He well knew Hawke would prefer he take action to help find the villain. But when Oliver had left the Navy and returned to civilian life, he’d vowed never to allow the dark, violent side of himself to see the light of day again. Not after what happened on his last terrible mission. Even the thought of unleashing that side of himself caused his palms to go damp, his heartbeat to speed.
No. The risk was far too great.
Instead, he’d offered to decipher how Jasper Smithby might be using The Book of Secrets to convince his web of thieves and thugs that he had special power—a dark magic—to force them to do his bidding. Unveiling Smithby as a fraud would go a long way toward stripping his power.
The problem was that little information existed on the blasted book. A few odd references to it and its author were all he’d discovered. Such meager results were unacceptable. When he’d stumbled upon another book by the same author, he hoped it would provide clues as to the contents of the other text and a means to stop Smithby.
Though he’d ventured from home last week with some success to meet Hawke, his anxiety during this outing had only increased.
It was illogical, annoying, and ridiculous.
But it remained nonetheless, refusing to be dismissed.
He felt far more comfortable in his home, preferably in his library with his books. They didn’t question him or expect anything of him. Though well aware he’d become a recluse, he hadn’t expected these awful physical symptoms to manifest when he chose to end his isolation.
“Thank you, Tubbs,” he managed as he glanced about to get his bearings.
The footman nodded, knowing better than to allow even the hint of a smile at Oliver’s minor achievement. “Shall I accompany you?”
“No need,” Oliver advised as he eyed the modest bookshop on Charing Cross Road. “You may wait with the carriage. I won’t be long.”
Reminding himself this was a place from which he’d ordered books many times though never visited, Oliver strode toward the door, leaving it to other shoppers to step out of his way. The street was busy this mild June afternoon.
A sign hung above the shop tucked next to a boot-maker declaring it ‘Ames & Clarke, Booksellers, Specialists in Rare and Antiquarian Books.’ Black and gold paint marked the front, suggesting a higher-class establishment. The display shelf in the window provided a few examples of the shop’s wares.
He’d realized during his previous outing that focusing on the details of his surroundings, as long as that didn’t include interacting with his fellow man, helped ease his nerves.
He reached for the door, bracing himself, much like he’d done countless other times prior to a military campaign. Though this outing was a far cry from his role as a commander in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, it took nearly as much grit. It was distressing to realize how much he’d changed in the two years since he’d left the service—and not for the better.
The shrill ring of a bell heralded Oliver’s arrival and had him startling in response. Unexpected noises continued to rattle him. The unwelcome reaction was one more reason he preferred the peace and quiet of his library. He hesitated then stepped into the shop.
A woman near the door, a customer apparently, turned to glance at his entrance with a friendly smile. The man behind the counter looked his way as well and gave him a nod but quickly returned his attention to the lady.
Oliver couldn’t blame him as the woman was quite lovely.
In the dim, austere atmosphere of the bookshop, she glimmered like a rare beam of sunshine with her blonde hair and shining blue eyes. And that smile. There was no forgetting that bright smile, which insisted one return it. He even felt the corner of his own mouth quirk upward as her gaze lingered on him.
He could envision a troubadour from medieval times composing a ballad to honor the beauty of her smile. With a shake of his head, he realized he’d obviously spent far too long studying medieval texts if such fanciful thoughts were coming to mind.
“The art of book collecting dates back to ancient China where it is known as shanben,” the clerk told the woman, stealing her focus. “The Song Dynasty had Chinese collectors who acquired manuscripts copied by famous scholars. The papyri of Egypt are still collected to this day.”
“Ancient, indeed. That’s fascinating,” the woman replied, her head tilted to the side as though engrossed by the information.
“Yes, fascinating,” Oliver muttered. Why the clerk thought this woman would be interested in such stale facts was a mystery. She appeared far better suited for the ballrooms and parties of the ton than musty bookshops.
Her primrose-colored gown fit her slender curves perfectly. Wide blue eyes sparkled from beneath long lashes. Brows two shades darker than her artful chignon balanced her face with its delicate cheekbones. A clever hat matching her dress completed her fashionable ensemble. As he drew a breath, he caught the faint scent of lilacs radiating from her. Damn if he didn’t have a soft spot for them.
Clearing his throat, he shifted his attention to the clerk. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Clarke.”
The man frowned. “I’m Mr. Clarke.”
“Excellent.” Surely he’d be home in his library with the book within the hour. “I’m Viscount Frost, here for the book you found for me.”
Mr. Clarke’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, dear. Vi-Viscount Frost, you said?”
Oliver smiled, well aware it was far from pleasant. “Yes. The book?”
With an apologetic glance at the lady, he turned toward Oliver as though prepared to sacrifice himself. “As I explained earlier to your servant, the book is no longer available. I’m afraid there was a terrible misunderstanding.”
“No.” Oliver said the word firmly, as though it were a complete sentence. “I received your message stating the book was available yesterday. I am here to take ownership of it.”
“Yes, well, you see—”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” Feeling the weight of the lady’s continued regard, he did his best to rein in his temper. “I’ve purchased many books from this establishment without any problem.”
Again the man darted a glance at the lady, but this time, he looked down at the book on the counter before her.
Oliver’s gaze followed, and he read the ornate lettering on the spine. De Animalibus by Albertus Magnus.
The Animals—the very book he wanted.
He reached out, eager to see the ancient text up close, only to pause midair when the lady’s gloved hand drew it closer to her.
“I’m sorry to have taken so much of your valuable time,” she told Mr. Clarke as she picked up the book, sending Oliver a confused look. “I should be on my way.”
~*~
Julia Hopwood could hardly believe her eyes. This tall, broad-shouldered, handsome man who appeared decidedly out of place in the bookshop was attempting to take the book she’d purchased for her father.
Her breath released when he drew back his hand, as though at last realizing she wasn’t handing him the book.
Those riveting green eyes reminded her of the moss on trees in the depth of the forest and held secrets she couldn’t begin to fathom. He hadn’t bothered to return her smile when he’d entered the shop, then interrupted her conversation with Mr. Clarke, and nearly taken the book from her.
Of all the nerve.
His dark slash of brows drew together in a fierce expression. His nose was narrow, almost Roman-like, his cheekbones high, and nearly black hair swept to the side of his forehead. The dark strands were overly long, brushing the collar of his jacket. The muscles in his jaw flexed, then he gave her the barest of nods. “My apologies, my lady.”
His deep voice rumbled through her, sending waves of shivers down her back. He cut short the latter words, giving the term a foreign sound, as though it were an endearment rather than a title. Milady.
Viscount Frost. She searched her memory and realized she’d heard the name before. He was the expert on ancient texts whom her father had suggested might aid Lettie
Fairchild, a friend of hers.
“I truly am sorry, my lord,” Mr. Clarke tried again. “I hadn’t realized Mr. Ames had promised the book to the lady. And there is only one copy.”
Julia tried another smile even as the tension in the shop mounted. She hoped she imagined it. “An unfortunate misunderstanding,” she added.
“You have an interest in medieval texts?” Viscount Frost asked, his expression doubtful.
“It’s for my father. He was so pleased they were able to locate this particular book. Apparently it’s quite rare.” She realized the stupidity of her statement too late. If he’d also ordered the book, he obviously knew it was rare, not to mention the fact that he was supposedly an expert on such texts.
The viscount’s frown deepened. “While your father may want the book, I have need of it. I must insist it be sold to me.”
Julia had to keep herself from handing over the book at his commanding words. She felt almost compelled to give it to him. But she was no young miss to be so easily pushed about. Having traversed the complicated terrain of three Seasons, she knew what was what. She straightened, drawing herself up to her full height, which barely reached his chin. He was so tall. “I appreciate your needs,” she began.
The nonplussed look on his face made her pause. What had she said that caused such perplexity?
With a shake of her head, she continued, “But my father has been eagerly awaiting this text. Perhaps another copy can be obtained for you.” She sent a glance of encouragement at Mr. Clarke, who blinked and began to stutter at her suggestion.
“Oh, dear. I—I fear that’s impossible, my lady.” His alarm was palpable as he glanced between her and the viscount. He gestured toward the book Julia still held tight. “That is the only one in existence that our extensive search unearthed.”
Julia glanced again at Viscount Frost, struck by his stark expression. For the briefest moment, she considered giving up the book. That was one of her many flaws—her desire to make everyone happy. Her need to please others was a bother at times.
But nothing trumped her desire to please her father. She would do anything in her power to make him happy. He’d been feeling poorly again, and the book was the only thing she could think of to raise his spirits. Coming home empty-handed today was not an option.
Much of her life had been spent trying to keep her father engaged in life. He suffered from bouts of despair that took him under for days at a time and often resulted in physical illness. She used whatever means necessary to pull him back. This time, she hoped the book would do so.
Before she could make another stupid comment, she clamped her lips firmly shut and smiled. She’d learned long ago that flattery and a smile were effective methods for gaining what she wanted.
“As I clearly stated, I need that book,” the viscount insisted. “It is of the utmost importance that I obtain it today.”
“From what little I understand, this book was written in the thirteenth century. What possible reason could you have for needing it today?” It wasn’t that she doubted him so much as she was curious.
The viscount’s expression darkened. Obviously, he wasn’t used to being questioned. “It may very well contain clues that would resolve a...situation.”
Julia waited, certain he’d explain further, yet he said nothing more. “A situation?” she asked at his continued silence.
He gave a nod. Only one, brief dip of his head. His moss-green eyes kept their secrets.
That left her no choice. “I fear I must insist on keeping it. I have a situation of my own to resolve.”
With a smile and nod at both men, Julia bid them a good day and exited the shop with her maid directly behind her, hoping she never again had to set eyes on Viscount Frost. Such a rude, insufferable man. Never mind his beautiful eyes or that uncomfortable look in them or the odd connection she felt to him. She shook her head at her fanciful thoughts.
His name—Frost—was an apt fit. A colder, ruder man, she’d never met.
CHAPTER TWO
“Roughly estimating the population of the metropolis as numbering three million, it means that amongst us one person in every hundred and fifty is a forger, a housebreaker, a pickpocket, a shoplifter, a receiver of stolen goods or what not.”
~The Seven Curses of London
Oliver could only grit his teeth as his carriage rumbled toward the Hopwood residence the next afternoon. The beautiful but irritating lady had left him no choice but to approach her father for the book. Oliver had told her the truth—he needed it desperately. Lives might depend upon it. Perhaps even his own. Since he’d set himself on this course of aiding Hawke, his life had taken a decided turn in a good direction. He no longer felt as though he were sliding into oblivion, trapped in his home of his own volition.
Granted, he should’ve told her more details when he’d been negotiating for the book. He closed his eyes for a moment, admitting there had been no negotiating. He’d merely demanded. His social skills were now so rusty that he thought commanding words and the force of his will would convince her to hand over the book.
No. He couldn’t place the blame solely on that. It had been her, or rather her effect on him. That impression of her as a ray of light, as a beautiful damsel from days of old who might bring him into the warmth of her presence, had scrambled his thoughts. Not just his thoughts, but his entire being. He’d forgotten to breathe as he’d stared at her.
Such a lovely lady. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had caught his interest thusly.
All the more reason he should keep his dark presence away from her. But she’d left him no choice. He truly had to have that book.
To have come so close to holding it in his hands only to be thwarted by that woman, no matter how attractive, was inconceivable. It was not to be borne. Even if another attempt to gain it required him leaving his sanctuary, he would do so. The book was his only clue.
He intended to speak with her father, the Earl of Burnham, after managing to obtain his address from the bookshop. If the earl would see him, he’d explain the situation in rational terms. He would even offer to double the price he’d paid as a way to make up for the inconvenience. Surely the earl would agree to sell it.
The carriage drew to a halt before a large residence in Mayfair. Oliver was faced once more with an open carriage door held by Tubbs. And again, he had to draw a deep breath to calm himself so he could alight. Ridiculous that he found it so difficult to do things of which he used never to think twice. The annoyance filling him was useful as it helped thrust him through the door and up the walkway to the steps, regardless of his anxiety.
He handed his card to the footman and was left waiting in the large foyer while the servant went to see if his lordship was at home. Oliver glanced about, focusing on his surroundings to help calm himself.
The elegance of their home denoted plenty of funds, something not all families could boast in this day and age. While not garish by any means, fine touches were numerable, from the gold wall sconces to the marble tile and the crystal chandelier hanging high above him. A wide, curving staircase led to the upper levels. All-in-all, the home was elegant but tasteful. He had to wonder if Lady Julia had anything to do with that or if the countess had put her stamp on the home.
The footman returned. “His lordship will see you in the library.”
“Excellent.” Though he wanted to ask about the daughter, he held his tongue. He had no valid excuse for doing so, other than his own curiosity. Inquiries about her were better left alone.
He followed the servant toward the rear of the home and through a door where he was announced. The library was half the size of his own but still his gaze caught on the tall shelves filled with books. Funny how the sight of them calmed his apprehension. The tightness in his shoulders eased, and his heartbeat stopped pounding like mad.
Now was not the time to explore, he reminded himself. He was on a specific mission and intended the outcome to be successful.
The
frail, elderly man seated in a massive chair behind the mahogany desk was a far cry from the vibrant daughter Oliver had met the previous day. He appeared overly thin, his suit a bit large on him. His face was pale and rather gaunt with large dark circles under his eyes. His balding head and wrinkled skin aged him considerably. But the color of his eyes, a sky blue that was such a rarity in this city, along with his smile confirmed the man was the lady’s father.
“Good day, my lord,” Oliver greeted him.
“Viscount Frost, your reputation precedes you.” He placed his hands on the arms of the chair as though preparing to rise.
“Please,” Oliver said with a wave of his hand. “Do not stand on my account.”
After a moment of indecision, the earl gave up his efforts and relaxed back against his chair. “Forgive me. I’ve been under the weather of late. Old age makes it more difficult to recover.”
Though his body appeared frail, Oliver guessed his mind was as sharp as ever. “I appreciate you seeing me.”
“I rarely have the opportunity to visit with a fellow scholar, though I do not have the expertise or the collection you do. Your visit is most welcome. I’ve enjoyed many of your articles.”
Oliver frowned. He’d submitted a few papers to the Medievalists Society, which had been printed in their monthly publication. He hadn’t realized anyone else actually read it.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen you at any of the meetings though,” the earl said as he gestured for Oliver to sit in the chair before his desk.
“I fear I’ve been too busy to attend,” Oliver lied as he took a seat.
“Of course.” The earl nodded with a smile. “I’m sure your work is quite demanding. You’d be a welcome addition to the membership if you find the time.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” The idea of sitting in a room of other men had him breathing deeply to calm himself. It didn’t matter if they shared the same interests. The thought of attending had his shoulders climbing upward with tension once more.
“To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”
“I understand you recently purchased a book written by Albertus Magnus.”
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