As if I cannot carry a few volumes myself.
“Give me at least a half an hour, Jules.” If only Alexa dared remove her bonnet. The wide brim proved useful in keeping the sun from her face, but obstructed her view of anything not directly in front of her. “I don’t want to rush.”
“I understand, but Mr. Needham was most clear. I am to be watchful and keep you from harm. I even hesitate to step outside to hail a hire carriage. There’s riffraff about today.” Jules scowled at a young buck examining Alexa with his quizzing glass.
The man pivoted and plowed straight into a post, knocking his hat onto the floor and likely blackening his eye.
A giggle escaped Alexa as she patted her reticule containing her knife. “I’m quite prepared for, shall we say, unwanted company. I was raised as a gypsy, you know.”
“Aye, I’d like to see that, I would.” Jules grinned and folded his arms. “Thirty minutes, then.”
Bindy cricked her neck, gawking at the upper shelves. “Blimey, I ain’t never seen so many books afore. Almost makes me wish I knew hows to read.”
“I cannot promise to hasten.” With a hurried wave, Alexa strode to the stairs. She decided against the next gallery she ascended as it, too, held a good number of customers perusing the laden shelves, or as often, clustered in intimate groups, animatedly conversing.
Fewer patrons frequented the third floor with its shabbier, yet altogether fascinating contents. Piles of books lay stacked, haphazardly, amongst the shelving. Breath suspended, she tiptoed to an overflowing, dusty shelf of what must have been used books.
So much, the better.
Others had enjoyed hours of solace turning the worn pages. Who had the people been, and what were their lives like, that they chose these particular books to pass the time with? Wouldn’t it be grand if the pages talked and shared the secrets they’d witnessed? What a marvel that would be.
Reaching for a volume, she paused. Her white gloves were sure to become soiled, and they cost her dearly. Giving a covert glance around, she stripped them off.
Finally, after much indecision, she selected three novels then searched for something a little less frivolous.
The Mirror of the Graces snagged her attention.
Couldn’t hurt to educate herself about proper comportment, and if the contents proved too absurd, she might have a good chuckle at least. Now, where to put her books that didn’t boast a thick layer of dust so she might don her gloves again?
A windowsill beckoned, and she maneuvered a path between lopsided book piles to the grungy panes. The street and sidewalks below bustled with mid-morning activities and those eager to enjoy the pleasant day.
Bending, she blew away the worst of the dust which, unfortunately, caused a fit of sneezing. Alexa set the books down, her gloves atop them, before searching her reticule for a kerchief.
“What a surprise to learn you read, Miss Atterberry.”
Chapter 14
One hand within her bag, Alexa spun around.
Lord Renishaw leaned against a shelf, his beady-eyed gaze raking her, toe to top. Drat, Mr. Mortimer. The viscount straightened and blocked the aisle, a predatory grin slanting his mouth. Except for an azure and black patterned waistcoat, he wore gray again.
His dual insult didn’t escape her.
“Do you actually intend to read them, or are they for show? Or for the Needhams, perchance?” He pointed at her books. “I wasn’t aware gypsies knew how to read, although, I’ve heard tell of certain other unusual . . . skills they possess.”
Rat.
She’d like to show him precisely what a gypsy knew how to do, the pompous boor. Instead, she gathered her belongings, leaving off her gloves. “I was headed below.”
He didn’t budge, and the three whispering matrons—in addition to a stoop-shouldered, elderly gentleman and a sophisticated dame on the room’s other side—paid them no notice.
Alexa narrowed her eyes upon recognizing The Three Un-Muses who’d given her the cut last night. No help from their quarter. She ought to turn round and leave in the other direction, but if she did, she’d no longer be visible to the patrons, and instinct told her the viscount would follow. She didn’t want to be caught in a dark corner alone with him.
No, better and safer to face him here even if her knees did quake beneath her skirts. Memories of her treatment with the Blackhalls resurfaced, and familiar dread choked her, strangling her breathing and crushing her pulse.
She recognized the look in Renishaw’s eyes. Her abuse, and the harrowing experience at the Scots’ hands, had left her with a lingering leeriness of men. Intimidation brought knaves like him perverse enjoyment, and she’d learned early on at Dounnich House to mask her fright. Fear had fed her tormentors’ warped sensibilities.
Forcing calm to her features, she inhaled a bracing breath while strategically placing her open reticule atop her book stack. The blade’s handle, easily accessible beneath her gloves, bolstered her confidence, and Alexa met Renishaw’s gaze square on.
Burying her dagger in him would be as easy as slicing bread. “Please move aside. I wish to pass, my lord.”
“Why the rush? We didn’t have an opportunity to become better acquainted last evening.” His oily gaze sank to her breasts, and he flicked his tongue out to lick his lower lip.
Perhaps viper better described him.
A fat hog sought a butcher’s company more eagerly than she desired to further her association with Lord Renishaw. His eyes bespoke a depth of evil equivalent to her abductors. He advanced a few steps, but she stiffened her quaking knees and stood her ground. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he jarred her.
“I’d hoped to ask you to take a drive with me in Hyde Park this afternoon. How providential you are here now.” His mouth eased into a disturbing smile. “My carriage is outside. I’d be delighted to see you home. I’m sure your uncle would frown upon you trotting about London unescorted.”
Daft as a drunken troll. First he insulted her and then had the effrontery to ask her to take an unchaperoned drive with him?
When chickens sang opera.
In Italian.
And how did he know she hadn’t come by carriage? Mr. Mortimer again?
“My escorts wait below, and I’m not returning home yet. Thank you for your concern and kind offer.” She wanted to gag on her last insincere words.
“Well, at least allow me to accompany you to your next destination.” He wrapped his hand around her arm, none too gently, and tugged her closer. “Your uncle would like us to become better acquainted. As would I.”
I’ll bet you would.
“Release me, this instant.” She pulled against his grip. Her heart galloping, Alexa slid her hand beneath her gloves. “Harrison Peterson is not my uncle.”
Leering, Renishaw grunted a dismissive sound. “Come now, Alexandra. It seems Fate has favored us with this chance meeting as I should very much like to court you.”
Her breakfast fought to make a violent reappearance. Lips pursed in revulsion, she swallowed past the bile burning her throat.
Had it been Renishaw who offered for her hand?
Did poor, smitten Shona know?
Ogling her breasts, he blathered on. “Show me some favor, and I’m sure I can convince Harrison not to press charges against the Scottish gypsies who abducted you.”
Bring charges against the tinkers? She’d see about that. Wait until Alexa saw Harrison Peterson again. His ears would blister and ring for a week when she finished setting him straight, the scheming worm.
“As we haven’t been formally introduced, this conversation is wholly inappropriate, my lord. And as such, requesting to court me, equally so.”
The viscount sidled nearer and trailed his finger over her cheek. “I would enjoy tamin
g you—”
Alexa now understood what it meant to have one’s skin crawl. To avoid his caress, hers practically leapt from her skull and scampered beneath a shelf to cuddle with the dust bunnies.
Jerking her face away, she whisked her blade from its hiding place. Dagger tip pressed to his manhood, Alexa yanked her arm free of his grasp. “I haven’t given you leave to touch me or use my given name.”
A greenish-gray pallor suffused his face, and his eyes narrowed to vengeful slits.
“I can unman you before you open your mouth. So, I suggest you keep it sealed, and listen unless you want me to sever your ballocks quicker than plums nipped from a branch.” She didn’t dare take her gaze from him to see if anyone took note of their discord.
“What Harrison Peterson wants is of no account to me. I make my own decisions, and I want you to stay away from me. Very far away. I’d rather have a rotting corpse court me. Is that clear?” For emphasis, she gave her knife a jabbing twist.
“Why you little, gypsy bitch.” He raised his hand to slap her, and she pressed her blade harder into his groin. He winced and a white line ringed his mouth. “You wouldn’t dare.”
She curved her mouth into an exaggerated, sweet smile. “Try me.”
“I—” He froze, utter loathing settling upon his features.
A large hand suddenly gripped her elbow. She jumped and looked behind her, nearly dropping her dagger.
The Duke of Harcourt stood there, jaw rigid and fuming gaze darkened to ebony. Relief flooded her, and Alexa practically sagged against him.
“Lady Atterberry has made her position abundantly clear, Renishaw. Dare to touch her again, and I’ll run you through.”
Jules came tearing around the shelving’s other end. His troubled gaze shifted between her and the viscount. “Are you in need of assistance, miss?”
Two heroes to her rescue.
Hands fisted, Jules and the duke looked ready to throttle Renishaw, which she wouldn’t mind in the least. It might teach the beef-wit some manners.
The viscount abruptly developed the good sense to retreat a few paces, and the duke bent his neck and whispered in her ear. “Smile and subtly put the knife away. We’ve drawn unwanted attention.”
Forcing a grimly congenial smile, Alexa hid the blade in her skirts as she deftly lowered her reticule and tried to ignore the delicious frisson his warm breath caused.
The duke’s long fingers closed atop hers, and in an instant, he slid the knife from her palm and then dropped the dagger into her bag. Her skin tingled where he’d touched her.
The line of Lord Renishaw’s mouth flattened further. “A little premature, calling her Lady Atterberry, Harcourt. Surely, you’re aware both daughters inherit until the Committee of Privileges settles in favor of one. Usually the one who petitions, which isn’t always the heir presumptive.”
The chinwags’ full attention fell on them. Their eyes buggy and ears flapping like giant windmills, the intrigued threesome sidled closer.
Alexa clenched her teeth against an oath.
“This is hardly the place for such a discussion and the subject is none of your affair.” Reassurance in his eyes, the duke gave Alexa a closed-lip smile as he turned her to leave, effectively dismissing the viscount. “Are you ready to make your purchases?”
“Yes, quite.” Clasping her bag and gloves, she passed her books to the footman. “Thank you, Jules.”
Broad-shouldered and thick-chested, Jules boasted a good eight inches on the scrawnier viscount. A man with more sense would have heeded the glowering footman.
Renishaw stomped forward a couple of paces. Idiot. “A petition to have the abeyant peerage terminated in Shona’s favor was submitted within days of receiving word this,” he jabbed a finger at Alexa, “interloper lived.”
“I’m quite aware of that particular, Lord Renishaw.” She would eat worms before she revealed Shona’s bastardy to these lickspittles. She scrutinized him from beneath her lashes.
Why the facade of wanting to court me and then this hostile about-face? Is the man dimwitted?
“Interloper?” A dame gasped dramatically then raised her voice. “She’s not the Atterberry heiress? She’s a . . . fraud?”
Rather than sounding surprised, the woman’s shrill voice rang with glee. Other patrons turned to peer in their direction.
Alexa hid her dismay. This didn’t portend well.
“I suspected something wasn’t right the moment I laid eyes on her,” another matron scoffed, raising her humped nose skyward. “That hair and accent give her common breeding away.”
Better they think that, no matter how inaccurate, than know of Shona’s illegitimacy.
“Those Needhams have always been upstarts—mushrooms—trying to shove their way into Polite Society.” The third woman sniffed disdainfully and pursed her lips as if she’d tasted something foul. “They smell of the shop.”
She spat the last word as if ridding her tongue of excrement.
Alexa refused to look in the dames’ direction. Their opinions meant nothing, the irksome cackling of eggless, old hens, but that they dare speak of her aunt and uncle . . . Oh, she longed to give them a piece of her mind, the seanchas ban-draoidh, gossiping witches. If it wouldn’t bring more censure to her family, she’d speak her piece and be done with the biddies, once and for all.
“Who do you think the committee will support? The daughter who’s lived a respectable life as a peeress for years, or one raised in the wilds of Scotland with the scruples of a gypsy?” A gloating smile wreathed the viscount’s face as he sliced the gawking women a sideways glance. “Tell me, how long did those rogue Scots hold you captive, unchaperoned, Miss Atterberry?”
Hell.
“That’s outside the bounds, Renishaw. Hold your filthy tongue.” Lucan surged forward reflexively before checking himself. Self-control wrestled with revenge, each intent on pummeling the other. One thing kept Lucan from laying Renishaw flat, then and there—Alexandra’s turbulent violet eyes and the alarm flitting across her face before she schooled her features into a composed mask.
The three ogling bystanders played a part in his restraint as well. Each one a vicious she-cat, today they bared their pointed teeth and freshly sharpened claws.
“Cannot wait to see how you explain that savory abduction tidbit.” Laughing snidely, Renishaw sketched a mocking bow and took his leave, having wreaked the havoc he intended.
As soon as he’d deposited Alexandra at home, Lucan would direct Darley to investigate the connection between Peterson and Renishaw. His man of business usually proved quite adept at unearthing unpleasant scraps people preferred remain concealed.
Hound’s teeth. Darley hadn’t yet returned from checking on Lucan’s silk mill in Derbyshire. Well then, he’d arrange a meeting at White’s with Bretheridge and Warrick and see what they knew. Besides, Lucan wanted to view the bet Renishaw had placed.
Had the cur even attempted to couch the terms to protect Jeremy’s identity? Perhaps Lucan could persuade someone to blacken out the bet. Not bloody likely, but worth a try. He turned to the footman. “Have Miss Atterberry’s books charged to my account and my carriage brought round to the store’s front. You and Bindy wait inside the vehicle, please.”
Earlier, he’d recognized Jules as a Needham servant, and Lucan had hoped to find Alexandra within the bookstore. It never occurred to him to question whether she could read or write.
Happening upon her applying a knife to Renishaw’s balls came as a delightful shock. Lucan fought an internal battle whether to step in or let her finish the job, except the notorious tattlemongers—the Hinton sisters—had caught wind something was afoot.
Those busybodies possessed noses more superior for detecting potentially scandal-worthy morsels than hounds tracking a fresh fox trail. Better th
em than Lady Clutterbuck, however. That raucous crow had a penchant for viciousness that did Satan proud.
Then, Renishaw dared to raise his hand to Alexandra, and in public too. The bloody sot knew no bounds. If slaying the bastard on the spot were permissible, Lucan would have, with relish. His blood boiled and reason flew in the face of rage when he’d threatened to run the cur through—his vow to Mother, be damned.
Some things took precedence over honor and promises, no matter how well-intended.
“Splendid morning, isn’t it, ladies?” Doffing his hat, he elevated a questioning brow at the gaping, stocky threesome and flashed his most disarming smile. “Has your excursion been successful?”
Lucan peered expressly at their empty hands. He didn’t refer to their reading choices, but the rumor mill fodder they fervently gathered wherever they descended like harpies from hell.
Huffing their displeasure, they scurried from the gallery, whispering furiously the whole while. By evening, all London would know an embellished version of what had transpired.
Probably some outrageousness along the lines of Alexandra being the bastard daughter of a diseased Whitechapel doxie, as well Alexandra willingly sharing her favors with the Scottish barbarians who abducted her.
After dancing nude as a nymph.
On a tabletop.
In a brothel.
Oh, and foxed-to-the-gills, Renishaw and Lucan had engaged in a drunken public display of fisticuffs. In their shirt sleeves and stockings, no less.
A few moments later, Lucan handed an admirably poised Alexandra into his carriage. Seemingly unaffected, his petite gypsy possessed a great deal of gumption, yet he couldn’t help but wonder what went on inside her pretty head.
She hesitated and then slid onto the unoccupied seat where sprigs of heather lay wrapped in paper and tied with a wide purple ribbon. Upon spying the flowers, her gaze swerved to him, and a sweet smile curved her kissable lips. Her unpretentiousness endeared her to him all the more.
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