So it was that Ransom Deverell discovered a new path, down which he'd never before ventured. Just when he thought there were none left.
Chapter Three
Mary stared at the hard, stale muffin, trying to reassure herself that the black dots really were raisins. Sometimes the mind could play tricks with the alternate possibilities and quite put a person off. Even a very hungry person.
She poked it with her finger and marveled at the cork-like texture. One thing was certain, if this muffin were thrown with force in a crowded place it would probably blacken an eye or two. Might have its uses after all, she thought wryly, if not the one for which it was made.
But what she really desired was a large, fluffy Parisian pastry, bursting with whipped cream and dripping with sweet chocolate glaze. Oh, what was it called? Pain a la Duchesse. Yes, that was it! She saw one once, some years ago at a very fine garden party, and now she bitterly regretted passing the cake platter, forfeiting her chance to experience that delicious confection. At the time she gave it up for two reasons— the fortitude of her corset laces and the puzzling problem of how to consume such a creation in public without making an unsightly mess. It was the sort of delight one could only enjoy to the fullest in private, and she could not very well sneak away with it concealed in her reticule.
Back then, of course, she couldn't have known that such gourmet opportunities would one day be nothing more than a memory and that she ought to make the most of it, regardless of who watched her eat the pastry. Let them be forever scarred by the sight of her wicked, unladylike greed and chocolate-stained cheeks. What did she care? Well, she'd know next time.
Alas, there was no Pain a la Duchesse on her horizon. Not for the foreseeable future.
"Mary, my dear! Dr. Woodley is here to collect his special order. Can you bring it from the back room?"
She hastily set the dry muffin back on her plate and looked for the book she'd been perusing all night. "Yes, Mr. Speedwell. Just a moment. I...I was making the tea."
But as she lifted the heavy book from a chair in which she'd earlier left it, Mary paused again, her fingertips tracing over the gilt letters on that thick leather spine. It was a very ancient manuscript with vellum pages, the text and pictures produced by monks in a scriptorium, probably overlooking a peaceful cloister, hundreds of years ago.
Her father used to keep books like these in his library. When he was alive and had a library in which to keep them. Illustrated books on botany were one of his favorites. Dear Papa. He might have been one of the most frustrating, narrow-minded, old-fashioned gentlemen she ever knew, but she loved him for all his faults. If only he had been able to do the same for others. If only he had been a little less inflexible in his opinions.
Ugh. What was wrong with her today that she should become so dreary and full of mopey-eyed nostalgia? Perhaps it was the grim weather, the skies being a dowdy shade of grey, heavy and low. And she missed her dear friend, Raven, who was spending the winter away in Oxfordshire. Without Raven she had no one of a like mind to share a devious chuckle. Although lately there had been very little at which to laugh, in any case. No doubt all this had combined to affect her spirits.
Shaking her head, Mary briskly pushed these mournful thoughts aside, along with the fantasy of a large French pastry. There was never anything to be achieved by dwelling on the past, or on what one didn't have. It was not a practical use of a person's energies, as she would remind her sister. One must look ahead, plow onward.
Now...books...
Mary was supposed to wrap this book in brown paper and string last night before she went to bed, but instead had become enthralled looking through the colorful pages, and eventually fell asleep in a chair by the parlor fire. As she often did. It was not the most comfortable of sleeping arrangements, and she invariably woke with a little cramp in her neck, but at least she did not have her sister's cold feet in her back, or a pointy elbow nudging her in the ribs when she turned over. Why fight over blankets and lumpy bits in the mattress upstairs, when she could have the peaceful hearth down here to herself? Mary was always up first anyway, to fetch milk from the dairy cart, make the tea, and open the shop. She also liked to run out, very early, and see what left-over delights from yesterday might be procured at half price from the bakery in the next street. Sometimes the mere smell of freshly baked bread was enough to sustain her for several hours. When there was nothing else to be scavenged, it had to suffice.
On the other hand her sister, Violet, waited until a call of nature forced her out from under the quilt, especially on a bitterly cold morning like this one. Mary often wondered where Violet thought their breakfast came from, for she never asked. Instead she chewed resentfully upon the food Mary managed to procure, and then, willfully defying the rigid boning of her corset, performed a remarkably good impression of a weeping willow. In fact, Mary had begun to suspect her sister of rebelling against corsets altogether, for nothing else could explain her spine's ability to curve so dejectedly.
A sudden gust of wind blew down the chimney and almost flattened the flames in the hearth.
She felt the cold draft around her ankles and even down the back of her neck. Her grandmother used to say that when the wind changed direction something new was coming with it. But Mary couldn't muster much enthusiasm for that idea, since whatever was coming would probably only make things worse. That was the way her luck went lately. Lately being the previous eight years of her life.
After one last, hasty glance over the book to be sure she'd left no dirty fingerprints, Mary carried it out to the counter.
A second blast of frosty air blew in from the front door of the shop, accompanied by a loud jangle of the bell above it. That chilly draft seemed to snake its way through the shelves and around the counter, just to find her. She shivered, looking up.
Another customer already, and it was only Wednesday morning! Poor Mr. Speedwell must be beside himself at such a rush of potential buyers. He was always terribly bereft when any of his precious books left the premises in the hands of a customer.
But at that moment he was lost in deep conversation with Dr. Woodley — a friend and long-time patron of the bookshop — and paid no attention to the other arrival, who hovered in shadow by the door. Perhaps, thought Mary, only she had felt that draft. It did appear to have sought her out rather mischievously.
Dr. Woodley broke off their conversation rather abruptly and gave Mary one of his stiffly formal bows, which would have been better suited to the French court of King Louis XIV.
Good thing her sister had not yet emerged from bed, she mused, for Violet could seldom hide her amusement when Dr. Woodley made one of his bows. "One of these days I expect the seat of his breeches to give way under the extreme strain as he breaks wind," she'd whispered once, causing Mary to laugh out loud, which was dreadfully rude and the fifth time it had happened in Dr. Woodley's presence. There were a limited number of times a person could break into unladylike snorts of helpless laughter in one man's company and still blame it on something they'd read earlier.
Besides, he was a well-meaning, learned gentleman and did not deserve ridicule from two silly girls. Well...one silly and one reformed.
As always, he asked after her health and then her sister's, before imparting his advice, which was plentiful. Today he appealed urgently for Mary to wear wool next to her skin, as often as possible, and to venture outdoors only when necessary.
"Sickness, my dear lady," he assured her, "is rife on the streets this season, and you must take care not to risk your health by coming into contact with the seeds of disease carried freely about town by rats and other wretched undesirables."
"I shall indeed take precautions, Dr. Woodley. I am, if nothing else, exceedingly circumspect." She sighed. "According to my sister, I am insufferably so."
"One can never be too careful," he continued with his grave warning. "On my way here today, I saw a feverish-looking hound of monstrous proportions, racing between carriages, salivating at
the mouth and ready to bite an unprotected ankle. It is most distressing to think of a young lady like yourself, venturing out into the street here and being accosted by such a beast. You should carry a stout stick, Miss Ashford."
She smiled. "I fear it would not be wise for me to carry an instrument of destruction, for when the mood betakes me I might be tempted to wield it with excessive force against a few folk who have angered me in the past."
His greying brows lowered in earnest concern. "You have a temper, Miss Ashford? Oh, dear! It is not good for one's blood to let the temperature rise. Particularly in a lady. Too much excitement can cause an attack of the vapors or even an apoplexy. I once knew of a case—"
"It was a jest, Dr. Woodley." She really must stop doing that, for the poor man, quite lacked a sense of humor and had no understanding of being teased. With a sigh, she muttered, "I don't have to worry about the dangers of too much excitement these days. I am quite safe from that."
"I am very glad to hear it, my dear lady. Next time I come I shall bring you a packet of powders to be sure your blood is calm."
Mary was quite certain she didn't need any powders to keep her temper tranquil. She was the calmest person she knew. She couldn't be any more calm if she were dead. But to say so would only confuse the good doctor further. Instead, she thanked him for his concern. If it made the overly-solicitous fellow feel better to advise her, so be it. She supposed it was a problem inherent in his occupation, just as falling asleep over a book she shouldn't have opened was one of hers.
"I'll just wrap this for you, Dr. Woodley," she said, searching for paper under the counter.
The two men returned to their conversation, which consisted of Mr. Speedwell eagerly discussing new advancements in the art of medicine— things he'd read about in the pamphlets he collected— while Dr. Woodley promptly flattened all enthusiasm by maintaining that the old, tried and true methods could not be improved upon and were better left alone.
As her hands worked swiftly at the task of wrapping, Mary glanced around the doctor's shoulder, wondering about the other customer. There was little to be gleaned from his silhouette, other than the fact that he was tall and wore no hat. Peering out through the bow window in a furtive manner, he had his back to her now.
Without even looking down at her hands, she quickly and efficiently knotted the string, then slid the parcel across to Dr. Woodley.
"Thank you, Miss Ashford. What a very neat bow you tie and such crisp, tidy corners to your parcels!"
"Would you excuse me? I must tend to the other customer." Before he could begin offering her more health advice— because he always had more to give no matter how impatient her countenance became or how strained her manners— she moved out from behind the counter and made her way between the overflowing shelves, intent on distancing herself from the temptation of being brusque. The poor fellow's solicitous advice did not warrant one of her sharp replies and yet hunger often made her curt.
Meanwhile, apparently unaware of her approach, the unidentified gentleman ducked below the front window of the shop, then up again.
"May I help you, sir?" she asked politely.
No response.
"Sir? Is there some book in particular for which you search?"
Finally, he flicked his head around, eyes fiercely narrowed, as if he suspected her of trying to slip a hand into his pocket.
When she repeated her question, he turned the rest of his person toward her and Mary saw that the man wore no shirt of any kind beneath his evening jacket. His chest and the dark hair upon it was, to her astonishment, quite exposed to the cold winter's air. And her gaze.
At least he wore breeches, she mused, recovering slightly from the shock. One must be thankful for small mercies, as she was often telling her younger sister, Violet.
Although small mercies, in this case, did not seem an adequate phrase. There was nothing of reduced size about this man whatsoever. Mary wondered if she ought to have brought a weapon to defend herself, after all. Not that anything, she suspected, could have been much use in the circumstances. He didn't look the sort to be easily dented.
"What the deuce do you want?" he snapped. "A book? What damned book are you blithering on about?"
Slowly Mary returned her gaze from his bare chest to his face. Oddly enough there was something familiar about his dark, rumpled features. But how could there be? He had hardly looked at her with his cold, dark, disinterested eyes and then Mary was dismissed swiftly, the back of his shoulder turned to her again.
"This is a bookshop, sir. Perhaps you noticed the sign outside? Beloved Books. Since you entered these premises in some urgency I assumed your intention was to purchase one."
"Books?" he said again. Or rather, he snarled the word, while scratching his head and looking through the window.
"Yes, sir. We have all sorts here. New and second-hand. Novels and—"
"Who has time to read a damn novel?" No sooner had he got the words out than a deep burp sputtered forth, for which there was no apology offered.
"Pardon me, I took you for a literate gentleman. I see I was mistaken on both counts. Your mode of dress should have been warning enough, I suppose."
"Well, there you are then. Give up on me and peddle your wares to someone else, wench. I'm a hopeless case, aren't I?" She thought she heard him mutter under his breath, "I assumed everybody knew that."
While he obviously wanted to scare her back to the counter and out of his way, Mary's curiosity was piqued. As was her sense of humor. What was he doing there? This wide-shouldered, dark-eyed genie looked as if he belonged in another world entirely and had temporarily escaped his bottle. Or whatever vessel it was in which such a dangerous, mischievous spirit might be kept.
Yes, he was dangerous, she knew at once— felt the prickle of little hairs along her arm as if he had taken forceful custody of her wrist and gently blown a warm breath across her skin to tease.
All of that from one glance.
She cleared her throat. "Perhaps we have something here that could be of use to you nevertheless," she persevered.
"Use to me?" he grunted, looking over his shoulder again, his gaze sweeping her from skirt hem to ear, first with nonchalance and then disdain. "You? I very much doubt it."
The stranger was poised to leave the shop, one hand on the door, until he saw something outside that prevented it. Turning to Mary again he almost bowled her over, and then he gripped her by the arms so tightly that she went unusually floppy. Startled and suddenly warm, she completely forgot to protest.
"Don't give me away and I'll be in your debt," he muttered. "Save me."
With that strange plea he darted behind the nearest shelf, vanishing into the dusty gloom. Although he had released her arms, the echo of his heated touch remained.
A second later the door flew open and the bracing wave of air thrust yet another customer into the shop. This one wore a large hat, over-loaded with lush apricot plumes, and a very fine satin coat, the buttons straining to cover a lavish bosom.
"Where is 'e? The bastard?" she yelled, breathless, long lashes wafting up and down as she assessed her cluttered surroundings. "I 'ave chased 'im 'alf way across London. Did 'e come in 'ere?"
Mary thought quickly. Of course, she could easily give him away; he had not been very nice to her— in fact he'd been downright rude— and she probably ought to take the woman's side. Sisterhood and all that. However...
Save me, he'd said, as if it was the most important thing she would ever do. Generally people did not ask Mary for help these days; they— like Dr. Woodley— viewed her as the sad creature in need of mercy and guidance.
But this man had asked for her help.
Mary was usually most comfortable as an observer of other people's follies, a figure on the edge of the action, but this stranger had put her in the middle of it.
"Well, girl? Are you mute, deaf? Or just stupid?”
There went sisterhood.
"The bastard, madam?" she asked q
uietly. "To whom or what do you refer?"
As she spun like a child's top, the little Frenchwoman's wide skirt disturbed a teetering pile of books that tumbled and stirred up another cloud of dust — almost thick enough to obscure her completely. The plumes of her hat reached in all directions, curling sensuously in the churning, dusty air, like the tentacles of a curious octopus. "Did a man come in 'ere, girl? Very tall and 'orribly 'andsome with the eyes of a cold-'earted, savage panther and manners the same?"
"I'm sorry, madam. This is a bookshop, not a refuge for stray circus beasts."
The brightly decorated woman sneezed violently and looked down at herself in horror. "Mon dieu!" When she wiped a hand over the spider's web that now patterned the front of her gown, those sticky gossamer strands clung to her kidskin glove and the satin of her sleeve, which only added to her evident distress.
"Perhaps I can interest you in a book, madam?" said Mary, picking up one that had fallen.
The woman shot her a very fierce little scowl. "No. 'E would not come in 'ere. You 'ave nothing 'e would want."
Head high and feather tentacles bouncing, she swept to the door again and gripped the handle. But the door of the shop had a tendency to stick when opened from the inside and there was a particular gentleness required when turning the handle if one wanted to get out again, so Mary stepped forward to help.
"Allow me, madam."
"Mademoiselle!" the lady corrected her sharply.
"My apologies, mademoiselle." Mary carefully angled the handle, gave it just the right amount of tug, and the door opened. "Good day."
The other woman pushed her way by and, rather than wait for Mary to close the door, she took the handle from the other side, attempting to jerk it shut. In so doing, she trapped her voluminous skirt in the door twice, until she was finally free. Then the stiff breeze outside took hold of that same troublesome garment, inflated the striped silk as if it were an untethered hot-air balloon, and transported her onward down the street so quickly that her tiny feet could barely keep toes on the ground.
Ransom Redeemed Page 3