Love Is a Rogue

by Lenora Bell

  “I’d like to have a look at your Mr. Wright,” said Isobel. “Why don’t you invite him in? Aren’t you curious about why he’s here?”

  “He’s not mine,” Beatrice replied indignantly. “And no doubt he’s here to see my brother. He kept asking when he’d return. He has some matter regarding the duke’s land agent to discuss with him.”

  “Then you have to invite him in,” said Viola. “It could be important.”

  “He wouldn’t tell me what it was in Cornwall. I don’t know why he would tell me now.”

  “But I want to see the good-looking rogue who gave our sensible Beatrice such longings,” said Viola. “You just said that you were impervious to rogues so what can be the harm in a brief conversation?”

  Quite right. She had nothing to fear from seeing Wright again. This was her chance to prove to herself how unaffected she was by him. She had her friends by her side. Their presence would stop her from succumbing to any ninny-ish impulses.

  With that comforting thought, she shook the bread crumbs from her skirts. “Send him in, Hobbs.”

  “Mr. Stamford Wright,” the butler announced. “Of the Royal Navy.”

  Ford had never been announced before, not that he’d ever wanted to be, though it did add a certain amount of swagger to his stride.

  He’d told the servant that he wanted an audience with the dowager. When he’d learned she wasn’t at home, and that only Lady Beatrice was here to receive him, his heart had done a suspicious little jig in his chest.

  He hadn’t come all this way not to have his questions answered by someone.

  He entered a large, airy room done up in clashing shades of pink and burgundy.

  She wasn’t alone.

  She sat on a sofa flanked by two other young ladies, one with pronounced, angular features and the other all dimples and sweet smiles.

  Lady Beatrice eyed him with a fleeting flare of some strong emotion, and then, as if a screen had been drawn over her eyes, an impassive expression of studied disinterest.

  Her hair still glowed like a new copper piece in the noonday sun streaming through the windows, but the rest of her looked . . . different.

  In Cornwall she’d been dressed simply. Something blue and soft that he’d approved of, even though the bodice could have been cut lower. Today she was trussed into enough ivory frills and lace that he had difficulty discerning the natural shape of her.

  The diamond drops at her ears were obviously real, and probably cost more than he’d see in a lifetime.

  He cleared his throat. “Lady Beatrice.”

  “Wright,” she replied, with a frosty little nod.

  Damn, he should have made a bow. No matter. He wasn’t a bower. No need to start now, just because she wore diamonds.

  “What have you done to your hair?” There were two plump curls hanging down on either side of her face, and the rest of it was piled up and towering so high above her head that it must set her off-balance when she walked, like a ship listing under a heavy cargo.

  She touched one of the spiral curls against her cheek. “This, I’ll have you know, is the very latest fashion.”

  “It doesn’t suit you.”

  Sweet Smiles smothered a giggle with the palm of her hand.

  “Why thank you so much,” replied Lady Beatrice. “What a pretty compliment.”

  He’d already offended her. Nothing to be done about that. He’d already made it clear that he never followed the rules of propriety. But he was here to ask her about her brother and therefore he shouldn’t be insulting her. “What I meant to say was that such a towering coil of hair doesn’t look like you. The lady I knew in Cornwall—the one with ink-stained fingers.”

  The one he’d imagined kissing so thoroughly that she forgot every word she’d ever entered in that dictionary of hers.

  “That lady isn’t allowed to live in London,” she said.

  What did she mean by that? “I’m sure the young bucks of London love the style of your hair. They’ll be showering you with proposals.”

  “Don’t assume I wish to receive proposals.”

  Ford cocked his head. She couldn’t be much more than twenty. “Isn’t that the usual goal for young ladies?”

  “You presume to know the goals of young ladies?”

  “Er . . .” He scratched his head. “One generally assumes that all of the dancing and opera-going and folderol that happens in London this time of year is for the sole purpose of matrimonial arrangements.”

  “I thank you not to assume that all young ladies wish to be married.”

  “If you say so, it must be true. Young ladies can have other goals.”

  “Oh we can, can we? How good of you to give us permission.” She pushed her spectacles higher on the bridge of her nose. “I see you’ve finally learned how to tie a neck cloth and put on a coat.”

  “I’ll take off this noose of a cravat if you tumble that uncomfortable-looking tower of hair. It must be giving you a headache.”

  “Humph,” replied Lady Beatrice. “You’re giving me a headache.”

  At this, Sweet Smiles giggled, and the one with the angular cheekbones wagged a finger at him. “Living up to your reputation already, Mr. Wright.”

  What reputation? Had Lady Beatrice been telling her friends about him?

  Not that he cared. Ask his question and leave. “Have you had word from your brother, Lady Beatrice? I’ve been making inquiries and no one knows his whereabouts.”

  “I’ve still heard nothing, I’m afraid,” she said frostily.

  Damnation. “I won’t trouble you any longer then.”

  “Oh don’t leave yet, Mr. Wright,” said Sweet Smiles. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Beatrice?”

  “This is Miss Viola Beaton,” Lady Beatrice said, gesturing at her friend with the dimples, “and Miss Isobel Mayberry. They are fellow members of the Mayfair Ladies Knitting League, a charitable organization.”

  “You’re eyeing the sandwiches rather hungrily, Mr. Wright,” said Miss Beaton. “Wouldn’t you like one?”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” said Lady Beatrice, glancing pointedly at the door.

  She obviously wanted to be rid of him. Ford didn’t like being dismissed by the high-and-mighty princess. He’d leave when he was ready to leave. The sandwiches did look tempting . . . and so did the lady.

  His fantasies made flesh. Though in his fantasies her hair was loose and cascading over her shoulders, and she wasn’t wearing much more than a pair of stockings, some silk garters, and, perversely, those glinting spectacles.

  He hadn’t eaten since breakfast. May as well get something out of this visit.

  “Don’t mind if I do, Miss Beaton.” He settled warily onto a spindly chair covered in rose-patterned silk and accepted a delicate china plate piled with sandwiches from a footman who magically materialized to serve him.

  “What are your plans this afternoon, Mr. Wright?” asked Miss Beaton.

  “I’m going to the docks to help my friend with some repairs on his boat.”

  “Do you have an hour to spare?”

  Lady Beatrice glared at her friend. “He’s very busy.”

  “Do you have experience inspecting buildings to determine their worth, Mr. Wright?” asked Miss Mayberry.

  “No,” said Lady Beatrice.

  “No, what?” asked Ford.

  “Just no,” repeated Lady Beatrice firmly.

  The sandwiches were too dainty and delicate, just like the ladies. He was outnumbered. He felt like a lumbering bear paraded before an audience at a menagerie. “I should be going. If you’ll excuse me, ladies I—”

  “We wish to hire you,” said Miss Mayberry.

  “We do?” asked Lady Beatrice.

  “We do,” said Miss Mayberry with a firm nod. She turned to Lady Beatrice. “Well, he’s here, isn’t he? And he’s someone your brother trusts. We can be sure that his assessment of the property will be honest. You may as well make use of him.”

  “Er, make u
se of me for what purpose?” Ford was completely lost.

  “To inspect the condition of a property Lady Beatrice inherited. We’ll leave immediately. There’s no time to be wasted.” Miss Mayberry handed his plate of dainty, half-eaten sandwiches to a footman.

  “I meant only to return this and be on my way.” He pulled the novel from his pocket and handed it to Lady Beatrice.

  “Oh. I didn’t mean to give you that one. I just grabbed the first book my hand found.”

  “That Sophronia could use a few lessons from you in how to send a man packing. She was far too meek, if you ask me.”

  “You read it?”

  “Don’t look so astonished. I can read.”

  “We don’t want to send you packing,” said Miss Beaton. “It’s all settled. We’ll proceed to the property immediately. It will be a quick carriage ride to the Strand.” The ladies rose.

  Ford hastily stood. He’d follow that much etiquette, at least. “I really do have to—”

  “Come along, Mr. Wright,” said Miss Mayberry, moving to stand next to him. “We require an expert opinion.”

  Miss Beaton dragged Lady Beatrice, who appeared to still be adamantly against the idea of his joining the party, out of the room.

  Miss Mayberry laid a hand on his arm and lowered her voice. “We’ve heard so much about you. But I’m watching you.” She fixed him with a stern look. “I won’t have you toying with Beatrice’s affections.”

  “Pardon me?” What, exactly, had Lady Beatrice told her friends about him?

  Miss Mayberry herded him toward the door. “I know your kind, Wright. You’re a rogue. But you’re also a builder, and we happen to be in need of one of those. Come along.”

  Ford watched as Lady Beatrice’s maid stuffed her hair into the most enormous brimmed bonnet he’d ever seen. It covered her face almost completely.

  She gave him a sidelong glance, those hazel eyes beckoning him like a warm fire on a cold winter’s day.

  More like the glow of a lighthouse, warning him away from dangerous reefs.

  Ford had no choice but to follow. What else could he do?

  He’d been outmaneuvered.

  Press-ganged by a league of lady knitters.

  Chapter Five

  It was a gray, drizzly day, and Beatrice shivered despite the warm woolen spencer she wore.

  The bookshop stood on the Strand, its entrance decorated with a leaded glass window in a webbed design and flanked on both sides by multipaned windows. The buildings bracketing the shop looked vacant, their facades darkened by soot and their windows coated with grime. A narrow lane to the right of the shop had cobblestone terraces leading downward, presumably to the Thames.

  Rain dripped from a wooden sign hung from an iron framework. The words Castle’s Bookshop, Dealer in Secondhand Books and Antiquated Manuscripts, By Appointment Only were painted in courtly gold script over a picture of a fairy-tale castle with a blue pennant flying from its ramparts and a dark forest surrounding its walls.

  There was a sign that read Closed for Business in the window.

  “How quaint,” said Viola, her dimples appearing as she examined the wooden sign.

  “When I made an appointment to visit several years ago, I remember it had only one small showroom piled with books.” Beatrice peered in the glass; she couldn’t see anything inside.

  Wright rapped on the building with his knuckles. He wore no gloves. “Stone facade,” he said. He craned his neck backward. “Slate roof. It’s a good thing it’s not a wooden facade like the shops on Holywell Street. Stone weathers better, and is much more attractive and solid.”

  He could be describing himself, thought Beatrice. He was certainly attractive, and very solidly built. He looked different in London, even more imposing, as if one of the Cornish cliffs had suddenly risen on the cobblestone streets of London.

  Rugged and out of place.

  He had an expression on his face that said he was humoring them and would bolt at the earliest opportunity.

  She hadn’t expected to ever see him again. Her gaze wanted to rest on the inviting contours of his face, the strong jawline and interesting shadows of his whiskers. He hadn’t shaved today. He probably didn’t even have a valet.

  Of course he didn’t have a valet. Carpenters didn’t have valets. And why was she thinking about such things?

  “Was that a movement in the upstairs window?” Isobel asked, pointing upward.

  Beatrice glanced up. “The solicitor’s letter said that two family servants had been given annuities by my aunt with the stipulation that they would continue keeping up the premises for one year past her demise, or until the shop is sold, whichever comes first.”

  Wright rang the bell. When no one answered, he tried the brass door handle. “It’s locked. Did the solicitor send a key?”

  “No. How disappointing. I so wanted to go in and see the books.”

  “And ascertain the condition of the building,” Isobel reminded her.

  “You own this building?” Wright asked.

  “I do,” Beatrice replied.

  “Then wait two seconds.” He reached inside his coat and pulled a palm-size elongated oval of wood out of an inner pocket. He flipped the wooden casing open to reveal several protruding metal implements, before selecting the one he wanted. He bent down in front of the door and inserted a thin piece of metal into the keyhole.

  “He’s very resourceful,” whispered Viola in Beatrice’s ear.

  “Or possibly criminal,” whispered Isobel.

  Wright paid no attention, intent on his task. He moved the tool around inside the keyhole, gently turning and prodding until they heard a click. “There.” He rose and turned toward her, and all Beatrice could see for several shaky breaths was his mismatched blue-and-gold gaze and the satisfied quirk of his lips.

  “What’s that tool you’re using, Mr. Wright?” Isobel asked. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Something of my father’s invention.” He held up the wooden oval and showed them how the various metal tools folded out, and then back into the curved frame. “There’s a turnscrew, a blade, pliers, a wrench, a file, and even a pick, which is what I just used.”

  “That’s quite extraordinary. I wonder that he hasn’t tried to patent it.” Isobel was also studying patent law.

  “My father’s always inventing some fantastical gewgaw or other. But this one happens to be quite useful, though he can’t find anyone willing to finance a patent application.”

  “What does he call it?” Beatrice asked.

  “Wright’s Versatile Ten in One Master Tool.”

  “Oh no,” said Isobel. “That won’t do. Far too long and complicated. You need a short, memorable name. Let’s see . . . what about Wright’s Versatile Tool?”

  “Or you could combine the words,” said Beatrice. “Wright’s Versa-Tool.”

  “That’s not bad, I’ll write to my father and tell him that the lady knitters have a new name for his invention.” Wright opened the door with a flourish of his arm and an exaggerated bow. “Your castle awaits, princess.”

  Something inside Beatrice’s chest clicked open and her breath caught in her throat. Beatrice, you ninny. It doesn’t matter how many locks he picks or roses he plucks, it’s only what any charming rogue would do.

  Viola laughed softly. “A princess for a castle.”

  “Don’t encourage him,” Beatrice muttered, as she brushed past him into the shop.

  It was dark inside and took several moments for her eyes to adjust. Dust motes danced in the watery sunlight allowed through the paned glass windows. A dark wood staircase with scrolled balustrades curved upward at the end of the entrance hall. “The showroom’s through here,” she said, leading the way through the doorway to their right.

  “Careful!” Wright caught her arm as she nearly tripped over a wooden crate on the floor. “Stay here until I open the curtains.” He disappeared into the room and moments later, streaks of light illuminated their wa
y. There were crates stacked over the entire floor, some of them open and spilling forth piles of books.

  “What a frightful mess!” exclaimed Viola. “Why, it looks as though it hasn’t been occupied in years.”

  “My beauties.” Beatrice hugged a stack of manuscripts piled on the shop counter. “Just look at you. Left here all alone to molder. Someone should be taking care of you.”

  More curtains were opened, and someone lit a lamp. Beatrice was only dimly aware of the activity in the room. She gravitated to the bookshelves lining the walls and began reading spines and greeting old friends, and new.

  Viola sneezed. “It’s ever so dusty.”

  “I fear the solicitor may have had the right of it—this is most dilapidated,” said Isobel.

  “My delectable darling.” Beatrice cradled an early etymological dictionary in her hands, reverently opening it to the title page. “You’re here. You’re still here. And you’re all mine!”

  “Should we give you some privacy with these books?” Wright asked with a sardonic smile.

  “Beatrice loves books,” said Viola.

  “So I’ve gathered.” His gaze made the back of her neck feel hot, so she concentrated on the book she held. “This is the original folio of Skinner’s Etymologicon Linguae Anglicanae. I’ve only seen copies. This is the very first etymological dictionary produced in England.”

  “That’s excellent, Beatrice!” enthused Viola.

  “And you own it,” said Isobel.

  She did. She owned this folio. These shelves. This bookshop and everything in it.

  The thought settled in her mind, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. She’d never owned anything before. Not truly. She owned nothing that hadn’t been purchased for her by a family member.

  These books were hers. Not her brother’s, or her father’s, hers alone.

  “Have you noticed the buckets?” Wright called from the far end of the room.

  Beatrice followed the line of his finger. Several buckets were lined up against the side of the room, collecting drips that gathered on the ceiling and then splashed down with a plink, plink, plink.