Perhaps it was that July 23 would not be the day of her death. She would live on, even if she didn't inherit. And the library would live on too. She might even have some influence on its fate, if Uncle Emory allowed it, if Wiley didn't ruin it first.

She tried the door again. It was locked tight. But that was no real obstacle. There were many ways to open locked doors, and she'd bet her life that Sir John knew every one.

***

The next morning Sir John sent his card up with the message, "Meet me in the library." Jessica pocketed the card, made some excuse to her aunt, grabbed her reticule from the couch, and escaped downstairs to the west wing. She found him with Mr. Wiley in the main collection room. The heavy air was more electric than usual, and she suspected she had interrupted a verbal fencing match. We will have to get rid of him, she thought, giving Mr. Wiley a bright and completely false smile.

But Mr. Wiley showed no inclination to be gone, sticking to them like a burr in the guise of showing Sir John more treasures. Jessica trailed along after them, scanning the shelves, looking for something, anything, that might prove helpful. But all she saw were books in need of reshelving, manuscripts in need of repair. She cast a longing look over her shoulder towards Mr. Wiley's cluttered office. If she could sneak in there, she could steal that monograph he was writing.

But he would surely find it missing, and blame her, and suspect their scheme. Then the advantage of surprise would be lost. Jessica resigned herself to the directionless search Sir John apparently planned. It was so unlike him, she thought, not to have a plan in mind.

Just then, when Mr. Wiley stooped to pull a book from a lower shelf, Sir John caught her eye and winked. She smiled back, immeasurably relieved. He had a scheme, after all, but hadn't had time to share it with her.

With the adroitness of a Machiavelli, he procured them the time and the privacy they needed. He collected several books, spread them out on the table in the workspace, and pulled a magnifying glass from his pocket. Then he glanced around. "Where is that volume of Hakluyt's memoirs? I have a client who claims Raleigh as an ancestor. He might be willing to trade some Bacon for that."

That was enough to send Wiley out into the reading room, where the Hakluyt was locked in a display case. Once the librarian was out of earshot, Sir John took her by the arm and drew her over into the shadows of the shelves. For a moment, as she felt his callused fingers on her bare arm, she imagined what her uncle had imagined might be true, that Sir John meant to court her. But in the dimness his face was alight with something other than affection.

"We haven't much time to search. Tell me, does Wiley ever leave the library in the day?"

"Not for long enough." She separated a stack of books on the nearest shelf and peered through at the corridor, worried that the librarian would find them conspiring. "And he's taken to locking the door sometimes even when he's here. But you haven't told me yet what it is you think we should be searching for."

"An index of the contents of the St. Germaine trunk."

"But if there were one, wouldn't my father have known what the contents were then?"

"Not if the index is hidden."

Jessica frowned. He kept coming back to that trunk. Whatever he thought was in it, he must want it very badly. She determined to find out before they went much further. "You have utterly no evidence that an index exists. None. And there's plenty of evidence it doesn't."

The light in his eyes faded, and she was sorry she had been so brusque. Then he set his jaw stubbornly. "I know the way collectors operate. They wouldn't just stuff a trunk full of treasure and make no index. Your grandfather must have told your mother what to save, and if it's as extensive a selection as I think, one of them must have made a list, or items would have been forgotten in the heat of the moment."

"That's only a hunch. And a tenuous one, considering you knew neither my mother or my grandfather."

"I tell you, I know collectors."

"Why are you so obsessed with this index? It won't help us defeat Mr. Wiley. We need evidence against him, not against my mother and my grandfather!"