Corey McFadden (3 page)

“‘Things we say unwisely will be repeated.’ I say, Owl Eyes, when did you turn into such a prig? When we crossed the threshold into this fancy house?”

Elspeth rolled the eyes her little brother so maligned. “I’m trying to teach you some manners, but I must say I had better luck with the dog.”

“Don’t need any manners. Manners are for fops and prissies. I want to go home.”

Now he looked a bit as if he might wish to cry, and Elspeth knew he would rather die than show such weakness in front of her. Quickly she climbed down from the rolling ladder where she had perched precipitously, happily picking through the books shelved in this most splendid library. Aunt Bettina carped about all the space the books wasted, and it was quite obvious that during the Quinn tenancy, the books would be ignored by all save Elspeth, who was enthralled by the sight and the endless hours of pleasure they would afford her—if she ever got any hours to herself, which, at the moment, seemed doubtful.

“Actually, Harry, I’d rather like to go home, too,” she said softly, pulling him to her. “And so we shall in a few months. But in the meantime, let’s enjoy the novelty of it all.”

“There’s nothing novel about being stuck in this house with my pig of a cousin,” Harry muttered, head buried in the folds of her dress, arms wrapped tightly about his sister.

“Yes, but Aunt promises to take us to the Pump Room, as soon as I’m presentable.”

“I don’t understand all this fuss about your clothing, Elspeth,” he pronounced, drawing back and eyeing her seriously. “I think you look fine just the way you are.”

“Thank you, Harry,” she said simply. From the way Caroline had sneered at her meager wardrobe, Elspeth had been left with the impression that servants in the poorer households were better attired.

“Although,” he went on, perhaps unwisely, “I must say you look a sight now, all dusty from these books. You have a large cobweb in your mobcap, but I don’t think...” he eyed it carefully. “No, I don’t think it has a spider in it,” he pronounced with a grin, having achieved the desired effect as his sister blanched at his words. “And you do have the largest smut across the tip of your nose. ‘Your appearance is simply unacceptable in polite society, Cousin Elspeth’,” he said with a sneer, in perfect imitation of Cousin Caroline.

Elspeth reached up to wipe her nose, but from the delighted expression in Harry’s eyes, she was quite sure she had merely succeeded in smearing the smut across the rest of her face. Indeed, the books were exceedingly dusty. She had borrowed the cap and apron from one of the parlour maids. Her day dresses might not be up to Caroline’s standards but they were all she had at present.

“Actually,” Harry went on, warming to the subject, “if anyone cared for my opinion, and I doubt they do, I’d tell them it’s Cousin Caroline who looks absurd. All that cloth, miles and miles of it, and fuss and feathers. And she screams the house down if anyone comes near her, not that anyone cares to.”

“Yes, well, see to it that you don’t go near her. I won’t have you blamed for any more mischief like last night.”

“I didn’t do it, I tell you! Roderick said I did, but it was him, not me!”

“I believe you, sweetheart, but it doesn’t really matter. Just stay out of mischief and before you know it, we’ll be home again, safe and sound.”

Harry gave her a pitying glance, one full of the wisdom of a nine-year-old-who Knows Better.

“Now take yourself off and read some Latin. It’s the one place you can show Roderick a thing or two, if you’re keeping a tally sheet,” Elspeth said with a laugh. She watched as he carefully shut the door behind him, then scaling the ladder once more, turned her attention with a sigh of pleasure to the splendid wall of books.

* * * *

He had been mad to come here. And a thousand times a fool for allowing Edgar Randall to goad him into it. Better that
ton
tongues wagged about him all Season than that he should deliberately place himself once again in the direct sights of Miss Caroline Quinn, or, worse, her mother. It had been hard enough extricating himself three years ago, and no doubt Caroline and her mother had honed their skills more finely by now.

“I say, how long has the chit kept us waiting?” asked Wesley Ames, walking once again to the window. “An hour at least, I’ll warrant.” It was more like a half hour, really, Julian thought, consulting the ormolu clock that graced the mantle. Indeed, time was flying for him. He had no desire to hurry along the process. By custom, these visits lasted no more than the requisite fifteen minutes, once they got underway. For Caroline and Mrs. Quinn to keep them waiting a full half an hour was arrogant, but not unknown in these circles, where one’s importance could be gauged by one’s tardiness. Of the country cousin there was no sign, but it would be unlikely that she would make an appearance before she could be formally presented by her aunt.

“I know she’s the Perennial Toast and all that,” Wesley went on, sounding a bit petulant, “but, still, a man’s time ought to have some value.”

“What else might you be doing with your time today, Wesley?” replied Edgar Randall, his tone indolent as he sprawled across a fussy, brocade-upholstered settee. “Taking a nap?”

“Well, I could always use a good ride,” Wesley answered. “My cattle need an outing.”

“I could be reading a good book, at least,” muttered Julian. “I recall old Lord Ewell was something of a scholar. Kept a good library. Can’t think that Caroline or Mrs. Q. will give it much use. Wonder if it’s still here?” he asked, hope springing alive with the thought. An idea bloomed. Desperate, even craven, to be sure, but any escape from this iron-jawed trap was a blessing.

“Believe I’ll wander across the hall and take a look at the library. Some good books there as I recall,” said Julian, ambling with affected nonchalance for the door, half expecting it to blow open and reveal mother and daughter, squatting like gargoyles on the threshold. If he could lose himself in the library until the short visit was well underway, it might lessen the amount of time he would be required to spend with the Quinn ladies. Perhaps they would forget about him altogether, and he could bumble and apologize for his gauche inattention all the way to the front door, making good his escape with a minimum of actual contact.

Once in the hallway, he had to stop himself from tiptoeing like an ill-intending child. Still, he trod rather lightly, considering the sound his heavy boots usually made across a wooden floor. Now where was the library? These Bath townhouses were small by London standards, but no less oppressively opulent for all that. Yes, the last door on the right, he thought, although it had been some time since he had last been in this house, Lord Ewell having been something of an invalid for whom the restorative powers of the waters of Bath had become less and less effective as time went on.

Lord Ewell’s library had been impressive indeed, particularly in Bath where most rooms so designated were fitted out with an ornate desk, several comfortable wing chairs, a few tables holding full brandy decanters and crystal snifters, and, if there was room enough, a book or two, for appearances’ sake. Lord Ewell’s library, however, had been walled with books, floor to ceiling, marching like stalwart, colorful, well-turned-out soldiers, all in neat, orderly rows, a sight to delight the eyes of the few true bibliophiles among the
ton.
Julian patted his waistcoat pocket and was relieved to feel his spectacles nestled safely within.

He heard no telltale approaching footsteps as he let himself through the door, closing it behind him as quietly and quickly as possible. It was all he could do not to lean against the door and pant, but even a coward had his pride.

* * * *

Drat! It was no good trying to see anything out of spectacles this dirty. Elspeth had bumped her face right smack into another cobweb and hoped desperately that its eight-legged occupant had been off somewhere else on business at the time. Carefully, she pulled the gold wire-rims from her nose as everything blurred before her eyes. Using what appeared to be a clean corner of the borrowed apron, she wiped the sticky web from the glass, surveying as she did so the books before her nose, now an unfocused wall of color. Ethridge’s
Botanical Studies
lay open in her lap, a veritable treasure of precise and intricate drawings that delighted and educated at the same time.

But though she was blind as a bat, there was nothing wrong with her hearing. The sound of the door opening told her she’d been found. Elspeth squinted mightily, hoping to make out the rotund form of the butler, or perhaps, Harry come back to complain loudly of further ill-treatment at the hands of the bully, Roderick.

No such luck. Her distance vision was far better than her sight close up, and the blurred form resolved itself into a gentleman, unknown to her. Trapped like a rat by a terrier, she sat perfectly still. Perhaps he would realize he was in the wrong room and make a hasty departure. Again, no luck. His gaze turned with some apparent fondness toward the shelves and he turned his back to her, fingers tracing along the bindings as if he sought something in particular.

Now what was she to do? Cough delicately? Offer a haughty ‘ahem’? Aunt Bettina had explained most emphatically that Elspeth was not to be ‘seen’ until she was presentable. No point in making ill first impressions was how her aunt had tactlessly put it. Certainly the apron alone, never mind the smuts and cobwebs, would mark her the Antidote of the Season, not that she cared a whit what these vapid
ton
sorts thought of her. Nevertheless, Elspeth held still, hardly breathing, sitting silent. Her nose itched. Her foot, curled awkwardly around the rung of the ladder, began to cramp. She suppressed a sigh and stared malevolently at the back of this stranger, wishing him in Arabia.

* * * *

Ah, the library had indeed not been dismantled, Julian thought, as his satisfied eye traveled the comfortable sight of marching row upon row of books. Lord Ewell’s taste had run to the scholarly as he recalled, a bit turgid, if the truth were known. The light was poor in the obviously unused room. The titles were a blur in front of his eyes. He carefully took out his spectacles and placed them on his nose, hearing, almost at the edge of his consciousness, a very small intake of breath, not, he was sure, his own. “Who’s there?” he called, turning with a frown. Drat! He barely swallowed his expression of annoyance as, peering over the rims of his glasses, he spotted one of the servants, a lower housemaid by the looks of her, perched precariously upon the wooden rolling ladder that Lord Ewell had needed to reach the top shelves. A large book lay open on her lap, and she appeared to have a white cloth in her hand, so she was obviously cleaning the books. She certainly had a large smudge across the bridge of her nose, and unless his vision was worse that he thought, a substantial cobweb was draped rather terrifyingly across her mobcap. At least Mrs. Quinn was seeing to the safekeeping of the library during her tenancy, although Julian thought it unlikely she or Caroline would find entertainment within the leather covers.

Julian gave a pleasant, dismissive nod and turned his attention to the wall of books before him, hoping the girl would scramble down, drop him the obligatory curtsy while mumbling apologies, and go about her business. But as luck would have it, at that moment he heard voices coming from the hallway, Mrs. Quinn and Caroline, unless his memory failed him. This was no time for the servant to be opening the door and drawing attention to the library. A surreptitious look at the girl caused his eyebrows to rise. She had not moved so much as a muscle that he could see, and she looked rather horrified, like a rabbit frozen in the light from a coach lamp. Why would a housemaid be frightened of her employer’s mere voice in the hallway? Not that he didn’t agree that the piercing tones of Bettina Quinn could turn the knees of the sovereign himself to jelly.

“I take it my browsing will not disturb your cleaning?” he remarked negligently, telling himself he was putting the girl at her ease, but knowing he was really simply stalling his exit. It was likely she was a local girl, hired on since the Quinns had arrived. Perhaps she was new to service and uncertain of her duties.

Oddly enough, the girl made no reply, and Julian turned a questioning stare on her. Not that he cared a fig for the smooth running of Mrs. Quinn’s Bath establishment, but this poor
girl wouldn’t last long in the talons of the Quinn family if she couldn’t manage a civil reply to a bland and kindly inquiry from a guest.

Now she stared at him, with a most peculiar expression on her face. “Cleaning?” she stammered finally. “Yes, sir, I mean, no, sir, I mean ...” she broke off, and Julian had the oddest feeling that she was trying very hard not to laugh.

“Have I said something amusing?” he asked, coolly. He did not consider himself an overly haughty man, by any means; still, he was not used to being the butt of humor for the household staff.

“No, sir, not at all, sir,” she stammered again, scrambling down from her perch, and this time, though she averted her gaze and the be-webbed mobcap hid her face, he was quite certain she was nigh to choking to death on stifled laughter.

“Drat!” she muttered as she reached the floor and lurched precariously, grabbing for the ladder before she took a tumble.

Drat? He could not recall ever having heard a servant swear in his presence, unless one counted his father’s stable master who had kindly taught Julian, by example, everything the lad would ever need to know about the finer art of shocking language.

“My foot seems to be asleep. Can’t quite get it to hold my weight yet,” the girl said, grinning at him, mobcap askew, nose black, cobwebs drifting over one eye. It would be interesting to know just how long this impertinent baggage lasted, he thought. A matter of moments, he reckoned, once the punctilious and exacting Mrs. Quinn caught her first glimpse of the cheeky chit.  He watched, vastly amused, as she tested her foot, wincing, at the pins and needles.

“Are they gone yet?’ she asked, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“I believe they are safely ensconced in the drawing room,” he replied, choosing not to affect ignorance.