The only thing he heard was his name from her lips, not Molly’s continued harassing comments.
The only thing he saw was the slight upturn of her lips, not Molly attempting to depart the carriage again, all the while his footman and coachman kept her blocked.
Certainly, he was aware of everything, but he could not take his attention off the woman before him.
“You know my name?” his brow rose in question, and her face flared the most attractive shade of pink.
“She be a siren if’n I ever saw one!” Molly yelled. “Let me depart this blasted coach, ye addlepate.”
“My butler informed me my father was meeting with a ‘Lord Hawke.’ It only stands to reason that you are he.” She glanced at the ground, her pink cheeks deepening to red.
“You look much like your portrait in the duke’s study.” Blast it all, but he hadn’t meant to say anything regarding that, and neither should it have been uttered on a sigh. Colin straightened his shoulders and adjusted his neckcloth. “What I meant to say is that your father speaks highly of you.”
The man hadn’t said a word about any particular offspring, yet Colin would not admit to any such thing.
“That is kind of you to say, my lord; however—“ Her chin rose, and he suspected the woman knew he lied. “I would not be surprised to hear my father entirely forgot about his children.”
“Sometimes, I wish my family would fail to recall me,” he replied.
Sure to form, Molly started her beating on the ducal carriage once again. His father would be enraged to find his prized landau battered. There was no avoiding it. Colin was loath to take his leave before finding out the woman’s name.
“You cannot mean that.” Her stare widened as she fidgeted with the seam of her gown.
How to explain to a perfect stranger he, in fact, would relish that exact thing?
The continuous war between Colin’s parents and his grandmama was utterly draining. The trio never failed to place him in the middle, forced to choose between the woman who was far more than merely his grandmama and the pair who had given him life, a proper upbringing, and an adequate education.
“Don’t be believe’n that witch’s banbury tale of cock and bull. Don’t be purblind, Colin.”
He held up his finger to silence Molly; however, his grandmama had never been deft at listening to others—or remaining silent when bidden.
With a weak smile, he said, “Allow me a moment to calm her. Please, do not go anywhere, I will be back momentarily.” When she only nodded, he continued, “And I swear on all I possess, she is not as addlebrained as she appears.”
“We rarely are.”
Colin wanted nothing more than to question her further on her peculiar comment, but Molly began howling his name again.
“One moment is all I need,” he promised. “I will return.”
“Of course.” Her flushed cheeks had returned to their normal coloring, and her smile suggested she was just as interested in him and he was in her.
Colin hurried to the carriage, his frown deepening the closer he came to Molly. Perhaps his father was correct in his decree that the old woman was better off at Tintinhull Court in Somerset, surrounded by Coventry servants who were both loyal and discrete. At least there, she could practice whatever superstitions she fancied useful, and would not cause Colin embarrassment, especially before an utterly bewitching woman. And that was exactly the wording he should not use when describing Atholl’s daughter, especially not in front of his grandmama, lest Molly redouble her accusations of witchcraft and sorcery.
“What in all that is holy are you doing?” he demanded.
His anger caused Molly to lean back into the carriage, her mouth gaping.
“Have ye gone mad, me lad?” she hissed. “What charm has that fiery-haired siren thrown at ye?”
“She has done nothing, Molly.” Colin took a moment for his breathing to slow, and his pulse to stop racing. “You, on the other hand, are jeopardizing everything.”
“Did that thief in duke’s garb give ye the book?”
“No, he did not, and he is not a thief.”
“Then he told ye where ta find it?” she prodded, her brow pulling together as her voice lifted with hope. “Let us be off ta collect Fair Wind’s book.”
“Duke Atholl has promised to look for the book amongst his collection”—he paused, pinching the bridge of his nose—“however, your treatment of his daughter might very well alter his cooperative nature.”
Molly peeked around him, and Colin feared she’d begin yet another tirade. Thankfully, she kept her mouth closed and leaned back into her seat, crossing her arms. She appeared the sulking, petulant child, which suited Colin perfectly, at least until he could make his amends with the woman and seek his leave.
“Now, stay out of sight and remain silent until I can apologize for your outlandish behavior.”
“I not be sorry for any of it…” she huffed.
“That I know well, Molly; however, I am sorry for the mortification you caused the woman—outside her own home, no less.”
Molly waved her hand as if to dismiss him, but did not meet his eye. “Do as ye must, lad, but I caution ye against put’n any trust in a woman so clearly marked by the devil himself.”
“Am I to believe you to be deranged, as Father would have me believe?”
“Humphf.”
“Very well, sulk all you want.” He glanced over his shoulder to see the woman had inched forward a few feet and listened intently to his conversation, even though her stare was trained on a row of shrubs bordering the drive. “Besides, I have no need or want to trust this woman, only make certain she does not tell her father of your deplorable accusations.”
When Molly didn’t argue further, Colin returned to the woman to offer his apologies for Molly’s words and also anything she may have overhead while he’d conversed with his grandmama.
Thankfully, the servants had gone about their chores and closed the front door.
He stopped before her, at a loss for what to say. He owed her an apology and needs must beg her forgiveness even though Molly showed no contrition.
“My grandmama has always been a bit rattle-pated,” he tried his hand at explaining Molly’s off-key nature.
“Rattle-pated?” she asked, tugging at her ear.
“Oh, it seems when I spend too much time in her company, I adopt her seafaring jargon.” Colin shook his head. “She has always been a whimsical woman, taken by notions of fancy and steeped in superstition. It is the reason my grandpapa fell in love with her, if my father is to be believed. But that is neither here nor there. Her accusations were unfounded and uncalled for, and I owe you an apology, Lady…”
“Lady Ophelia Fletcher.” She curtseyed, her hair falling over her shoulders when she bowed her head slightly. “And as we’ve established, you are Lord Hawke.”
“Colin.”
Her cheeks blossomed once more when she straightened.
“It is nice to make your acquaintance, Lord Hawke,” she replied. “Do not let me keep you from your grandmother.”
“I will depart only if you accept my remorseful apology, Lady Ophelia.”
“If you insist.” She smiled and pressed her gloved hand to her mouth to cover her toothy grin. “Now, I must return inside or risk displeasing my father.”
“Farewell, Lady Ophelia.” He gave a simple wave. With one last smile, she twirled and rushed back in the house, the door opening for her as she reached the landing. “Until we meet again…”
Colin had no doubt they would meet again, but under what circumstances, he was uncertain.
Chapter 6
Ophelia glanced over her shoulder at her waiting carriage and back again through the murky front window of Oliver’s Book Shoppe, all while people pushed past her on the crowded walk. The swoosh of skirts, the brush of a man’s shoulder against hers, the idle chitchat buzzing in her ears…it was all too much.
Overwhelming.
D
aunting.
It had her face heating, her breath coming in shallow, labored gulps, and every instinct telling her to flee. She should return to the safety of her home. Await Edith’s and Luci’s return from Gretna Green.
What had possessed her to journey to Bond Street with only her maid as a companion?
She pulled the note from her cloak pocket.
Luci’s looping script, upon her newly arrived cream stationery with silver trim, glared at her. She didn’t need to open the letter to know exactly what it said. Or, more appropriately, what it demanded of Ophelia during Luci’s absence from London.
Sliding her finger over the thick paper, Ophelia’s eyes drifted closed for a brief second.
Ophelia was not to write a piece for the Mayfair Confidential.
Ophelia was not to investigate, follow, or snoop around Abercorn.
Ophelia was not to put herself in harm’s way.
Ophelia was to remain close to home and away from any harmful activities until Luci and Edith returned.
And her dear friends expected her to do just that.
Remain the timid, reserved, quiet girl she’d always been; happy to tag along on their adventures but never seeking any of her own. Overjoyed even, to remain in the shadows as Edith and Luci found love. And content to be their scribe for the Mayfair Confidential.
“M’lady?” her maid’s concerned call came from the waiting carriage where Ophelia had insisted she remain while Ophelia questioned Oliver.
She gave the girl a quick smile and shoved the note back into her pocket.
The time had come to seek her own adventure—no more hanging on to the coattails of her friends nor simply reading about thrilling escapades in her books.
Her chin tilted up a notch, and she squared her shoulders, pasting a confident smile upon her lips.
Surely, if she presented confidence outwardly, it would also take hold within her.
For not the first time, Ophelia realized she was not the great poised beauty Luci was, nor the witty and intelligent woman Edith was.
But that did not make her any less capable.
She would find the book Lord Hawke sought and return it to him.
Despite the man’s grandmother and her peculiar accusations, Ophelia was determined to help him.
That he was handsome, intelligent, and had kind eyes impacted nothing.
That she’d had a difficult time concentrating on anything since she met the man several days before also did not signify anything.
That every book she selected somehow had the hero resembling Lord Hawke—Colin—with his fair hair and piercing green eyes was far more disconcerting. Every tale she read, whether it was swashbuckling pirates or Arabian princes took on the sun-kissed complexion of a certain baron.
Ophelia could not stall any longer. Her family would worry about her whereabouts if she did not return home before afternoon social calls began.
The bell sounded overhead as she pushed through the door. The familiar smell of grass with a hint of vanilla filled her nose, along with the overpowering stench of burning wax. Beeswax to be precise, not the far more affordable tallow used by many merchants. It spoke to Oliver’s prestige as one of the finest booksellers in London proper. Perhaps that was where her next adventure lay—where does Oliver gain his funds for beeswax candles with proper wicks?
That was a mystery for another time. This day, Ophelia had one goal: find out what Oliver had told Lord Hawke, and how that corresponded with the man’s visit with her father.
It was a simple enough inquiry.
Harmless on all accounts.
“My lady, it is good to see you!” Oliver’s greeting usually never varied, but the thin, wiry man stared over Ophelia’s shoulder as if he were expecting other clientele. “But where are your friends?”
Ophelia allowed a hesitant laugh to escape her. Of course. Ophelia normally shopped with at least one of her friends in tow. “I am afraid they are otherwise occupied today; however, there is something I have need to ask you, and I did not wish to wait for their return.”
“Certainly, my lady. Though I do hope this has nothing to do with your last visit to my shop,” he nodded with a grave smile. “May I help you locate a book, perchance? Might I recommend a new set of Colonial adventure novels I received just this morn?”
Any other time, Ophelia would have been thrilled at the opportunity to possess such a rare collection. “Unfortunately, I am not in the market to purchase any new books today.”
The shopkeeper’s brow rose. “Oh?”
Ophelia journeyed farther into the shop, stopping before the tall desk Oliver stood behind. “I am here about a book—“
“But I thought you said you were not here about purchasing a book.”
“I am not. You see, I believe this book has already been purchased.”
He tilted his head slightly and pursed his lips, tapping his cheek with his forefinger. “Then you are looking to hire me for an acquisition?”
“Not ex—“
“There is a man, Lord Cartwright, who does a fine job of locating books.”
“No, no,” Ophelia sighed. “I believe you were in possession of this book not long ago and know its current owner.”
His eyes narrowed behind his wire-rimmed spectacles. “I cannot disclose personal information about my clients, my lady, as I told you before.”
Once again, Ophelia was losing the man’s willingness to assist her. Drat! She would not allow Luci’s assertions to be proven correct.
“I am looking for a book. It is about smuggling in the area of Sheerness.”
Recognition dawned quickly in the shopkeeper’s eyes, and his welcoming smile returned. “Blast it all, but I do wish I knew what all the fuss was over this book. You are the third person in the past month requesting information on the whereabouts of Fair Wind’s book on smuggling.”
“So you do know of it?”
“Certainly. I sent information round to another lord only a few days past; however, what knowledge an outdated book could provide to anyone is beyond my comprehension.” The man turned and retrieved an oversized, leather-bound ledger from the shelf behind him. “Let me give you the information I found on the book. That won’t harm anyone, I don’t think.” His flipped several pages and ran his finger down a list.
A tingle of excitement rushed down Ophelia’s back at the thought of what she sought being so easily obtained. Perhaps her detection skills were superior to Luci’s and Edith’s, after all.
“Ah, here it is,” he said, lifting his gaze to her with a triumphant smile. “Written by Fair Wind Parnell during the Seven Years’ War.”
“That is it!” At least, Ophelia hoped it was. “Can you tell me who purchased the book…and when?”
He dragged his finger across the page before stopping and pointing at a name. “I shouldn’t give you the name, but since it’s your father, I think it will be fine. Atholl. That’s all it says, and is exactly what I told the last man who came sniffing around.”
“My fa—“ Ophelia clamped her mouth shut.
“Are you certain you do not wish to purchase the Colonial adventure volumes?”
“Not today, Mr. Oliver, though if they are still here on my next visit, I shall be persuaded to make them mine.”
“Very good, my lady!”
The shopkeeper closed the ledger with a thump and returned it to its shelf.
All the while, Ophelia’s mind swirled.
Lord Hawke had spoken with her father because he had solid information leading him to the duke, but if what she’d heard spoken between Molly and Lord Hawke was correct, the duke had promised to preview his collection for it.
But certainly, her father must know where the book is. He was a meticulous man, a keeper of records, a treasurer of the unique. This would certainly be of distinctive historical significance.
“Good day, Oliver,” Ophelia said, not bothering to suppress her excitement over her discovery. “Thank you again for the informati
on.”
“I still do not understand the import of…”
The man’s voice trailed off when Ophelia pushed through the door into the bright afternoon sun, the bell overhead chiming once more. Her step was lighter than it had been since before Tilda’s death. The shame of admitting she’d been so engrossed in her book that if someone had pushed her dear friend down the stairs, Ophelia had been too preoccupied to see the culprit was suffocating. It was nice to have some relief.
“Good day, Andrew!” Ophelia chimed, removing her gloves as she came through the front door. “Is Father in his study?”
The entire carriage ride home, she’d debated how to address the situation. There were no grounds for assuming her father had done anything wrong or had come into ownership of the book in any unsavory way.
“No, my lady.” The butler took her gloves and helped her with her cloak. “He is out for the afternoon with the duchess and your siblings.
Odd, her father rarely traveled around London with his horde of children and wife, and surely not during what he considered prime business hours.
“However, you have guests.”
“Guests?” Ophelia didn’t get many visitors, unless you counted those who came to see her mother and were polite enough to request an audience with her, as well. And Lucianna and Edith had long ago stopped being considered guests in the Atholl household; besides, they were safely on their way to Gretna Green at present. “They are in Mother’s salon?”
“Yes, Lady Ophelia.” Andrew gave a low bow. “They were served refreshments a few moments ago.”
Tea, already? “How long have they been waiting?”
He glanced at the tall clock before wincing. “Going on an hour, my lady.”
“I best see to them,” she replied with a quick smile. Heavens, but who would wait that long to meet with Ophelia? She hurried to the salon, the door cracked enough to hear giggling from within. She’d know that laughter anywhere. “Lady Prudence and Lady Chastity!”
Ophelia entered the room with a genuine smile.
“Lady Ophelia,” both called in unison, popping off the lounge, causing the pastry Lady Chastity held aloft to bounce to the floor.
The Misadventures of Lady Ophelia (The Undaunted Debutantes Book 3) Page 5