Poetic Justice, a Traditional Regency Romance (Regency Escapades)

by Alicia Rasley

  "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."

  Jessica wasn't about to abandon John like that. "No, Aunt, you go ahead. I must ask Uncle about something before we leave."

  Her aunt was too eager to exit to offer much of a protest, only murmuring her apologies as she left through the door John held for her. Once she was gone, though, no one spoke for an agonizing moment. Finally her uncle nodded to John.

  "Ah, here you are, Dryden. I was just telling Mr. Wiley that you should see to securing the library until July 23. See to those bars for the windows, and substantial locks for the doors, and guards round the clock. What do you say?"

  "I've already engaged the guards. They are in place at this moment. If you wish, I can take care of the rest tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow? Good. Perhaps after that you can stay for—"

  Jessica caught her uncle's eyes and shook her head vigorously. The prospect of John, Mr. Wiley, and Damien all to dinner was enough to dampen anyone's appetite. Lord Parham wasn't quick, but he did cut off that dangerous word "dinner," lamely substituting "a drink, to tell me what you've accomplished."

  "As you wish."

  John was at his most remote again, as he so often was in company, guarded, standing back near the door with his arms crossed. He didn't look at her, but Jessica knew better than to take offense. She was an ally; he didn't have to watch her.

  Instead he watched Mr. Wiley, who stood silent and still in the middle of the carpet. He shook his head when Uncle Emory suggested they sit down, and so they all kept standing in an awkward circle.

  "You can take your holiday as usual in July, Mr. Wiley."

  No doubt her uncle meant this conciliatorily, but it didn't work. The librarian's stillness broke in an abrupt gesture of his arm. "And leave my library to this upstart?"

  "It's not your library," Jessica said, but her protest was drowned out by her uncle's hearty voice.

  "Now, now, Mr. Wiley, no need for that. Dryden works for the Regent, recall. He comes highly recommended. The library will be quite safe with the measures he puts into effect."

  "Will it be safe from him, that is what I ask."

  As Parham repeated, "Now, now, Mr. Wiley," Jessica stole a glance at John. He was still watching Mr. Wiley, with the disinterested academic regard a natural scientist might give an insect. Don't look at him like that, she wanted to plead. Don't you know it drives him mad?

  But perhaps that was John's plan. If so, it was succeeding. Mr. Wiley drew himself up, ostentatiously addressing her uncle alone. "I will stay here. Stay in the library."

  "No." John never looked away from Mr. Wiley, but his objection was directed at Lord Parham. "If the library is to be closed, it must be closed to all. I can't vouch for the security of the holdings otherwise."

  "You are right, Dryden. I regret, Mr. Wiley, that until I can transfer the library, you too must be excluded. You can, of course, retrieve your personal possessions from your office."

  Jessica closed her eyes, sending out the fervent hope that John would not suggest that a guard accompany Mr. Wiley back to his office.

  But she needn't have worried. John had no chance to speak. With a cold fury that seemed to erupt from deep within, Mr. Wiley said, "Lord Parham, is this what you intend? To trust this scoundrel with the Parham Collection?"

  "Mr. Wiley!"

  To Jessica, the insult sounded like just another shot across the bow in this secret battle, but her uncle was clearly shocked. He swallowed convulsively and found his voice again. "You go too far! You have defamed Dryden's honor!"

  The librarian laughed bitterly. "He has none to defame. Or he would defend it, as a gentleman would! But no, he will not call me out."

  John finally moved, uncrossing his arms and leaning casually against the door frame. His voice was almost peaceful. "No, Wiley, I shan't call you out."

  Parham stirred uneasily. "It is your right. You needn't stand for insult."

  "If I called out every man who insulted me—" John shook his head. "I should have no time to work. Anyway, this isn't a proper discussion to conduct in front of Miss Seton."

  "That's right, take refuge behind her skirts, Dryden. You've already shown yourself a poltroon, after all. Your life is evidently worth more to you than your honor."

  That insult broke through Jessica's determined calm. She started to protest, but John, never glancing her way, overrode her. "Not at all. Your life is worth more than that. My honor would be a paltry thing, wouldn't it, if I had to kill old men to keep it."

  Wiley sucked in an outraged breath, then expelled it in a rush of words. "The excuse of a coward."

  The word hung in the air even as Mr. Wiley rushed towards the door. Without comment John stepped back and let him by. When the door slammed behind the librarian, Parham drew a deep breath. "You would have been within your rights, Dryden. No man has to listen to that. I would have challenged him, had I been you."

  There was a rebuke in that comment, but John only shrugged. "You are nearer his age. It would have been fairer, though I would have backed you, were I a betting man. His eyesight is faulty, can you tell? He can't focus with the left eye. Spent too long squinting in that dark office of his."

  Parham was still uneasy. "Still, you ought to have taught him a lesson."

  "I don't
kill men to teach them a lesson."

  "You are so sure you would win then?"

  John regarded him with frank astonishment. "Lord Parham, perhaps you don't know what I have been doing these last decades. When I was fifteen, I was already a gun captain of an India-bound brig. I remember aiming a twelve-pounder at the main topmast of Malay pirates in the middle of a typhoon, and hitting it square enough to bring it down. I assure you, a man standing still at twelve paces poses no great challenge to me."

  "You wouldn't have had to kill him."

  "Well, I don't play at killing either, and I warrant I've seen more of it than he has. He wanted me to challenge him, or, more likely, he wanted me not to challenge him. I don't know why. But if being a gentleman means helping him commit suicide, I beg off. Jessica."

  Jessica started. She had been hanging back, trying to remain inconspicuous so that her uncle wouldn't order her out. But John saying her name—her Christian name, and in front of her uncle!—brought her up. "Yes?"

  "Come see what I found for you."

  As Jessica approached, she glanced back at her uncle. He was holding up his finger, as if he meant to make another comment. But then he shook his head. The issue of duelling was closed. Just as well. It was absurd to think of John shooting Mr. Wiley, however much he deserved it, or to believe that refusal to do so constituted cowardice. She had seen how quick John was with a dagger, and knew he must be just as handy with a pistol. Her uncle, of course, was probably too hidebound to consider that sometimes duelling would be the dishonorable action.

  From his coat pocket, John brought a brown-paper wrapped parcel and handed it to her. The string was tied in an elaborate nautical knot, and after a moment or two of fumbling she gave it back. With a grin he pulled a loop and the knot fell apart. He tore off the paper to reveal a neat, quarto-sized volume bound in blue leather.

  "The Forced Marriage," Jessica read from the spine. "Oh, it's another play by Aphra Behn! Where did you find it?"