“And if that means no more penny gaffs?”
She smiled. “One was more than enough. Besides, I’ll have theater and operas.”
“No more meat pies eaten on steps.”
“I’ll have the memory.”
He trailed his fingers down her cheek, along her jaw. “Will you?”
“I shan’t forget tonight. I’m glad the seat in the hansom cab had room for you.”
His hand dropped from her face, and he began tugging on his gloves. “It’s late. We should probably be off.”
Just like that, whatever magic spell they’d woven around each other was broken. Probably for the best.
He stood, reached down for her hand, and tugged her to her feet. They carried on as though the night had been nothing more than an outing between friends. But at least it seemed they were at last friends.
Without much bother, they found a hansom cab. Sitting practically snuggled against him seemed the most natural thing in the world.
When they arrived at her shop, she unlocked the door and smiled up at him. “Thank you for sharing my adventure, Mr. Sommersby.”
“It was my pleasure, Miss Trewlove.”
Once inside, she locked the door, leaned against it, and waited for the echo of his retreating footsteps. It seemed to take forever for them to sound. When they finally did, she rather wished that instead she’d heard a knock. For a chance to visit with him some more, she would have welcomed him in, even as she knew it would serve no good purpose.
Chapter 7
It was nearly two in the morning when Matthew let himself into his massive London residence. Having left the heavy mahogany door open so the light from the lamps lining the drive could at least chase back the shadows a bit so he could make out the shapes, he crossed over to a table, struck a match, and lit the waiting oil lamp. The residence had been built nearly a century and half earlier, so it didn’t have the convenience of gas lighting, which his terrace on Ettie Lane did. However, his terrace could easily fit into the foyer and front parlor while still leaving space for walking around their edges.
After closing the door, he lifted the lamp higher and glanced into the parlor. All the furniture, portraits, paintings, and statuettes were shrouded in white, giving the residence a ghostly feel that suited his mood. He didn’t want to see the portrait of Elise hanging over the fireplace or his ancestors looking judgmentally down on him as he began his journey along the hallway.
Ever since Elise had taken ill, sleep had been an elusive mistress, seldom on hand to give a man satisfaction. This night was no exception, but it was made worse by the fact that when it came to Miss Trewlove, he’d begun to feel like a royal arse. It was quite possible he’d misjudged her when it came to how she might endeavor to gain a husband. The more time he spent with her, the more she contradicted his notions about her.
He didn’t know why he’d been so insistent on joining her tonight. She obviously hadn’t wanted his company, not that he could blame her for that. She had the right of it. Where she was concerned, he didn’t seem to know his own mind. He wanted to avoid her, and yet when the opportunity presented itself to be in her company, he’d leapt on it like a ravenous hound being tossed a bone. She intrigued him, damn it all. With her mixture of innocence and worldliness, she was a puzzle box he wanted to figure out how to open.
And she made him feel guilty about his treatment of her from the moment the letter had fallen out of her pocket. He’d assumed she was as conniving as Elise and, as a result, had treated Miss Trewlove abominably and unfairly.
When he reached the library, he merely stood in the doorway and took a moment to appreciate what had always been his favorite chamber in the residence. He had a keen desire to bring Miss Trewlove here. He imagined her sighing in wonder, gasping in delight at the two floors of bookcases, the upper one accessible by a wrought-iron spiral staircase in the corner. He had no idea how many books lined the shelves. A couple of thousand at least. Not that any of them were visible at present. The staff had suspended sheets of white cloth over the shelves to protect the treasures stored there. Including the one he’d come to find.
He strode over to a far corner of the room, near the spiral staircase, carefully set the lamp on a low table draped in white, reached up, and yanked down a sheet to reveal a section of books. He was relatively certain he’d last seen the one he was looking for in this area.
He couldn’t decide if Miss Trewlove would be appalled that the books within these walls were shelved with no rhyme or reason or if she’d find the chaos delightful. Although he had a feeling she’d roll up her sleeves and pull every book off the shelf in order to arrange them in categories, no doubt taking pleasure in touching each and every one. When he’d first stepped into her shop, he’d been cocooned in wonder. Nothing within her walls was left to chance. It all reflected a celebration of the written word. She’d gone to a great deal of bother to arrange everything just so. She’d not told him that, of course, but it was evident in the way every aspect came together in such a pleasing manner to reveal her absolute love of books.
And so it was that he wanted to gift her with something that would make him feel less of a disappointment, less of a cad, less judgmental. Therefore, he’d come here in the dead of night to—
“My lord?”
He swung around to face the butler, who had served this household longer than Matthew had memory, standing in the doorway with an untied dressing gown hanging off his lanky form, a lamp held aloft in one hand, and a . . . no, it could not possibly be.
“Jenkins, is that a pistol you’re holding in your trembling hand?”
“Aye.”
“Pray, tell me it is not loaded.”
“What good is it unloaded, I ask you?”
“Then please point it at the floor and not at my person.”
The elderly gent did as ordered. “I heard a commotion, my lord, and came to investigate. Not knowing what to expect I came armed for trouble.”
“I did not create a commotion. I was as quiet as death.”
“Still, I heard you. What are you doing here, sir? Are you moving back in? Should I rouse the servants to start setting everything back to rights?”
“Don’t rouse anyone. I’m simply looking for the copy of Mr. William Shakespeares Comedies, Histories, & Tragedies.” He found some irony in the original title lacking the apostrophe that he’d accused the name of Miss Trewlove’s shop of not having. Published in the early part of the seventeenth century, the leather-bound book contained the original versions of his plays. One of Matthew’s ancestors had managed to purchase one of the only seven hundred and fifty copies printed. “Any notion as to where I might find it?”
Jenkins craned his neck, looking around the library, his eyes wide as though a horde of invaders had suddenly made an appearance. “No, my lord. Although I believe the rarest books are up there.” He nodded toward the shelves at the top of the staircase.
“You might be correct on that score.” He walked over to the desk, the only piece of furniture not shrouded. A large silver bowl was filled to overflowing with bits of vellum.
“The invitations you’ve received, sir.” Jenkins approached. Even in slippers, he made not a sound. The man had long ago mastered the art of not being heard or being seen as an intrusion when he entered a room. Often he left with no one the wiser. “As they weren’t on the list of items to be sent round to you, I wasn’t quite certain what to do with them.”
Toss them in the fire would no doubt give the butler an apoplectic fit. Matthew was relatively certain that for some of the events, the time for attending was past. Still a modicum of civility remained in him, and he knew he should at least send acknowledgment of having received them. “I’ll take them with me.”
“Very good, my lord.” Jenkins seemed far too relieved by that answer.
“In the future, include them with the letters that arrive in the post that you have brought to me every few days.” If something appeared urgent, it was brough
t to him immediately. Otherwise, he saw no point in constantly sending a footman out.
“As you wish, sir.”
Then he could toss them in the fire and save Jenkins the worry over them.
“Another matter I need you to take care of for me. When I find the book, I’ll leave it here on the desk with a note.” He took a piece of foolscap out of a drawer, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and scrawled Fancy Trewlove’s name and the address of the bookshop across the paper. “I want you to wrap up the book with the note and have it sent to this address. Don’t use the post.” The postmark would indicate the post office from which it had begun its journey, and he didn’t want her to know it came from Mayfair. “It is to have no markings on it to indicate from whom or from where it originated. Have a footman deliver it, but he is not to be dressed in livery and is not to use one of my marked carriages. It is a gift, but it is to be an anonymous one.”
“It will be delivered with the utmost discretion. Shall I help you search for the book, my lord?”
“No. I’ve disturbed your slumber long enough as it is. Good night, Jenkins.”
“I’ll have the servants put matters back to rights in the morning, sir.” He glanced over at the one exposed bookcase before once again meeting Matthew’s gaze. “Good night, my lord.”
After his butler silently shuffled out, Matthew returned to the shelves where he thought he’d last seen the book. The tome was taller than most, which should have made it easier to find but his relations had collected a goodly number of tall books. The one for which he searched should probably be stored under glass. He had little doubt Miss Trewlove would give it the care it needed.
It was an expensive gift he was going to bestow upon her, but knew of no one who would appreciate it more.
Three hours later, he found the tome exactly where Jenkins had predicted it would be: on the upper floor. With a great deal of care, he set it on the desk, pulled out another bit of foolscap, and considered the message that should accompany it. Finally, with his expert penmanship, he scrawled out the words.
It is in want of someone who will appreciate, love, and cherish it.
As he strode from the room, he had the uncomfortable sensation that he’d been referring to himself more than the book.
Chapter 8
“I think you’re going to enjoy The Moonstone very much indeed, Mr. Harper.” Fancy couldn’t help but believe that Mr. Sommersby would also enjoy the mystery and wondered if he’d read it.
“I’m looking forward to reading it, Miss Trewlove, which isn’t something I ever said before you taught me my letters.”
“You were a fast learner. I’m ever so glad you found the effort worth your while.”
Once the transaction was completed and Mr. Harper took his leave, she gave the shop a quick perusal. Two ladies had come in together and were browsing the area where they were most likely to find a story that involved a grand love, while a gentleman was searching through her travel books. She’d already offered to help each of them, but they preferred looking on their own. She certainly understood that. Before she had her own shop, she’d spent hours in bookshops or combing through bookstalls searching for the perfect story to take home with her.
Saturday was usually her favorite day of the week because she generally had a few more customers. Several people, including a mother with her three children, were upstairs in the reading parlor. Marianne was keeping a watch on things up there. Fancy needed to hire someone to assist her clerk during the hours when she, herself, might not be available. The notion of asking Mr. Sommersby if he’d like to take on the job flashed through her mind, but she quickly squelched it. She didn’t know why she was intent on making opportunities to have him about. Perhaps because, like the book she’d just sold, he was a mystery.
The bell above the door tinkled and an elderly gentleman carrying a large brown wrapped package secured with string wandered in, stopped, and glanced around to take in every nook and cranny. It always amazed her that people resided in this area whom she had yet to meet, but then as it was growing and expanding more were moving in. “Good morning, sir. How may I help you?”
Swinging his gaze back to her, he removed his hat to reveal pale gray eyes. “Miss Fancy Trewlove?”
“Yes.”
He walked toward her with smooth, lithe motions, seeming to move quickly while giving the impression of not moving at all, his steps eerily quiet as though he loathed causing any sort of disturbance. When he reached the counter, he set his package upon it in the same respectful manner that one might place a present before the Queen. “A gift for you.”
As his hat began its journey back to his head, he turned on his heel and walked silently toward the door.
“Who is it from?”
He didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate.
“Who are you?”
Without a word, he opened the door and exited her shop. She rushed after him, but by the time she’d made it out onto the pavement, he’d disappeared, leaving her to wonder if he hadn’t been a mirage. But when she returned to the counter, the package was still there. Tugging on the bow, she loosened the string and parted it, then carefully removed the paper to reveal an oversize leather book, well preserved but obviously quite old. She lifted the note resting on it, deeply touched by the inscribed words written by a meticulous hand.
“Well, you’ve certainly been brought to the right place,” she whispered, gingerly turning back the cover. As her gaze fell on the title, she released an audible gasp and pressed her hand to her mouth. This rare edition had to be worth a fortune.
“Are you well, Miss Trewlove?”
She lifted her gaze to the two young women who’d been browsing. They looked enough alike to be sisters. One was a frequent visitor. The other had never been in her shop before. “Yes, I’m quite well. Thank you for inquiring. Have you found something to your liking, Miss Sear?”
“Indeed. My sister and I are going to take Lorna Doone.” She placed the book on the counter. Originally the story had come out in three volumes, but its popularity had grown after it was released in a single, fairly inexpensive edition.
“I think you’ll enjoy it very much.”
“I don’t see how we can’t, not if it’s as romantic as claimed.”
“We so enjoy romance,” the second Miss Sear said.
“They’re my favorite as well.”
Once they’d completed the transaction and left the store, Fancy turned her attention back to Shakespeare. She couldn’t fathom who would send her such a treasure. With a great deal of care, she carried it into her office and set it on the desk.
Strange how her first thought was to find Mr. Sommersby and tell him about it. She had no doubt he would be as in awe of it as she was.
Throughout the day, she periodically popped into her office just to look at it, touch her fingers to the nearly pristine leather of the cover. Had it ever been read, or had it simply served as a prize, something to possess in order to boast about having? Now it was hers, but for what purpose?
All afternoon she pondered its arrival. After locking up, she carried thoughts of it to the pub with her, anxious to share the news of it with Mr. Sommersby. When she didn’t see hide nor hair of him, she sat at a table near the window, positioning herself so she had a clear view of the door, intent on catching his attention when he walked in.
Only he never did.
“As you can well imagine, I’m the most popular lady in London at the moment.”
Lounging in a thickly padded armchair in the Marquess of Fairhaven’s library, sipping his excellent scotch, Matthew could well imagine it, but then his sister had always garnered attention. Her dark hair and green eyes that matched his guaranteed it.
“All the ladies are calling on me, seeking information about you.” She gave him a pointed look. “And what am I to tell them, I ask you?”
It was the same question she posed each time he visited. “I’m still in mourning. I’ve taken a sabbatical from Society
. I’ve flown to the moon. I don’t care, Sylvie. Tell them whatever you like.”
She downed her sherry like a sailor hitting his first pub after arriving in port following years at sea. A footman hurried over and refilled her glass. “You’re not taking this seriously. I don’t even know where you’re presently residing. Are you living on the streets?”
“Don’t be dramatic, darling,” Fairhaven said, his tone offering comfort and reassurance. He had to give his sister credit. Following their mother’s example, she’d gone after her husband’s title. He recalled once overhearing his mother chastising his sister shortly after she had her coming out. “You’ve fine cleavage, my dear girl. Use it to your advantage to lure in the gent of your choosing.”
Apparently, she had done just that. But unlike their mother, Sylvie had managed to win her husband’s heart.
“His appearance should reassure you that he is taking care of himself, even if it does appear he’s misplaced his razor.”
He almost smiled at that. He’d always liked Fairhaven.
“Have you a valet?” she asked.
“No.”
Her face crumpled as though he’d admitted to using opium.
“I’m enjoying the independence, the solitude.” Besides, his terrace was too small to house live-in staff. It was working out quite well to have Mrs. Bennett pop by each morning to tidy up after him.
“I daresay, darling, he looks healthier now than he did when he came to London two months ago. He was so pale and wan then.”
“And thin. Yes, I know. You do look as though you’ve filled out a bit. You were wasting away, and I was so worried. I know Elise’s passing was difficult, but then so was your marriage. I wish you’d been able to find it within your heart to forgive her for placing you in a position of having to marry her.”
He had to an extent, although he’d told Elise he had forgiven her completely, in hopes of easing her journey from this world into the next. While he no longer harbored the anger at her betrayal, neither could he forget how easily he’d been manipulated. Elise had sworn she’d not planned to trick him, but then a guilty person once caught always claimed innocence.
The Earl Takes a Fancy Page 8