by Shana Galen
“We will find the book” she said, as though she had no doubt in her mind. “Tomorrow is Christmas. I believe we are due a miracle.”
He did not believe in miracles, not until he had met her. The coach stopped before On the Shelf, and the coachman opened the carriage door.
“The sign says closed, my lady. That board there is covering the front window.”
“Knock anyway, John Coachman. Tell them Lady Ashbrooke must see them.”
The coachman shrugged and did as he was told. He banged for several minutes before the door finally opened and a dusty, silver-haired Mr. Merriweather stood in the doorway.
The coachman pointed to the carriage, and Lucien alighted, assisting Cassandra down after.
“Oh, not you again,” Merriweather said, frowning at Lucien. “The shop is closed today. We’re making repairs, and it’s Christmas Eve. A man has a right to spend Christmas Eve with his family.”
“I agree with you, Mr. Merriweather,” Cassandra said, “but I wonder if you might speak with us for just a few moments. I would be so grateful.”
Merriweather was not about to turn away the gratitude of a viscountess. “Of course, my lady. My wife just made tea. Would you like some?”
The three of them sat down to tea in the small office behind the counter. Lucien had had glimpses of the office before, but this was the first time he’d been inside. It was small but tidy, everything in its place. It smelled of tobacco, and indeed Merriweather’s pipe rested on the desk. Lucien had rather hoped the office might be wild and unkempt. Then he could believe that an auction slip could be lost. But this was not the sort of room where anything would be lost.
“As you know, Mr. Glen is searching for some rather rare books,” Cassandra told Merriweather after they’d sipped tea and talked of the weather. Apparently, it had not snowed in London for years.
“He’s in here almost every day. I know that much.”
Lucien opened his mouth to say that if the Merriweathers would just tell him where they’d put the books they’d bought at auction, he would gladly leave and not return. He would have been happy never to set foot in another bookshop for the rest of his life.
Cassandra spoke first. “A good friend of his died recently, and the man had borrowed several books belonging to Mr. Glen. All of the man’s belongings were auctioned, including the books. Mr. Glen would like the volumes returned. They are not valuable, but they have sentimental meaning to Mr. Glen.” She smiled at him. “We will of course pay for the books. And for your trouble, I am willing to give you double what you paid at auction.”
“No!” Lucien would not take her money, not that he had his own, but he would work out some sort of trade with the shop owner. In fact, he didn’t even need the book, just the papers inside.
“You may pay me back, Mr. Glen,” Cassandra said firmly.
“I would, of course, but I would prefer to work out a trade with Mr. Merriweather. I don’t want charity.”
Merriweather held up a hand, silencing them before the discussion could continue. “I’m afraid you are arguing over nothing, Lady Ashbrooke. I do not have the books you speak of. I rarely buy any books at auction. I much prefer to have the latest novels on hand, rather than invest in any more dusty tomes.” He indicated the shop and the shelves of unbound books, their pages between boards until they were purchased and bound by the new owner.
Lucien had probably looked through every single bound and unbound book in the store. If Merriweather did not have any stock in reserve, the books Lucien’s mother had sent were not here. He might as well just accept that they were gone forever.
Cassandra’s smile faltered. “I see. And there can be no mistake.”
“No, my lady.” Merriweather straightened officiously. “None.”
Lucien rose. No point in sitting here sipping tea. His world had ended. He did not know what he would do now, but he wouldn’t spend another minute in the bluidy bookshop.
Cassandra rose too, and Merriweather showed them back into the shop and to the door. She and Merriweather were still chatting amiably, but to Lucien they sounded incredibly distant. The crumbling sound of the rest of his life falling to ruins deafened him.
“I’m terribly... window,” Cassandra said.
“Catch... culprits,” Merriweather answered.
Lucien closed his eyes and attempted to concentrate. He should listen to news of the assassins.
“This isn’t the first time the shop has been vandalized, after all.”
“Really?” Cassandra asked. “Was it the same window?”
“No. It was the sign. Some fool thought it would be jolly good fun to paint over the name of the shop, owing to the number of more seasoned ladies who patronize us. Turned out we all rather liked the new name and kept On the Shelf.”
Lucien stilled, the roaring in his ears subsiding. “What was the name before?”
“What’s that?” Merriweather asked.
Lucien clenched his fists to keep from grasping the owner by the lapels and shoving him against the door.
“What. Was. The. Original. Name?”
“Oh, The Duke Street Bookshop. Not very clever, eh? There’s another shop with the same name on the Duke Street near the northeast corner of Grosvenor Square.”
“Oh my God.” Cassandra’s gaze met his, and it was only the blue of her eyes that kept his world from spinning. “Yes, of course. There is another Duke Street. It runs from Grosvenor Square, crosses Oxford Street, and ends at Manchester Square. I forgot all about it. I haven’t been to the bookshop there in some years.”
Lucien’s limbs were paralyzed. Another Duke Street. Another bookshop.
“That’s the shop that must have bought the auctioned books,” Cassandra said.
Merriweather considered. “It’s possible. Certainly possible.”
Cassandra gripped Merriweather’s hand, shaking it vigorously. “Thank you.” She turned to Lucien. “Let’s go. Now.”
“Best hurry,” Merriweather advised. “It’s Christmas Eve. Most shops will close a bit early.”
“Of course.” She all but dragged Lucien out of the shop and into the coach. She gave the coachman the direction and turned to Lucien. “This is it. I know we will find the books now.”
For the first time in weeks, he had the same hope. Overwhelmed with sudden joy, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. “Thank you. I owe you everything.”
She blushed, whether from the compliment or his kiss, he did not know. “It is I who owe you everything. You’ve given me so much more than I ever could have expected.” Before he could ask what she meant, she pointed out various landmarks to him. They were heading back toward her town house until they turned onto what she said was the other Duke Street. Finally, the coach stopped in front of the shop.
It was larger than On the Shelf and better maintained. Lucien supposed the patrons were wealthier and expected as much. As soon as they entered, Cassandra approached the shopgirl and gave her the same story about Lucien’s friend and the auctioned books. Again, she offered to pay double the auction price, which Lucien would have never allowed, but the young woman, who had dark hair in a braid on top of her head, waved a hand in dismissal. “If we have them, you’re welcome to them. Never want to take another’s property, and it’s Christmas Eve, after all.”
“Where would they be?” Cassandra asked.
She furrowed a brow and tucked a pencil in the coil on her head. “You said they were books in French and Glennish?”
“That’s correct,” Lucien said, finding his voice once again.
She smiled at him. “Oh, then you want to look on that last shelf to the left. We keep the foreign books there. We have quite a few Frenchies come in, we do.”
“Thank you.”
With single-minded purpose, Lucien set off in the direction the shopgirl indicated. His fear now was that the books his mother had sent had been purchased. What if he’d come this far for naught? Finding the books wasn’t simply a matter of pap
ers and money any longer. They were the last and only reminders of his mother, his family. He needed to touch those books, touch the papers she’d caressed and so lovingly set aside for her family.
He stood before the shelves and stared at the rows of books. Where to begin? The shop would close soon. He had no time to waste debating. Lucien felt a warm hand clasp his. Cassandra was beside him, smiling up at him. He couldn’t help but smile back at her. Her small gesture of support meant more to him than he could possibly express in words.
“I’ll start on this side, and you start on that,” she suggested.
He nodded his agreement. With trembling hands, he skimmed his fingers over the titles of the old books. Italian titles, German titles, Portuguese...
“Lucien.”
His attention snapped to Cassandra, kneeling on the floor, her skirts spread around her.
“I’ve found the books in Glennish.”
He dropped to his knees beside her. He pulled the first book off the shelf, the familiar language like coming home as he read the title. A Natural History of Glynaven. He stared at the cover, wondering if this was one of the books his mother had sent. Was this one she had touched?
“Shall I?” Cassandra asked, holding a hand out.
“Please.”
She opened it, shuffling through the pages. Before she finished, he knew it was not one of them.
“Oy! We’re closing soon!” the shopgirl called.
“Damn it all to hell,” Lucien muttered. Why did it seem as though everything, even time, was against him?
“Which one next?” Cassandra asked, her voice as level and calm as ever.
Lucien looked at the other Glennish titles on the shelf. It might be one of them or none of them. His mother might very well have hidden the papers in one of the French books or one in English. Good God, he would never find it if it was one of the English books.
Think, Lucien! Think. He’d been standing in her private chamber in the palace when his mother secreted the papers. He could remember the scent of candle wax and roses. He could hear the ripping sound when she’d torn the pages out of the book. If only he’d paid attention to the book, known what it looked like. He was running out of time. He willed the book to be there, scanned the titles, then paused.
A Collection of Poems for Children.
“There,” he said, reaching for the volume wedged in the corner. A volume with gold lettering and a tattered cover.
“Is that it?” Cassandra asked when he didn’t open it right away.
He stared at the book, his hands shaking so badly he feared he’d drop the book. Of course she would have chosen this book. It had been a favorite of the royal children, and his mother had read it to them before bed when they’d been younger.
Lucien met Cassandra’s gaze, and her hands slid over his trembling ones. “Open it,” she whispered.
How would he have done this without her?
He opened the book. The first page was familiar to him, not only the title but the scribbles his sister Vivi had made one afternoon when she’d found a pen and ink.
He stared at those scribbles, at the evidence of his past life. In the last few months, he’d almost feared he’d dreamed he’d once been a prince, once been the heir to the throne of Glynaven.
He turned several pages, his hands moving more quickly and surely now. He knew who he was, and he knew what he would find in the center of the book. Still, when he reached the space made by the extracted pages, he felt a shock rush through him. He must have jerked, because the papers fell out, Cassandra reaching to catch them before they could land on the floor.
She beamed up at him, her smile so large he had to smile back. “We found them!” she squealed.
He dropped the book and opened the first yellowed paper. It was a letter of introduction for the family, including himself. It had been written in his mother’s hand, and he ran a fingertip over his name.
“There is the name of a bank here and an account number. At least I think that is what it is. I cannot read Glennish.”
“That is exactly what it is. The Bank of England,” he said. He’d known it would be the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, but his efforts to access the bank accounts of the royal family had been in vain without any papers or the account numbers.
“Oh, and here is a five-pound note. Goodness. If anyone else had found this, he would have thought himself the luckiest man alive.”
He took her hand. “I am the luckiest man alive because I have you.”
“Me? I didn’t do anything.”
“You never doubted me,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips. “You never once doubted me. That faith means more to me than gold.”
“Shall we go to the bank?” she asked, her gaze lowering as though she was embarrassed. “We should hurry if we want to arrive before they close for the holiday.”
He’d forgotten time was not on his side. He’d forgotten the assassins were still searching for him. The sooner he went to the bank and distanced himself from Cassandra, the safer she would be. Every minute spent with her put her in danger.
At one time this foray to the bank would have been all that mattered to him. He would have run all the way there. Now he did not want to rise, did not want to begin the trip.
He knew every minute closer to the bank was one last minute spent with Cassandra.
Chapter Seven
They’d raced to the bank for naught. If Cassandra could have beaten the bank manager with a birch, she would have done so. Now that they were back in the carriage and returning to her town house—the book, papers, and money clutched in Lucien’s hands—she could admit he had reined in his temper far better than she.
“I do apologize for my outburst,” she said. “I’m certain Mr. Sutton has no idea what came over me. I have known him for years and never so much as raised my voice.”
His mouth twitched as though he wanted to smile but would not allow himself to do so. “You have nothing to apologize for,” he said again. “In fact, you were quite magnificent.”
She was about to deny it, when he crossed the carriage and pulled her into his arms. She loved being in his arms. They were strong and so very warm. When she was in his embrace, nothing else mattered. Not Effie’s disapproval when they returned home, not the ridiculous bank manager who would not see them on Christmas Eve, not the fact that Lucien was leaving her.
He hadn’t said as much, but she knew it. He’d said good-bye with his eyes a thousand times. He worried for her safety. He worried he asked too much of her. He was not good at accepting charity from others. He did not want to impose on her.
If he’d have but listened, she would have told him it was no imposition. She would have told him she never wanted him to leave. Unfortunately, his sense of honor would force him to keep her safe from the assassins targeting him. It was honor that would force him to leave. He didn’t love her, else he would not have been able to go away.
She loved him. Completely. And she was a weak, desperate woman. So desperate, in fact, that she did the one thing she’d been telling herself she must not do.
“Stay with me tonight.”
He drew back. “Cassandra, it’s not safe for me to be near you.”
“I don’t care about safe. Lucien, it’s Christmas Eve. You cannot spend it alone.”
But of course he could. He had money now. He would find a room in a hotel and sleep in comfort. The unspoken words were hers.
Don’t leave me alone.
Another solitary Christmas, listening to the servants’ games and wishing she had someone to kiss under the mistletoe.
She turned to look out the windows at the dusky evening quickly falling. The last rays of sunlight made the melting snow sparkle.
“Cassandra.” His tone was placating, asking for understanding.
For once she would not accommodate. She would not be placated. She would ask for what she wanted, and she would have it too. “Stay with me,” she said, looking at him again. “Come
to my bed. Make love to me this one last night. Surely even assassins do not work on Christmas.”
He gave a small bark of laughter, then gathered her into his embrace. “How will I ever leave you? Yes, fair Cassandra, I’ll stay with you tonight.”
The simple words made the rest of the long evening bearable—Effie’s hysterics, the awkward Christmas Eve dinner afterward, the stilted singing of carols when the Yule log was brought inside. Cass had been relieved to retire as early as Effie and leave the servants to their revelry. Lucien had retired before either of them, and she lay in her large bed for an hour before he finally tapped on her door and slid inside. Cass had gone to him the night before for fear Effie would know she was with the prince, but Cass no longer cared about Effie’s opinion. Effie’s behavior then had been nothing short of embarrassing. Cass no longer felt she owed her late husband’s sister anything but the most common courtesy.
She sat. “I thought perhaps you’d fallen asleep.”
He wore no coat, and he drew his shirt over his head as he approached the bed. “The thought of you kept me wide awake.”
Cassandra swallowed at the sight of him as he stalked across the room, his broad shoulders tapering into a lean waist and slim hips encased in tight breeches. Lord but she did love to look at him. He had to be leaner than before he’d fled Glynaven. He must be nothing short of a god when in top form.
He watched her watch him as he raised a hand to the fall of the breeches. “It took me a moment to find your room. I fear I almost disturbed Miss Ashbrooke’s peace.”
Cass giggled at the idea. Effie would have perished from merely the thought of a man touching her.
The bed sagged under Lucien’s weight as he sat to remove his boots. They were his own and quite tightly fitted. He had to struggle for a moment before he finally shed them. Then he stood again, but Cass caught his hand before he reached for his breeches.
He raised a brow. “Too presumptuous of me?”
How could the man possibly think she—any woman, really—would not want him in her bed? “Not at all. I want to do it myself.”
She bit her lip to stem the rising flush. She had promised herself she would ask for what she wanted, and damn the mortification. He’d looked so beautiful last night, rising proudly from the juncture of his muscled thighs.