by Erica Ridley
“Come by later,” she told her friends. “We’re having pies for supper.”
“We’re already promised to Nick and Penelope… mayhap next week?”
“Next week,” Carole echoed. “That will be lovely.”
“Good luck with Azureford,” Gloria called as they strode away.
“He’s not here,” Carole said again. Not that it would have made much difference.
His obliviousness to her presence hadn’t stopped her from surreptitiously gazing at him. From her window, from their adjoining gardens, from across his mahogany supper table. Carole sighed. Dreaming about how different her life might have been was the whole reason she’d snuck off to sketch in her book in the first place. She hated feeling invisible.
As she was returning from the retiring room, someone bumped into her and she dropped her reticule. Carole had been the only one who saw her sketchbook fly out to skid across the ridiculously polished floor and into Azureford’s library.
Before she could recover it, Swinton the helpful butler “returned” the fallen volume to the appropriately color-coded section of the duke’s library shelves. Carole clenched her teeth as she turned up the duke’s front path. Why had his butler even been away from his post? She should’ve known right then that retrieving her book wouldn’t be easy.
At first it had seemed like a little luck was on her side. Azureford was leaving the next morning, thereby making it unlikely for him to stumble across her sketches. Particularly the brand new one of his front drawing room.
She couldn’t dart into the library and retrieve her book in front of so many witnesses without making it look like she was nicking one of the duke’s books in the middle of a party. Nor could she explain page after page of town landmarks populated by ale-swilling, cheroot-smoking ladies with snuffboxes and fashionable bonnets.
The only choice was to come back for it later. Thanks to the library’s helpful color-coding, she knew exactly which shelf housed her sketchbook. She could have it tucked in her reticule in sixty seconds.
If only she could get inside.
Carole motioned for Judith to stand behind her, then gave a sharp rap with the pristine brass knocker.
The door immediately opened to reveal an older gentleman with crafty blue eyes and a tuft of white hair. Azureford’s butler, Swinton.
“Good afternoon,” she began brightly. “I’ve come to—”
Judith elbowed her way up onto the front step with almost enough force to send Carole flying into the hedges.
Swinton didn’t blink.
Carole sent her lady’s maid a stern glare.
Judith made no response. Her attention was completely focused on the butler.
Carole rolled back her shoulders and tried again. “I may have lost an earring in the duke’s library during his soiree. Might I take a quick peek to see if I can find it?”
Swinton’s blue gaze slid from Judith to Carole. “His Grace’s party did not take place in the library.”
True. Carole swallowed hard. Blast it.
“Perhaps it wasn’t the library,” she said quickly. “Perhaps it was near the library. Perhaps—”
“Perhaps you believe His Grace’s household staff to be so incompetent in their posts that a lost earring would remain untouched upon the floor month after month?” Swinton inquired politely.
Carole swallowed. “I…”
…could not retrieve my sketchbook while the duke or his friend were occupying the cottage because I cannot risk witnesses.
“Miss Quincy abhors jewelry,” Judith giggled. Actually giggled. “Such a bear when it comes to dressing up at all. I cannot let her gad about town with one earring, can I? Surely a man like you wouldn’t wish such mortification on a girl like me.”
What in the completely-frozen-over hell was that about? Carole turned to her lady’s maid in disbelief. Judith could not possibly expect a breathy little voice and schoolgirl giggles would make the duke’s intractable butler—
“Very well,” Swinton said briskly. “Miss Quincy has five minutes.”
Carole’s jaw fell open. She could practically hear her teeth click together when she forced her gaping mouth shut.
“Come on,” she murmured to Judith as she took a tentative step across the threshold.
Her lady’s maid let out another giggle.
Carole hooked her arm about Judith’s elbow and hauled her past the butler and into the cottage.
“Are you absolutely positive you need my help?” Judith whispered between appallingly non-subtle glances over her shoulder toward the butler.
“You know what?” Carole stopped walking and dropped Judith’s arm. “I have to get into that library without Swinton noticing. Do you think you can find some way to keep him near the door until I get back?”
Judith’s eyes sparkled. “Absolutely.”
Without a backward glance—Carole did not want to bear witness to whatever distraction her maid had in store for the butler—she hurried down the corridor toward the library before some other member of Azureford’s staff could stop her for questioning.
She jerked to a stop just inside the library. A horrified gasp strangled in her throat as she stared at the shelves in shock.
The duke’s aesthetically organized books weren’t sorted by color anymore. Blue spines were not with blue spines. Red was not with red. Green was not with green. Rather than a neatly delineated rainbow, the library was a cornucopia of color, every spine contrasting wildly with its neighbor.
How was she supposed to find her sketchbook now?
“No, no, no,” she groaned as she dashed forward to scan the shelves in search of a familiar spine.
The problem was, her sketchbook’s spine didn’t stand out at all. It had actually started its life as one of her father’s journals. The same sort of blank journal any number of gentlemen ordered to keep their diaries or balance their ledgers. Azureford himself owned countless volumes of the same style.
The difference was, the journals that belonged to Carole’s father had fancy Q embossed on the front cover. The same recognizable Q that was emblazoned on half their other possessions. If she didn’t get that journal out of here during her one chance to do so, whoever stumbled across it would either immediately realize Carole had penned the sketches—or they’d think her father did. Neither was acceptable.
She hurried from shelf to shelf, yanking dark blue spines free only to shove them back moments later when their covers failed to display the family Q.
“Five minutes!” Judith called, rather… breathlessly? “Here we come! Did you find your earring?”
Carole tugged the gold-and-citrine hoop from her reticule and shoved it behind a row of books. Perhaps it wasn’t a likely place for an earring to have fallen, but she needed to keep her story plausible. It could take days to find a needle in a haystack. Weeks.
Swinton strode into the library, his cheeks oddly flushed. “I must ask you to leave. His Grace arrives within the week, and we must ensure the house is in proper order.”
“But this is his summer cottage,” Carole stammered inanely. “It’s not… summer.”
This time, it was Judith who hooked her arm through Carole’s and hauled her toward the door. “Thank you, Swinton. You are everything that is sweet and kind. A veritable gentleman.”
“We’ll be back,” Carole called over her shoulder as Judith dragged her outside.
“Not without my master’s invitation,” Swinton replied, and closed the door in their face.
Chapter 2
“Almost there, Your Grace.”
Adam Farland, the sixth Duke of Azureford, set his well-worn sheaf of notes from the last Parliament session on the squab beside him, and directed his gaze out the window.
John, his driver, was right. A bright red sign beckoned from the rolling green grass:
* * *
Welcome to Christmas!
* * *
Most visitors flocked to England’s northernmost village for the wint
er entertainment it usually offered. A glittering castle atop a soaring mountain, fields of gorgeous evergreens, carolers beneath softly falling snow almost all year round. According to the latest almanac, there would be no chance of a frost fair for at least ten weeks.
A self-deprecating smile curved Adam’s lips. He would not be surprised to learn he was the only resident who had timed his visit to correspond with the least Christmassy time of year. The already small village would hold a fraction of its seasonal population.
That was why he was here.
“Thank you, John.”
Adam had purchased his picturesque cottage last year after hearing nothing but complimentary tales about this village in the House of Lords. He’d even had a few favorite pieces of furniture as well as his late father’s beloved library sent up, painstakingly reassembled in the exact same manner as in the grand residence where Adam had grown up.
Neither house felt much like a home. Part of which—or, perhaps, most of which—was Adam’s own fault. He loved to be around people, but hadn’t the least idea what to say to them in a social atmosphere. So he said nothing at all.
Not a strategy that tended to lead to lifelong friends.
Last summer, a rumor had gone through Cressmouth that their aloof new resident would rather closet himself like a hermit than deign to speak to his neighbors. The opposite was true. To prove them wrong, Adam had thrown his first dinner party and invited everyone in adjacent houses… and then spent the entire evening glowering at his guests tongue-tied because he hadn’t the least idea what to say.
This year would be different. He would be different.
He hoped.
“Straight home, Your Grace?”
“No. To the castle.”
John glanced over his shoulder in obvious surprise. “The castle, Your Grace?”
“Please.”
“As you wish.”
The bustling Great Hall at the front of Marlowe Castle boasted an extensive buffet of seasonal treats, bowls of punch and ratafia, and any number of lively, cheerful locals happy to greet new guests.
That was not why Adam was going. He was replacing the comforting old library at his cottage with a brand new billiard room. The switch would force him to mingle with others rather than pass the days away by himself. If he wanted to visit his books, well, he’d have to march on over to the castle to do so, because he was donating every last one of them to the town circulating library. Well, except for a small shelf of favorites he couldn’t bear to part with.
When they stopped at the castle to share the good news, Adam would have to borrow an instructional tome on how to play billiards because he hadn’t the least idea how it was done. What mattered was that it was fashionable. If he possessed the best billiard room in northern England, gentlemen would flock to his door to play. Adam might lose every game, but he’d win friends. This would prove once and for all that “duke” did not mean “arrogant” and “shy” was not the same as “aloof.”
How he’d get the word out that he possessed a shiny new billiard room in want of friendly players... well, he’d cross that bridge when he got there.
The first step was to inform the castle of his incoming donation. The second step was to pack up his father’s faithfully organized books. The third step was a bit murky, but the fourth step involved basking in his newfound popularity without the slightest hint of his old social awkwardness. If he could address the entire House of Lords without tripping over his tongue, surely he could manage to make a friend.
“Castle coming up, Your Grace.”
Spirits rising, Adam returned his gaze to the view outside his window. There went the smithy, which meant at any moment, they’d be passing Adam’s cottage… Aha! There it was. Warm red brick, wide windows, a welcoming stone path to the front door.
Although there was just one road up the mountain to the castle, shops and cottages lined a half dozen narrow off-shoots. In no time at all, the cozy little homes vanished as the coach rolled to a stop before Marlow Castle’s imposing front doors.
“Shall I accompany you, Your Grace?”
“Stay with the coach, please.” Adam leapt to the ground. “I’ll only be a moment.”
Inside was an immediate assault to the senses—in the pleasantest way possible. Crackling fires, smiling faces, rows of biscuits, the low roar of conversation spiked with laughter, the sweet scent of cinnamon and nutmeg in the air. He could do this. He just needed to find someone to explain his donation to.
The only other time he’d walked through these doors had been on his first visit, just before he purchased his cottage. The welcome in the great hall was as he remembered it, but the castle was enormous. Adam knew how to find the circulating library, and that was about it.
As he glanced around, he noticed a woman just as alone as he was. She sat at a small table in the far corner beneath a sign simply reading:
* * *
FORTUNES
* * *
No one queued up, or even looked in the fortune-teller’s direction. Adam’s stomach twisted in empathy. He didn’t believe in psychic nonsense, but he knew what it felt like to be alone in a crowd, unable to fit in.
Striking up a conversation with a turbaned fortune teller would be the perfect way to ease into being New Adam. Nothing hinged on the outcome. She would move on and he would never see her again. The meaningless exchange would be a forgettable, but important, first attempt at practicing his social skills.
Besides, how hard could it be? He’d give her a shilling, she’d give him some twaddle about luck crossing his path, and that would be that.
“No half-measures,” he reminded himself. He was New Adam. This would be easy. He rolled back his shoulders and strode straight to her table.
Her turban slipped sideways as she glanced up from her glass ball.
“Sit.” One long fingernail pointed at a bronze basin. “One bob for fortune.”
He sat.
She stared at him without comment.
He dropped a shilling in the bronze basin.
The wrinkled, gray-haired woman continued to stare without blinking.
He shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden chair. “Er… aren’t you supposed to say something like ‘love and luck will find me, thanks to the moon?’”
“Dukes, actually. Thank them.”
She tapped a fingernail on the glass ball. It didn’t change.
Adam refrained from informing her that she was talking to a duke at this very moment. There was no point. She likely gave the same nonsensical fortune to everyone foolish enough to hand over a shilling.
She placed both hands on the glass ball and widened her eyes dramatically. “Follow the five golden rings. They lead to your heart.”
His brow furrowed. “What does that even mean?”
She covered the glass ball with a square of black silk. “It is up to you to find out.”
He couldn’t believe it. “I thought a fortune teller’s job was to tell fortunes.”
“Your job is to listen, which you are not doing,” she scolded.
“Five golden rings. My heart. Dukes, actually,” he parroted politely. “None of that makes sense.”
“Does anything make sense? You surround yourself with fictional companions because you are afraid to make real friends.”
He reeled back. “I’m not afraid! I—”
“You are comfortable before a podium because it is easier to speak to hundreds of your peers than to converse alone with just one person.”
“That’s not a ‘fortune,’” he spluttered. “That’s my current life. I didn’t give you a shilling to tell me things I already know.”
“Didn’t you?” She inspected her fingernails. “Tell me, why did you invite your pretty neighbor to your party and then do nothing but stare, because your tongue is useless as wet towel?”
He stared at her in disbelief. “Do I know you?”
She straightened her turban. “Have you been to the old country?”
“What country are you from?”
“This one. I was born in Essex.” Her accent disappeared. “If you were in search of science, you should have attended the Royal Society of Gentlemen Geologists’ symposium.”
He blinked. “Is there a Royal Society of Gentlemen Geologists symposium?”
“You want another fortune?” She pointed at the brass basin. “Two bob.”
“What happened to one bob?”
“Economic instability.” She tapped the basin. “Take that up with your committee when Parliament reconvenes.”
“How did you know I—”
“Madame Edna knows all.” She rubbed her palms over the glass sphere. “You don’t wish to be seen as aloof. You are lonely. You seek the missing piece.”
He dropped coins into the basin. “Two bob more. Now, how do I do it?”
Madame Edna leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Share your balls.”
“Share my what?”
“And your table.” She placed the glass sphere inside a wooden box and removed her turban. “The rest will become clear.”
“Where are you going?” He placed his hands on the table. “I thought you were going to tell my fortune.”
“I did.” She tugged down her sign. “The rest is up to you.”
With a muffled groan, Adam pushed away from her table to almost crash directly into the castle’s resident solicitor, Mr. Thompson, who had aided Adam’s man of business with the purchase of the cottage.
“Thank God.” Adam’s shoulders relaxed. “Someone sane.”
“Your Grace!” Mr. Thompson said warmly. “May I help you?”
“I’d like to donate several hundred volumes to the castle library. Is there a process for such contributions?”
“There is, indeed. If the day after tomorrow is amenable, I can have several footmen and coaches available to fetch the books from your door. You needn’t lift a finger.”
