Love Is a Rogue

by Lenora Bell

  “Leaky roof. That’s not good.” He bounced up and down a few times. “Floor’s like sponge cake in places.”

  The roof might be leaking but the folio she held was intact, even though it had been written over one hundred and fifty years ago.

  “Unhand that folio, you knaves!” A tall shape brandishing a heavy silver candelabra charged into the room.

  “Out, thieves!” a plump woman shouted, waving what appeared to be a rolling pin.

  Wright placed himself between Beatrice and the ladies and the two people with their strange weapons.

  “Put down that candlestick,” he growled, “or I’ll be forced to take it off you.”

  The tall thin man shook the candlestick. “I’d like to see you try!”

  “You don’t want to test me. Trust me on that.”

  Beatrice shivered. Wright’s voice was menacing and low and brooked no argument.

  “We’re not intruders,” she said, attempting to come out from behind Wright, but he spread his arm to prevent her from walking any farther. “I’m Lady Beatrice Bentley, the new owner of this bookshop.”

  “Oh!” The woman lowered her rolling pin. “Oh, it’s her, Coggins. The one Mrs. Castle told us about. Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” She dropped the rolling pin onto a chair and hastened toward Wright. “Come in, dearies, come in and make yourselves comfortable.”

  Wright maintained his protective posture. “The candlestick, if you please.”

  “Could be a trick,” Coggins grumbled. “Says she’s Lady Beatrice but could be anyone.”

  Wright folded his arms. “She’s Lady Beatrice and your new mistress. Put down that candlestick and show some respect.”

  “I’m Mrs. Kettle, dearie. And this is Mr. Coggins. He’s quite harmless, really. Relinquish that candlestick, Mr. Coggins.”

  Coggins finally lowered the candelabra. The old servant had a suspicious look in his eyes, but a rather whimsical curled mustache. Beatrice didn’t detect any true menace from his presence.

  “These are my aunt’s servants,” Beatrice whispered to Wright. “We’ll be safe with them.”

  Wright finally relaxed his protective stance, allowing Beatrice to circumnavigate his imposing frame.

  “Mrs. Kettle, Mr. Coggins, this is Miss Mayberry and Miss Beaton, my friends, and this is Mr. Wright, my . . . consultant.”

  “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, though I do wish we’d known you were coming. We’ve let things run away from us, I’m afraid,” said Mrs. Kettle, who was shaped like her namesake, a comfortable, cozy figure with wisps of white hair escaping her lace cap.

  “Why are there so many unopened crates?” asked Beatrice.

  “Mr. Castle only had this small showroom for the public, and it was by appointment only. His clients were mostly eccentric collectors of antiquities.”

  “I visited the shop once to view this folio.”

  “He kept the most precious manuscripts and books in a warehouse, but there was no money to pay the rent for them and so Mrs. Castle used the last of the funds to bring all the books here. She was very ill at the end.” She blotted at her eyes with a handkerchief. “We haven’t unpacked them all because we don’t know where to put them.”

  “Footstools,” said Coggins. “Firestarter.”

  “Coggins!” Mrs. Kettle huffed.

  “Mr. Coggins,” said Beatrice. “That is not even remotely funny. These books are precious. They must be protected and stored properly. Mrs. Kettle, I remember that there was a catalog published twice yearly?”

  “There used to be, my dear, but we fell behind and it’s all in a jumble now. We’re still under contract for several months yet, by the provisions of Mrs. Castle’s will. Some of the books are quite valuable, as you know. Why, before he died, Mr. Castle sold a medieval illuminated book for five hundred pounds.”

  “How long have you been in my aunt’s employ?”

  “Nigh on forty years now. I started as a maid and worked my way up to housekeeper. Mr. Coggins is the man of all work.”

  “And you live on the premises?”

  “Mr. Coggins does. I live with my daughter, Ann, and my granddaughter, Kit.”

  “And when did the bookshop close?”

  “When Mrs. Castle became too ill to meet with customers. That would be a year ago. Poor thing. She loved this shop and wanted nothing more than to carry on her husband’s business.”

  “I own the Skinner folio,” Beatrice said wonderingly. “Who would believe it? I own one of the most rare and most sought-after dictionaries in the world. It’s a dream come true.”

  “If you say so,” said Wright with a smirk.

  “Do you have any idea how much this dictionary is worth?”

  “Ah, so there are authors of etymological dictionaries who turn a profit in their lifetime?”

  “It was published posthumously,” she admitted.

  “Shocking,” said Wright.

  Isobel and Viola had matching smiles as they witnessed the interchange.

  “It’s a phenomenal collection, Mrs. Kettle,” Beatrice said firmly.

  “It’s all yours, my dear, all of it. Why, you could even open the shop again! That is, if you wanted to, you being a fine lady and all . . .”

  Beatrice’s mother would never allow her to engage in trade. That would definitely be the straw that broke her mother’s back.

  “My mother wouldn’t approve. She wants me to sell it immediately.”

  “What a pity that would be.”

  “See, Mrs. Kettle?” said Coggins. “She’ll evict us early, she will. Time’s run out for us. We’re for the scrap heap. It won’t be long before we freeze to death in a doorway.”

  He was a ray of sunshine, that one.

  “Don’t make any decisions just yet, dearie. I’ve always said never to make up one’s mind about anything until you have a nice steaming cup of tea in your hands. Everyone come into the parlor and I’ll make a nice pot of tea, shall I?” She bustled away, glancing back over her shoulder to make sure they were following her.

  “She might have sandwiches,” Isobel said, giving Wright a wink.

  Mrs. Kettle ushered them through the showroom and into a parlor crowded with mismatched and overstuffed sofas and chairs.

  “And there’s a letter for you from Mrs. Castle, Lady Beatrice. Now where did I put it?” She hastened out of the room. “Help me in the kitchen, Mr. Coggins.”

  Coggins backed out of the room, eyeing them suspiciously, one by one.

  “Well, it’s a little run-down and it’s overcrowded and overstuffed, but isn’t it an enchanting place?” Beatrice couldn’t stop the excitement welling in her heart. If she could move her writing supplies here, she could work in a house filled with books.

  A house blissfully free from mothers.

  Wright leaned back in his chair, looking as confident and at ease in this frowsy parlor as when he was constructing pergolas on her brother’s estate. He carried his confidence with him everywhere.

  “Your aunt definitely knew what she was doing when she left you this shop,” said Viola. “She knew that you would love these books as family.”

  “From a bibliophile’s perspective this house might be enchanting, but from a carpenter’s perspective it’s a serious project,” said Wright. “The roof leaks, I saw evidence of rats—they’re probably running amok in the basement, coming up from the river. The floors in the front room need to be completely replaced, and there are probably more issues on the upper floors.”

  “Make a list, Wright. I’ll hire someone to do everything,” Beatrice said.

  “But Beatrice, will your mother allow you to keep the shop?” Viola asked.

  Isobel tsked her tongue against her teeth. “It’s not a question of allowing. Beatrice is a grown woman. If she wants to keep the property then it’s hers to keep.”

  “She’d never allow me to enter into trade, but I can’t just leave these books to rot, or to be disposed of by the new owner.
I’ll need time to inventory the books and manuscripts and decide what to do with the collection.”

  “I was thinking . . .” Isobel glanced around the room. “I was thinking that we’ll need a new place for the Mayfair Ladies Knitting League to meet once the Duchess of Ravenwood returns to London. Perhaps the bookshop might serve as a temporary meeting space?”

  Viola drew a sharp breath. “Isobel—what a splendid idea! Why shouldn’t we have our own clubhouse?”

  “A clubhouse,” Beatrice mused. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Do you know what London has far too many of?” asked Isobel. “Exclusive gentlemen’s clubs.”

  “That’s true,” said Beatrice. “And they’re all very close to here on Pall Mall and St. James’s. There’s White’s, Boodle’s, and Brooks’s.”

  “The Athenaeum and the Travellers Club,” Viola said.

  “And do you know what London has none of?” Isobel asked.

  “Ladies’ clubhouses.” Viola grinned. “This could be our clubhouse! Though we wouldn’t be in Mayfair any longer and we’d have to change our name.”

  “A clubhouse for lady knitters?” asked Wright with a puzzled expression.

  “And why not?” Beatrice rounded on him. “We have more than ordinary goals.”

  Ford wiped the smile from his face. “Of course you do.”

  “No, we actually do. We can’t tell you about them or we’d have to kill you,” said Miss Mayberry with a severe expression.

  Ford laughed. All three ladies glared at him. He transformed his laugh into a cough. They were deadly serious about these goals, apparently.

  Ford tugged at his cravat. “As delightful as all of this sounds, for lady knitters, that is, I’m due at the docks today.” He had a few hours before he was supposed to meet his old navy friend, Timothy Griffith, at the docks. “I’m afraid I’ll—”

  “Do you think it would work, Mr. Wright? Could we renovate this property into a clubhouse with a dining room, a reading room, and other facilities?” asked Lady Beatrice.

  Ford considered that question. “I suppose it could work. I’d have to tour the upper floors to make a final determination.”

  “It could work.” Viola danced in her seat. “Wait until I tell Ardella and our newest member, Lady Henrietta Prince.”

  “How many of you are there?” asked Ford.

  “We’re recruiting new members every day.”

  “You couldn’t fit more than twelve members at a time, unless you expanded to an adjacent property, as well.”

  Miss Mayberry raised a glove-clad fist. “We’ll take over the Strand.”

  “Revolutionary lady knitters?” asked Ford.

  “We prefer ‘bluestockings who knit stockings,’” said Miss Beaton.

  Ford considered that. “I thought bluestockings was a derogatory term.”

  “We’ve reclaimed it, Mr. Wright.” Lady Beatrice made that little gesture with her chin and eyebrows—everything winging upward—that meant she was about to lecture him about something.

  “We proudly call ourselves bluestockings. A term originating in the last century to describe a group of ladies who hosted literary salons for men of letters. They admitted all true scholars, regardless of their social standing, overlooking the inexpensive blue worsted stockings of the more insolvent of their guests. Hence the origin of the derisive term Blue Stocking Society. Though the ladies cleverly adopted the epithet and began referring to themselves proudly as bluestockings.”

  Ford wondered what color her stockings were under those long skirts. White, most likely. And did she wear silk garters, or plain cotton ones? She had lovely long limbs and elegant, expressive fingers that she waved about while she was lecturing a fellow.

  And . . . he should leave now. Too much imagining of underthings. Desks were next; he knew that from experience. Desks and the decidedly objectionable uses he’d like to put them to with bookish ladies. “I should be on my way, ladies.”

  Mrs. Kettle returned with the tea and placed an enormous pile of sandwiches in front of him. Maybe he could stay just a few more minutes. These sandwiches looked much more substantial than the paltry offering he’d been served at the duke’s townhouse.

  “You’re a ship’s carpenter with the Royal Navy, Mr. Wright?” asked Miss Beaton.

  “I worked my way up from a floating apprenticeship to carpenter’s mate, and now I’ve been promoted to warrant officer, with responsibility for the maintenance of the HMS Boadicea, a seventy-four gun third-rate ship of the line. She’s being refitted in Bristol and will arrive in London for coppering soon. I’ll have to wait for the shipwright to sheath her in copper to protect her against the salt water, and then we’ll follow orders to wherever she’s wanted.”

  “The HMS Boadicea,” said Lady Beatrice. “Named after the legendary Celtic warrior queen, I presume?”

  “How romantic,” said Miss Beaton.

  “Not very romantic, Miss Beaton. There will be hundreds of sailors living on that ship. With all of those men in such close quarters you can imagine the . . .”

  “Odiferousness?” supplied Lady Beatrice.

  “I was going to say challenges, Lady Beatrice. But yes, it doesn’t smell like a ship full of roses.”

  “A navy man,” said Mrs. Kettle, pouring him more tea. “And so handsome. Are you married, Mr. Wright?”

  “I’m not, Mrs. Kettle.”

  “You should be.”

  “You’re the second matron to tell me that today.” And he hadn’t changed his mind on the subject in the length of two hours.

  “I don’t wish to be unmannerly, Mrs. Kettle,” said Lady Beatrice, “but I was told there was some scandal attached to the bookshop?”

  “There’s nothing scandalous about our little shop, nothing untoward whatsoever. Isn’t that right, Mr. Coggins?” Mrs. Kettle glanced at Coggins, who stood beside the doorway studying the ceiling, his hands behind his back.

  “Erm,” he replied noncommittally.

  “So those double-sided, revolving bookcases don’t hide anything?” Ford had noticed some interesting shelves in the front room.

  “Pardon?” Lady Beatrice caught his eye.

  Mrs. Kettle poured more tea, her hand trembling slightly.

  “Hidden bookshelves?” asked Miss Beaton. “How intriguing!”

  “Nonsense. They’re just ordinary bookshelves,” said Mrs. Kettle.

  “Shall we go and look?” asked Ford.

  As the party rose from their chairs, Mrs. Kettle began fluttering around them, emitting reassurances that there was nothing to see.

  Lady Beatrice entered the front room of the shop first. “I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.”

  “I know a swiveling shelf when I see one.” Ford ran his fingers over the seams of the wood. “There.” He pressed a hidden button and the shelves began to swivel, revolving a full turn and presenting an entirely new set of shelves.

  “We’re done for,” said Coggins with a fatalistic shrug. “He’s on to us.”

  “More books?” asked Lady Beatrice, moving closer. “How clever. Twice the space for storage. Sins of the City. The Further Adventures of a Gentleman Scholar. Memoirs of a Madam. These aren’t antiquarian titles. The Dairy Maid’s Dilemma.” She opened the book.

  He approached and bent his head over her shoulder. The illustration on the frontispiece left no doubt as to the nature of the book.

  “Oh. Oh my. So it’s that sort of dilemma.” She slammed the volume shut. “Mrs. Kettle,” she said severely. “Please tell me what is going on here.”

  Chapter Six

  “I’ll be happy to explain what’s going on.” Ford pointed at the illustration. “This buxom dairymaid is attempting to choose between two virile young suitors, both of whom have the most enormous—”

  “Not the illustration!” Lady Beatrice cut in. “The bookshop. Mrs. Kettle, what is the purpose of this bookshop? I was under the impression that it sold only antiquarian books and manuscripts.”
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br />   Lady Beatrice’s cheeks had gone scarlet again. That illustration had probably been the most scandalous thing she’d ever seen in her life. It was all well and good for a proper lady to study the etymology of off-color words, but to see them illustrated in garish detail—now that was something to make a lady blush.

  And she did look so fetching when she blushed.

  Mrs. Kettle groaned. “Oh dear, oh dear. We should have been rid of these titles but I couldn’t bear to throw them all out, not the bestsellers. We still have customers, you know. It’s only a very small and selective collection of popular novels.”

  “Popular with lonely men,” said Ford.

  “And some women,” said Mrs. Kettle. “Profits plummeted after Mr. Castle died, Lady Beatrice. We had to find a way to appeal to a new clientele since there are so many bookshops and book dealers nearby. Stocking these books meant enough profit to keep the shop open. Please try to understand.”

  “Do you mean to tell me, Mrs. Kettle,” said Lady Beatrice, speaking very slowly and clearly, “that I have inherited some manner of . . . that is to say, a bookshop that secretly specializes in . . .”

  Ford waited for her to supply the words. She was an etymologist, after all. When she just stood there, her cheeks stained with pink and her lips pressed together, he came to her rescue. “Obscene books. Naughty scribblings. One-handed reads.”

  Miss Beaton giggled and Lady Beatrice glared at her. “Thank you, Wright. That will do.”

  “It’s only a very small collection, and we only ever sold them to a small and discerning clientele who could never reveal the secret for fear of being exposed themselves. It was Mr. Castle’s private interest and he . . . oh dear. Please don’t let this affect your decision to keep the property. Now come back to the parlor and finish your tea. It’s getting cold.”

  “Weren’t you worried about being closed down by the authorities, Mrs. Kettle?” asked Miss Mayberry.

  “Not a bit, love. The authorities placed special orders, they did. Our constable has a taste for the memoirs of saucy serving maids.”

  Lady Beatrice groaned. “Alack. I fear this changes everything.”