Poetic Justice (23 page)

She started running even before she heard the pane shatter. Her sandals slipped on the paving stones, but she dug in and put her head down and dashed toward the street. Just as she leapt the last couple feet around the corner of the house, she collided with a hard figure. Instinctively her arms went around him. Her face pressed against his cheek, she breathed in the last scent of his shaving soap and thought she might stay here forever in his arms—if she hadn't just committed a felony.

His heart was pounding against her cheek. "Did I frighten you, John?"

"Frighten me? Devil a bit. You idiot!" He grabbed her arms and pulled her into the shadows. "What do you think you're doing? You should bless your luck. Filby said the other guard slipped away to the tavern. I just told him to scarper before he's hauled up for your crime. What are you thinking?"

She couldn't help tugging at his arm as he glared at her. "Now Uncle will listen. John, tell him—tell him," she said urgently. "That he must lock up the library and station guards. Two break-ins—he'll listen now."

"You're incorrigible." He kissed her hard on the mouth then thrust her away. "Go before they catch us both."

CHAPTER TWELVE

I hold the world but as the world;

A stage where every man must play a part,

And mine a sad one.

Merchant of Venice, I, i

The next morning, Jessica was only halfway through her preparations when her maid whispered that Sir John Dryden had come to take her riding and was waiting in the drawing room. Jessica made no haste getting into her new blue riding habit, knowing that John would need time to seek out and convince her uncle that the library must be closed. Parham, despite his disdain, always expressed a grudging respect for John's acumen.

Even this morning at breakfast, he spoke of asking the Regent's consultant to recommend an artisan to restore the Parham Manor chapel's statuary. But almost immediately he had shot a glance at Jessica and told her perhaps she ought to invite young Damien to dinner again. John was right. Those rejected suitors were already looking more acceptable in contrast.

Leaving John alone with her uncle no longer seemed such a good idea. "Just braid it," Jessica said impatiently as Mimi started an elaborate coiffure. "I must get downstairs."

Downstairs, though, she hesitated on the last step. The door to the drawing room was half-open, and Mr. Wiley bent towards it, eavesdropping. Jessica held her breath to avoid alerting him to her presence, and in that silence she heard John's voice, carrying clearly into the hall.

"A broken window? Where was the guard?"

"Dead drunk. No one got in, I'm certain. Mr. Wiley heard the crash and spread the alarm. But I'm thinking you might be right, that a guard isn't enough. Even bars on the windows—"

"I'd suggest you close it up. Two incidents in less than a week. I think that's evidence of some conspiracy."

Jessica suppressed a chuckle at John's manipulation of the truth. There was a conspiracy, all right, but not the sort he meant Parham to believe. And it was a masterstroke. She could almost envision her uncle frowning, fretting over this supposed conspiracy.

"A conspiracy? But what would they want from a library?"

"You have thousands of pounds worth of rare books in that library, books that some colleagues of mine would sell their souls to attain. And as trustee, you're in a difficult position, Lord Parham. You can't get in and move the more valuable works to the Bank of England's vault, as I would suggest in other circumstances. You can only protect them as best you can in the few weeks remaining, so that no theft mars your tenure."

That was another clever tactic. Uncle Emory might not be the most conscientious of trustees, but he had a care for his reputation. "No, I shouldn't want anyone to think that I didn't do my duty by my brother. But what about Wiley?"

Mr. Wiley bent closer now, his hand on the doorknob.

"Wiley?" With a certain cruel carelessness, John said, "You won't need him if the library's locked up. Send him on a holiday."

Mr. Wiley made a single, contorted sound of rage at this, but his rigid form never moved.

"I can see to hiring guards—real guards, not lobcocks like that one who never noticed the intruder—and securing the library."

Parham said, "Yes, yes, perhaps that's a good idea, more guards at least. But just a moment, Dryden. What's in this for you?" His voice hardened. "Still have your eyes on the prize, don't you? Even after you promised to leave my niece well alone, here you are, taking her riding."

Jessica's heart sank. Her uncle just couldn't give off insulting John, even when accepting help from him. She couldn't blame John if he just walked out, abandoning the Parham Collection to its fate. But of course he wouldn't do that. That would mean giving up on that lost play, which had him in the grip of obsession. Just as well, Jessica told herself. She needed him for a little while longer, and she didn't care what kept him near.

And, as she predicted, he didn't walk out. He even sounded a bit bored with this constant suspicion. "I promised nothing. Miss Seton is of age. She may ride with me if she pleases. I assure you," John added, his voice all silken irony—did he know she was listening?—"your niece will not be corrupted by me. And my interest in the library is the same any booklover would have. I would hate to see the collection decimated by neglect or irresponsibility. That is more concern, I might add, than its librarian has shown."

Mr. Wiley's iron control finally snapped. He flung the door open and stalked into the room, just as Parham was saying, "Oh, I will think about closing the library. For the time being, we'll go with guards around the clock. Dryden, you may see to the staffing, if you will."

Jessica slipped in just in time to see Wiley, his hand trembling, point at John. "Lord Parham, you are setting such a one above me? One who casts aspersions on me when he himself is scarce above reproach?"

John paled, but deliberately turned back to Parham. "I will take care of it. I should check the number of doors and windows, and the security of that vault. Miss Seton, I will have to forgo our ride. But we will still be set for Vauxhall tomorrow."

And with a formal bow, he left them, Wiley still breathless with rage, Parham with his brow knitted in a frown, Jessica with her hand out to stop him.

As soon as she could get away, she tracked him down in the storage room of the library. He was shining a light into the vault through the little slit, but looked up with a smile as she came up behind him. "Come here, Jessica. Tell me if all is still in its place."

There was a bit of constraint in his manner, but his smile was warm, and so she smiled back a bit uncertainly. She couldn't go on apologizing for her uncle and Mr. Wiley's snobbery. John must know after last night that she didn't share it. So she only edged a little closer to him in front of the door, trusting him to take advantage of it. And he did, putting his arm around her waist under the guise of positioning her to peer through the opening.

She leaned against him and obediently set her eye against the door. The bumpy shapes, darker than the inner darkness, were in their expected positions. She pulled back, blinking to restore her vision to normal. "Everything looks the same."

He put down the lamp and held out his hand to her, open, as if now that they were alone they could be as they were last night, friends—and something more. "I'm glad you have seen this view enough to know. It's rather like looking at stars, isn't it? You have to know what you are looking for in order to see it."

Jessica took his hand and studied it, touching the calluses on the palm, the slash—-of a dagger?—across his lifeline to the tattoo on his wrist, turning it over to see the scarred knuckles, the clean but broken nails. It was the hand of a sailor, a working man, at odds with his gentlemanly dress.

He must have been thinking the same thing, for he closed his hand tight into a fist and pulled it away. "I suppose," he said, "we must be careful not to see only what we want to see when we look into the darkness."

The next evening, before dinner, Jessica found her uncle in his study working on the estate books. She had made sure not to be alone with him for days now, worried that her anger might explode again and they might face a final break. She couldn't chance that now; she hadn't much in the way of loved ones, and couldn't afford to let another go.

So she reminded herself to avoid anger, accusations, apologies. This hadn't to do with her or with John or with Uncle really at all. But she owed it to—oh, to Shakespeare, she supposed, to do this, even if John had thought it would tip their hand to Mr. Wiley.

That John would not approve gave her a bit of disquiet. He was more experienced at this sort of thing than she was. But it was her discovery, and her collection, and her responsibility, and she knew what she had to do.

When she had her uncle's attention, she smoothed out the sheet from the wastebasket and set it on the desk before him. "This fell out of a book Mr. Wiley was carrying."

It was a small lie, the first of several she would have to tell. Another fortnight of this, Jessica thought, and she would be as blind as Mr. Wiley to the truth.

Her uncle looked down at the scrawled page without recognition. "Well, don't you think you ought to return it to him?"

"I was meaning to. But it's so curious. And it worried me. So I thought I'd show it to you, and ask what you think it means."

"Hmmph. I'm surprised you didn't take it to Dryden, did you want advice, since you seem to have a care for no one else."

"That's not true, Uncle! I only—" No apologies. She pushed it across the desk at him. "Look. It's Shakespeare's signature. Not the real signature," she added, guessing what his open-mouthed expression meant. "But a copy. A very good copy. It's so curious, don't you think? That Mr. Wiley would be copying out Shakespeare's signature?"

Uncle Emory made no move to touch the paper, instead staring hard at her. "What are you suggesting?"

Another lie. "Nothing, precisely. But—well, I worry that some might think that he—Mr. Wiley—might be following in William Ireland's path." And another lie.

"Ireland?"

"He was an antiquarian—or perhaps only the son of one, I forget. But he forged some papers and said that Shakespeare had written them, and he sold them to collectors. It was only a few decades ago, and sometimes his work still turns up."

She had staggered him, that much was clear. "You are accusing Mr. Wiley of forgery?"

"Not precisely." That much at least was true. "I don't know. But I'd hate to think anyone else would find something like this, and trace it back here to the library, and think that Parham House was some sort of forgery factory."

It wasn't fair, and she knew it as soon as she saw the horror dawn on her uncle's face. He cared very much about his reputation, and even more about his family name. He grabbed up the page and held it close to his face, feeling for his spectacles with his other hand. Close study produced a grunt of agreement. "I see what you mean. Shakespeare. Can't have that."

"What do you mean to do?"

He lay down the page and stared down at it, and Jessica felt a stirring of guilt. Uncle Emory looked older suddenly, oppressed by duty. He said slowly, "This isn't any real evidence against him. It's not as if he's been caught with his hand in the ink."

"No. But if he is doing something wrong—"

He took off his spectacles and passed his hand over his eyes. "I think I shall just close the library, as Dryden suggested. Lock it up tight till July 23. No one in or out, not Wiley, not you, not even me."

"And then?"

"And then—well, it won't be my concern any longer."

Jessica had finally learned that pressing him only made him recalcitrant. So she didn't suggest that he fire Wiley outright. She looked down at her clasped hands and said, "Whatever you think is best, Uncle."

He snorted at this. "Very meek, niece. Now what have you planned for this evening? I hear Damien Blake is back in town. Is he coming to dine?"

Jessica felt in her pocket for Damien's letter, which had just arrived along with a sonnet she hadn't had time to read. "No, Aunt and I are going to Vauxhall. With John." She couldn't quite erase the defiance from that last phrase, so she added hastily, "If you'd like me to invite Damien to dinner tomorrow evening, I will, of course."

"If I would like? What have my preferences to do with Damien?"

It was a rhetorical question, and even if it wasn't, she didn't know how to answer it. So she said nothing.

"Invite him then. He's not a bad boy, after all, is he? I suppose even Trevor would have sowed a few wild oats, had he the time."

Jessica rose to go, taking a quick glance up at the miniature of her cousin. She didn't tell her uncle that, from what she knew, Trevor had had time and more to sow oats. It was enough that Parham was softening his opposition to Damien, just as John said he would. It was enough—well, it had to be enough.

She stopped with her hand on the door. "You won't tell Mr. Wiley, will you? That I found that paper?"

"No, no. Best not say anything to him about it. We'll just close the library for the next few weeks because of these break-ins. No need to say more. I'll ask him to dine tomorrow with us, when young Damien comes. That will pacify him."

Jessica, remembering the hatred on Mr. Wiley's face as he looked at John, wasn't so certain that a dinner would mollify him. But she left it to her uncle to break the news and went to dress for the evening.

Her suspicion about Mr. Wiley's intransigence was borne out when John arrived to escort her and her aunt to Vauxhall. Uncle Emory entered the drawing room, the librarian stalking in behind him. She could tell at a glance that the interview was not going well. Even her uncle, who was not sensitive to mood, gave her a frantic glance as Mr. Wiley planted himself in the middle of the room.

Aunt Martha noticed the change in the room temperature also, and rose, holding her bouquet. "Come, Jessica, let us find a vase for these pretty flowers Sir John brought."