A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle

by Christi Caldwell

  At the end of the proverbial day, those books were merely a means to a greater fortune…this one matters to you…and it is the most important because of it…

  A little niggling started low in his belly and he scowled. What sorcery was Bridget Hamlet capable of that she’d have him standing here questioning his views on those works and, more, the way he’d lived his life all these years?

  “Perhaps I’ll speak to him, once more.”

  “Do not,” Vail called, staying him in his tracks. “I don’t want him appeased.” He’d sat through the earl’s insults and taunting years ago. He’d not deny himself a long overdue exchange, where he was in control.

  “Bloody hell, Vail,” Edward muttered, checking the time once again.

  As an appreciator of those fine texts, his younger brother, for all his business acumen, was more alike many of those collectors than Vail. Taken under the wing of one of his mother’s late protectors, he’d benefited from a fine education at Eton and Oxford and, in turn, used those skills to shape his way in the world. Vail, however, had been schooled by tutors in rooms of the townhouses rented by whatever lover was keeping his mother. He’d not seen education as anything more than a way out of the uncertain life his mother had known.

  Silence, punctuated by the ticking of the clock, stretched on. At last, the clock struck forty minutes past the hour. “I’m going,” he said brusquely, pushing away from the sideboard.

  “About bloody time,” Edward grumbled. “There are other ways to woo a buyer, you know,” he called after him.

  “I’m not trying to woo him.”

  “You should.”

  Vail found his way through the townhouse and onward to the largest of his Collection Rooms. The place where, just yesterday, he’d shared parts of himself with Bridget that he’d never shared with another. Her veiled, but subtle, challenge to how he’d run his business and how he’d lived his life rang in his mind, again. Rearing itself when it had no place in his head before a meeting with a man willing to toss down a fortune for his obsession.

  Setting aside thoughts of Bridget Hamlet, Vail stepped inside the Collection Room.

  “Forty minutes,” the earl thundered from his seat on the leather button sofa in the front of the room. The man jumped up quickly, for one his age. “You’d arrange a meeting at six o’clock in the goddamned morning and keep me waiting here?”

  At first glance, one would only ever take the bespectacled, old earl as a bookish lord, without a spine in his back. Vail had learned early on that appearances were as deceiving as people themselves. “Marlborough,” he greeted with a veneer of false civility as he entered the room. “A pleasure as—”

  “Don’t you give me a bloody word of civilities or pleasantries,” the man boomed, jabbing a finger at him. “After that insulting offer you made when we last met, I should have never bothered contacting you again.”

  “And yet, you did.” He found wicked delight in pointing that out as he approached. The moment he’d learned of the Chaucer.

  A ruddy flush stained the earl’s pale cheeks. And there is where he revealed the depth of his weakness. Vail took up a place behind his desk and reclined in a deliberately negligent pose, daring the other man to leave.

  His cheeks ruddy, Lord Marlborough puffed out his narrow chest and, with stiff movements, claimed the spot opposite Vail. “You insulted me, Chilton.” He’d have to be deaf to miss the true source of his contention there—Marlborough’s spinster daughter, an avid book lover, whom the earl had hoped to coordinate a match with.

  “I offered you a fair price,” he said, neatly focusing on the safer feud they’d fought: over DeFoe’s Robinson Crusoe. Just over a century old, the book had hardly merited those accolades—at this time, and he’d been abundantly honest in that.

  The earl sputtered. “A f-fair price? That work,” he jabbed a furious finger at the velvet sack upon the viewing table. “Is a literary masterpiece. Ran through four editions within its first year of print. Four.” He held up four ink-stained digits. “And fortunate for you, I’ve come with the purpose of allowing you to try and redeem yourself. You’ve the opportunity to add a first edition signed copy and the follow-up title, and you offered me two thousand pounds?”

  This is what it was to be, then. A test. The bloody man hadn’t forgiven the slight of Vail declining a courtship of his daughter and, by this, he wagered he never would.

  He flattened his mouth. “I’ve not invited you to speak on past grievances or your DeFoe.”

  Some of the tension eased from the earl’s frame and he preened. “Ah, yes. You’d make your appeal for right of first refusal on my collection.”

  The bastard was relishing this. Marlborough’s library would fetch upward of two hundred thousand pounds, and Vail’s driven desire to be the best at what he did. It had been dangled as a dowry for the man’s eldest daughter. Vail, however, had little interest in whoring himself for a fortune.

  “First, we’ll talk about the copy of Crusoe you disrespected last time we met.”

  Vail studied the earl’s set mouth, the triumphant glitter in his eyes. Vail’s own want of that collection…the need to be the greatest of the sellers, had driven him to dance the same proverbial dance. Staring at Marlborough, he at last faced the truth—the inevitable result would be a denial. Lord Marlborough had no more intention of granting him access and control of his cherished volumes than he did setting them all afire and burning his own townhouse down.

  “Very well,” he drawled. “You wish to have me look again at DeFoe’s works?” He nodded for the earl to remove the articles he’d brought.

  The earl eyed him with a deserved wariness and then, drawing on his gloves, set to taking out each of the four copies. He set them up on four wooden display stands, and turned to Vail. “Have a look?” Three syllables and yet they contained a world of jeering mockery.

  Vail shoved lazily to his feet and, as he joined Marlborough at the tableside, he made a show of studying the works. All the while, he repressed the same fury that had driven him to pummel those boys who’d mocked him as a child. Whatever street he and his mother had called their temporary home had inevitably found him fending off attacks and taunting jibes over the origins of his birth. Until he’d met Huntly, he’d thought the world, as a whole, incapable of seeing him as anything but an extension of his mother’s occupation. After he’d gone to war, he’d vowed never again be an object of ridicule and shaped himself into a master of his own fate. He’d not ceded that for this priggish lord before him.

  “Well?” the earl demanded.

  “The Farther Adventures of Robinson Crusoe?” he drawled. “With the dearth of praise it receives even now, I expected you were merely including it as free per an agreement.”

  Lord Marlborough froze, and then shot his eyebrows up. A moment later, the earl unleashed a stinging diatribe on Vail’s ancestry.

  Chapter 12

  Returned from her too-short visit with Virgil, Bridget moved through the halls of Vail’s townhouse. Basket in hand, she turned at the end of the corridor and came to an abrupt stop.

  His brother, Mr. Winterly, stood with his ears all but pressed to Vail’s office door. Perplexed, she opened her mouth to greet him. “Good—”

  “Shh.” He whipped his head toward her and raised a finger in warning.

  Well, then. Whatever held Vail’s brother outside that paneled door like a naughty child didn’t pertain to her, at all. The baron’s business was his own. Oh, blast, her curiosity had always been her Achilles heel. Setting her basket down against the wall, she joined him at the doorway.

  Mr. Winterly cast her a quick glance.

  “What is it?” she mouthed.

  Another bellow split the doorway. Even with only partial hearing, she’d have to be deaf as a post to fail and detect that.

  “A business meeting,” Edward muttered.

  She stared perplexedly at the door. What manner of meeting was this?

  The young man-of-affairs l
eaned closer. “The Earl of Marlborough is inside. He’s—”

  Bridget stifled a gasp behind her fingers.

  “You’ve heard of him, then.” There was a glimmer of approval there.

  “I have,” she whispered in return. Even tucked away in her corner of Leeds, she knew of the Earl of Marlborough. Mr. Lowell had brought her a handful of volumes to assess which had come from the earl’s collection.

  The same frustrated worry she’d spied earlier returned to Edward’s gaze. He placed his mouth close to her ear and she angled her head giving him access to her right one. “Vail’s vying for the rights to Marlborough’s collection.” All of it? “He’s selling his works,” he confirmed.

  Noted among scholars everywhere for its greatness, it hardly made sense.

  “Why?” she blurted and then promptly closed her lips.

  The muffled shouts swallowed her quiet interruption. What were they arguing over in there? She damned her reduced hearing.

  “According to the gossip, he’s ill. The line will pass to a hated nephew, and he’d see his daughters cared for.”

  Envy—a wicked, dark emotion pulled at her heart for those nameless, unknown women whose father would part with his beloved tomes so he might protect his kin. On the heel of that was shame for her own self-absorption in light of the earl’s sickness.

  “…Bastard Baron is the perfect title for you,” the earl bellowed those words distinctly reaching Bridget’s ear. “I’d, however, argue you’re a son of…” The remainder of that inventive insult singed her cheeks.

  Well. This was the revered collector, regarded for his literary knowledge of all texts—ancient and new ones, alike. Through their heated argument, Bridget strained to detect a hint of Vail’s replies or retorts…and yet, he remained stoically silent, allowing the outraged earl to fill his office with insults. “He’s never going to grant him ownership of his collections,” she murmured.

  “No.” She started, having failed to realize she’d spoken aloud. “Though…” Mr. Winterly looked to the door, and spoke in hushed tones, that even with her good ear, she strained to detect. “I suspect he never did. Vail knew that, and he’s too much pride to let a person enter his household and make a fool of him.”

  Tendrils of dread snaked through her. Vail was a kind man, generous to those who were fortunate enough to call him family. Yet, by the fortunes he’d made and the people he dealt with, he was ruthless. She searched Edward for evidence that he knew of or hinted at her own duplicity but he had his effortful attention trained on the doorway. Lord Marlborough’s thunderous bellowing reached a crescendo.

  “…And I will be goddamned if I ever let you, of all sellers, near a damned book. Not even a child’s primer…”

  Reaching past Edward, she knocked once. Mr. Winterly hissed. “What are you…”

  Without bothering for permission, she entered. The gaunt, bespectacled gentleman pacing before Vail’s rectangular table didn’t even break stride. For a moment, she stared in reverent awe at the famed owner of some of the greatest works. It was rumored that one of his country estates had been converted solely into a place where he stored his first edition, signed books.

  If looks could kill, Vail would have smote her where she stood.

  “My lord,” she greeted. Mayhap, the sound of her voice snapped the earl from his tirade.

  “Wh-who is this?” the other man demanded, indignantly. Despite his concave frame and frail appearance, he moved with a surprising alacrity placing himself between Bridget and his prized volumes resting on that table.

  Vail stood quickly and came around his desk. He glowered at Bridget. “My housekeeper was just leaving.” Logic said leave and let Vail to his failed transaction. The need to intervene—even when he neither wanted, nor realized he needed assistance—stayed her.

  “Your housekeeper interrupting a business meeting? I’ve my doubts about the manner of seller you, in fact, are,” the earl shot back.

  Both men took a step toward one another and Bridget swiftly moved between them. With the air of civility stripped away and tensions high, how vastly different these meetings between the sellers were than the kindly visits paid her by Mr. Lowell “I came to inquire as to whether you required refreshments,” she said hurriedly, glancing frantically about.

  Vail stared pointedly at her empty hands.

  “Refreshments with Chilton?” his guest spat, planting his hands on his hips. “I’d sooner take tea or coffee with—”

  “Robinson Crusoe,” she murmured, drifting over to the earl.

  The gentleman stopped mid-sentence. “I was going to say the Devil…” The heated fury receded from the earl’s tones.

  “It is a magnificent work. Is it not?” she asked, raising her gaze briefly to his.

  Through his round, wire-rimmed spectacles, he met her stare with wide-eyed shock. “You’re familiar with it?” he asked, the question emerged grudgingly.

  “Indeed,” she replied, moving closer to the table. She leaned down to assess the watermarks upon those pages. Once, she’d been tasked with evaluating the authenticity of a second-generation copy. “Some dismiss DeFoe’s Crusoe as a work of literary fiction and undeserving of the same respect shown more antiquated texts.”

  The earl folded his arms at his narrow chest. “And what is your opinion, Miss…?”

  “Mrs. Hamlet,” she supplied. Her skin pricked with the intensity of Vail’s eyes, following her every movement. Since she’d entered his household, he had been far more generous than any other nobleman would have with how she’d inserted herself inside the collections. By the palpable fury emanating from his frame, there were certain boundaries he was unwilling to cede. Her commandeering a meeting with a powerful peer and business associate appeared to be the line against which he drew liberties permitted. She warred with herself. Inevitably, the lure to discuss those texts proved greater. “The narrative is simple,” she finally said. The gentleman stitched his white eyebrows together in a single, disapproving line. “But that narrative does not preclude it from greatness. Even at the time,” she gesticulated wildly to the books as she spoke. “DeFoe’s style was unfamiliar but people recognized the significance of his voice and that work.” She laughed. “After all, there is a reason that it went through four editions when it was not even a year old in print.”

  The gentleman eyed her suspiciously for a long moment and then he smiled. That upturn of his lips erased his earlier outrage, transforming him into an affable fellow. “Precisely.” He jerked his head at Vail. “Tried to tell this one, to no avail.” He drifted closer. “This is a first edition, you know.” He spoke with the same pride Bridget had in talking of Virgil’s first steps and words to the villagers in their parish.

  “Is it?” Bridget arched her neck in a bid to see the front cover.

  “Mrs. Hamlet,” Vail said, a warning in those four syllables.

  “Do you have experience with antiquated texts?” The earl countered, ignoring Vail’s menacing form, hovering beyond their shoulders.

  “I evaluated books and manuscripts for…” In her ease in speaking about the familiar and safe topic of her experience, she’d nearly forgotten the lies she’d given Vail about her background. “For my late husband,” she finished somberly.

  The earl withdrew a pair of white gloves and extended them toward her. She stole a sideways peek at Vail. Only where earlier there’d been a barely concealed outrage for her interference, now his face was a carefully set mask, carved of stone. Accepting the articles from his visitor, Bridget drew them on. With meticulous care, she lifted up the first copy and searched the front of the book as she’d been longing to since Lord Marlborough had shifted, revealing DeFoe’s work laid out behind him. She scraped her gaze over that title page, noting the word mark, the age of the parchment. “It is a—”

  “First edition,” the earl supplied for her. “Yes.” A muscle leapt at the corner of his eye. “And Chilton tried to rob—”

  “Some believe DeFoe was inspi
red by Ibn Tufail’s Hayy ibn Yaqdhan,” she neatly interjected, in a bid to diffuse that resurgence of Lord Marlborough’s indignation.

  The earl caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I’d read he was influenced by Robert—”

  “Knox’s abduction by the King of Ceylon.” This time she finished for him. Bridget carefully tugged the too large gloves off and returned them. “I daresay it would be interesting to have the texts side by side to study.”

  “I’ve all of them,” he whispered sounding years younger for his enthusiasm. “First editions.”

  She gasped and looked up. “Truly?”

  For all the gentleman’s earlier rancor, a silly, affable grin teased the corners of his mouth. “You’re certain this one’s a housekeeper, Chilton?” he called over jovially to the still silent baron.

  Bridget faced Vail and braced for the evidence of his fury. The ghost of a smile hovered on his lips and a proud glimmer lit his eyes. Her heart did a funny flip.

  “I noted her skill from the onset and relieved her of most of those responsibilities.”

  The earl snorted and stuffed his gloves back inside his jacket. “Then you’re as much a damned fool as I took you for at the start of this meeting, for having her cut your mutton and cook your pastries is a waste of her real talents.”

  “Oh, I removed those tasks within her third day here.”

  Lord Marlborough chuckled. “Then, mayhap you’re not as stupid as I’d taken you for, Chilton.” Turning back to Bridget, the earl dismissed Vail once more. “And what do you think of The Farther Adventures of Robinson Crusoe?”

  His was a test. She heard it in the challenge underscoring that question, as much as she picked it up in the glimmer in his rheumy eyes. Bridget carefully weighed her words. “DeFoe’s work…there was nothing like it prior,” she finally said. “It set the literary world upon its ear and earned places on everyone’s shelves for not only its uniqueness but because the brilliance of that simple prose.” Bridget gestured to the follow-up edition that had been met with nowhere near the accolades as the first. “Inevitably, all readers cannot help but compare a title to its predecessor, and it’s hardly fair to the book or the author. So, if you look at it against DeFoe’s first masterpiece, it cannot ever help but fall short.” She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I, however, was always one who appreciated each title for its own worth and greatness.” Bridget winked.