by Edith Layton
“To help make her comfortable,” Arthur said.
“That would be done by coming with me,” his cousin said firmly, taking his cousin by the arm and leading him away.
Lady Gray was having her morning chocolate. Once she heard her nephews’ request, it took only moments to have her maid make her presentable. Then, dressed in her best morning attire, propped on pillows in her bed, eyes alight, she admitted them both.
“Interesting!” she said when Niall was done explaining. She looked pleased and excited. “Buried treasure, in a book. Not mine, of course!” she announced with a great show of shock. “I’m not such a cloth-head as to leave my valuables about. But it’s no case for Bow Street. Depend on it, it’s probably a deed or a will or some such that someone was reading—or money someone was counting, stowed in the book when whomever it was, was distracted. Then it was forgotten. Daresay Joy will have to hunt round among all the ladies to find the owner.” She paused. “I call her ‘Joy,’” she explained, “though I in no way think of her as a servant. Though she’s far younger than I, I have come to think of her as a friend, and she’s certainly an equal by birth no matter her present condition.
“Now. A lost treasure, is it? Whose could it be?” she mused aloud. “You’d think if someone left something, she’d remember. Or the next reader would have found it. But you know? I’ve often suspected not everyone reads everything they borrow, the books are traded back and forth too quickly. When a book’s not given a good critique, I think it discourages some people. They don’t read the book at all, just hand it back straightaway the next day, and pretend they have. Because who’d want the others to know she doesn’t make up her mind for herself? Not me, of course,” she added quickly. She frowned. “Such lively discussions go on there, I don’t know how Joy keeps track. Sometimes we hand a book around three times or more before someone takes it away.
“Let me think,” she said, wrinkling her forehead. “Mrs. Crab? No, she’s often harried, but no scatterbrain, none of ’em are. But Christmas is coming, and they’re all in a tizzy because families are visiting, or they’re going out to them. It would be interesting to know who it was and what it was. Wish I could go along with Joy on her inquiries.” She stole at look at Niall from under her lashes. “And so I would, if only I still weren’t too fragile.”
She was a stout woman with masses of curly silver hair, and looked, as her nephews privately thought, about as fragile as a fishmonger on a Friday morning at Billingsgate. But she cherished her occasional maladies because she believed they reminded her relatives of the impermanence of life, as well as the worth of her stocks, properties, and investments. They liked her for herself, but owing to her late unlamented, inattentive husband, she never quite believed it.
“Joy’s still downstairs, is she?” she asked. “Good, very good. I’m feeling a bit better this morning; perhaps she’d like to come up and visit with me a while. The child has a head on her shoulders, as I told you when I first sent you there.” She fixed Niall with an accusing stare. “Though you’re probably too busy looking at that fair head to wonder what’s in it. Quite a bit, I assure you. No money there, but a good name, an old solid family. But I suppose you don’t count her eligible unless she’s presented to you on a plate at Almack’s.”
“Then,” Niall said gently, “it’s as well that you’re not with Bow Street, Aunt.”
“What a fine idea,” Arthur said. “Do ask her up for a visit.”
“A fine idea—under different circumstances,” Niall said quellingly. “As for today, she said her cousin Minch wants her to find the owner of the object of value as soon as possible.”
“Probably hoping for a reward,” his aunt observed. “A clutch-fist of the worst degree. She’d overlook a book brought back a day late if she could. But if you return one an hour late, he’s there rubbing his hands together, ready to grind the extra penny out of you. I’ll wager he sent her by herself, didn’t he?”
“She had no one with her,” Niall agreed.
“Mmm,” his aunt said thoughtfully. She looked at him. “You’re right. She can visit me another day. She has to search out the proper owner at once. But it’s not done. Coming to me is one thing, there’s no way that poor girl should go coursing through London on her own. Send one of the downstairs maids along for propriety, and call a hackney for her, will you, Niall?”
“I’ll do better,” he said on a sudden smile, “I came by my carriage, I’ll take her. Since it’s an open carriage, there’s no need for a chaperon.”
“Oh, good,” Arthur said, “I’ll just get my hat.”
“There’s only room for two,” Niall said quickly, just as his aunt rapped out, “Arthur, you stay with me!”
Niall and his aunt looked at each other. Then smiled at each other as broadly as Arthur began to scowl.
“And, Niall?” his aunt called as he strode out the door. “Don’t exhaust the poor child. In fact, make it worth her while. Invite her to dinner, too! It will do wonders for me, I’m sure I’ll be able to join you by then. At least I shall make the effort.”
“A monumental one, no doubt,” Arthur muttered jealously, as his cousin grinned, saluted his aunt with a finger to his brow, then strode out the door.
* * *
Joy took Lord Paget’s proffered hand and stepped up onto the high seat of his curricle. She’d never been in such a magnificent equipage before. Tall and intricate, with high delicate-looking yellow wheels, a gold chassis, and red cushions on the seat to spare her bottom from the pounding she was sure it would get as she rode over London’s cobbles. The baron settled in his seat beside her, close as her elbow. She could almost feel the heat emanating from his tall strong form. He picked up the whip to start his team of matched cream horses. Joy held her breath. She was nervous, exhilarated, and excited all at once. Driving in such a carriage would be breathtaking, too.
“Miss Cummings first, you say?” he asked, turning to her.
“Seven Eden Street,” she repeated, consulting the notebook she held on her lap. “She had the book just before your aunt did.”
He flicked the whip and the horses set out. Joy’s hand clutched the rail at her side as the curricle picked up speed. It was so well sprung she didn’t jounce, it was so high up she wondered how hard she would fall. It was so thrilling she didn’t care anymore.
Especially when he spoke to her again.
“It’s good you keep such records,” he said, glancing at her notebook. “Have you always worked in your cousin’s shop?”
“Oh, no. I never expected to. I was born and raised in Tidwell, and never thought to come to London. But after my parents died, Cousin Minch was the only relative to offer me house room. It’s only fair then that I work for my board.”
“Tidwell? But I know the place. I had a schoolmate from Holt, and once visited there. As I recall, it’s a very pretty region. A tiny village, isn’t it? I suppose you were delighted that your cousin lived in London instead of another country village.”
“Actually, no,” she confessed. “I was terrified. I’ve come to love the things about London, since—the shops, the variety of people, the excitement. The air’s charged with it. Even the most tedious things seem more important here than they did at home. It’s difficult to get up much tension about a new crop of peaches coming in, after all. The only real excitement we had at home was when a storm was brewing.” She turned a radiant smile to him. “That’s just it. There always seems to be some sort of change due any minute here. I like it. But I confess I loved Tidwell. I guess I’m just a country girl, after all.”
He wished someone else was driving so he could bask in that smile. She wore a dusty pink pelisse and a pretty little rose-colored bonnet. Nothing modish, not out of style but certainly not the last word in fashion. But she didn’t need fashion or its accoutrements. The girl was as pink and ripe and tempting as Botticelli’s Venus, she didn’t need any heavenly clamshell or London modiste to frame her. The wind whisked wisps of flaxen hai
r from under her bonnet, dashing them across her cheek. Fine as silver floss, bright as sunlight, scattered against that fair cheek…her eyes so blue, lips so inviting, so pink in contrast to those straight white little teeth…and she’d just said she was just a country girl.
His horses knew when he stopped paying attention. Niall was suddenly jolted by more than Joy’s smile. He had to rein in his team along with his desires and regretfully turn his attention back to driving. But his thoughts stayed with Joy.
“Homesick?” he asked.
“When I talk about it,” she said with a shrug. “And when I go to sleep sometimes, you know, those moments just before you drift away?” She fell still, wondering if a well-brought-up young woman ought to talk about sleeping with a gentleman. She hadn’t spoken to many gentlemen in a long time, at least since she’d become a woman.
“Those are the times when childhood is closest,” he agreed, “when you give up the present, stop worrying about the future, and find yourself sliding to sleep in the past.”
She relaxed, even though he was so close, and so very dashing. He wore a dun-colored driving coat and a high beaver hat that sat at a rakish angle on that thick dark gold hair. She didn’t mean to stare, but when she looked down at her own lap, she couldn’t help seeing that the muscular thighs so close to her own were covered by finely knit inexpressibles, and that he wore high shining brown boots with gold tassels on his long legs. He exuded an aura of confident masculinity, wealth, and good breeding. And still, he smiled at her as though he genuinely liked her. It was easy to pretend she was a friend, possible even to imagine she was a lady he’d asked out because he wanted her for more than a friend. Possible, if foolish. But she enjoyed the pretense, if only just for a minute.
“I live in the countryside,” he said suddenly. “To the west, on the Severne. I inherited a neglected estate there and discovered I enjoyed setting it to rights more than all the tension you so admire here in London. You have to admit a roof about to cave in on your head is definitely exciting, and stairs that threaten to give way when you’re at the top of them add more drama than even London can.”
“But when it’s all repaired, what will you do?”
“Grow apples,” he said readily. “Raise horses. Discover which hens lay the biggest, brownest eggs. And sit by my fireside of an evening, congratulating myself on my timber. I don’t blame you for laughing, no one in my family can believe the transformation restoring a couple of hundred acres and a decrepit estate have wrought in me. But I mean to show them. In fact, I plan to hold Christmas there this year to prove it.”
“Is it a big family?” she asked wistfully.
“No. And when I returned from the wars, it had shrunk further. My father and mother were gone long before, when I was a lad, but we lost two cousins and an uncle to the Little Emperor. That’s why we, by which I mean Aunt, Cousin Arthur, and a few others, are so important to each other.”
“Were you in the army?”
They were still talking about his regiment when he slowed the team. “Speaking of horses!” he said with a laugh. “We have to turn round! Went right past the address, three streets back.”
Joy wondered if she’d been chattering too much, so was glad to be reminded of her mission. She quieted as they neared Miss Cummings’ town house, eyeing it with interest, because she’d never thought to visit any of her customers and found herself curious about them now. She was pleased for Miss Cummings. Hers was a neat house set in a semicircular ring of similar ones: good gray houses in a district that spoke of old money. There was no excitement here, and none was expected.
“I don’t think Miss Cummings is the sort of person to leave anything in a book,” Joy said. “She’s very precise.”
“And very much away at the moment, unless I miss my guess,” he said, noting that the doorknocker was off the front door. “Let me make some inquiries.”
He found a boy to hold his horses, then roused a footman next door. After a few minutes and a coin given and taken, he returned to the driver’s seat.
“Gone,” he reported, “and not expected back until the New Year. Who’s next on the list?”
Joy consulted her notebook. She sighed with relief and barely restrained a smile. “Mrs. Crab in James Street.” James Street was far from where they were.
He smiled, too. “Good. Now, what were you saying?”
She stiffened, thinking his smile might be a touch too knowing, maybe holding a shade too much knowledge of her own feelings. She ducked her head and consulted her notebook. “I was reading my alphabetized list. But Lady Turnbull lives in Red Lion Square, which is much closer to us.”
“But as she is a lady, she might be paying a morning call,” he said imperturbably. “Let’s leave her for after Mrs. Crab, when we’ll be more likely to find her at home.”
She looked up, as startled as amused by his flimsy reasoning. She saw his smile, still knowing, but rueful and hopeful, too. They both laughed merrily, as children skipping school to go fishing.
“Yes,” she said, “then all right, Mrs. Crab it is.”
“Now,” he repeated. “As you were saying?”
She was saying things about the war that was over. Then he did; then they said things about the season that was coming. They agreed about politics and had an amusing mock quarrel about a poet. After they consulted with Mrs. Crab, who was elbow-deep in cookie dough, and had tea with her until they were stuffed with fresh gingerbread, they set out again.
Mrs. Crab said she hadn’t lost anything. Joy was again relieved but feeling guilty about taking up the baron’s time, wondering if she should go on the rest of her errand alone. But her escort seemed unsurprised and wouldn’t hear of her continuing the search on her own.
“Things are seldom found where you first look,” he said. “Why else would people always say they find things in the last place they looked? Fine fellow I’d be to let you wander London by foot when I have a carriage!” he added as she laughed and he took up the reins again. “Besides, the horses need exercise.”
Joy decided she wasn’t really imposing too much, and because they found so many new things to talk about as they traveled back across town to Lady Turnbull’s house, the trip seemed to take only minutes.
Lady Turnbull was delighted to see them, and took their arrival as a cause to start her holiday, or so she said.
“It’s about time you visited, my dear,” she told Joy. “And it’s a delight to entertain a handsome gentleman anytime,” she added to Niall.
Her house was opulent, her servants gliding silently throughout, bringing them a lavish luncheon, because the lady refused to let them leave until they’d dined with her.
She hadn’t misplaced a thing, but had her doubts about Mrs. Holcombe, who she said would forget her head if it wasn’t attached to her shoulders. “Not that it’s not a good head,” she added quickly. “A clever party, is our Mrs. H. But forgetful, you see. She’ll read a book almost all the way through before she realizes she’s read it before. A common failing in many of us, but less uncommon with her, if you get my inference. Am I right, Joy?”
“Is she right, Joy?” Niall asked when they were back in his curricle.
Joy almost protested the familiarity, then bit back the words. Why bother? She couldn’t have a better example of how he regarded her. His aunt called her that, but they had a long acquaintance, and they were both females. He wouldn’t have called a lady by her first name without permission. But she was a bookseller, no matter her birth, and it was time she remembered it.
He saw her suddenly bent head, the way her lashes shaded the dying of the light in her eyes as she pretended to scan her notebook. Because he called her by her given name?
“Have I offended you?” he asked. “Aunt calls you ‘Joy,’ as did the other ladies, I just slipped into the habit. Forgive me.”
She raised her head and treated him to a brilliant smile. “I’m not offended. Well, maybe I was, but now I understand.”
He
was relieved. She was well-bred and circumspect. Poor girl, she’d had to be. But he’d swear there wasn’t a priggish bone in that entire lovely body. Thinking of that entire lovely body made him look at her again, and damn the horses. If they bolted it would be worth it. He studied her profile in the last of the afternoon light, watching as she looked at her notebook again. She seemed to shiver. At least, her finger shook as she traced the next address.
“What a fool I am, forgive me!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been so busy talking, I forgot how long we’ve been out. On such a chilly day, and in an open carriage! We’re going back, Miss Ayres, before my aunt slays me. She expressly told me not to keep you out too long. And asked that I invite you to dinner.”
Joy looked up, amazed. “Me? But…” she hesitated, thinking of how much she wanted to accept and all the reasons why she couldn’t: from not having the proper clothes to wear, to fear of who else might be there, to worry about overstepping her bounds, and about accepting too eagerly and easily because she really was so eager to continue this singularly wonderful day.
“It would make Aunt feel better, and we all want that, don’t we?” he asked before she could protest. “It would be just Aunt and me. And Arthur, and he’s harmless. There’d be good food, I promise. Please say yes, or Aunt will be bitterly disappointed. Which means I’ll have a headache for the next week. We’ll send a note round to your cousin; I’m sure he’ll understand.”
Understand? Joy thought, he’d be delighted, considering the deference he always paid to the aristocracy—and the possibilities of her friendliness to them providing more customers for his shop. “Well, if you really think…”
“I do!” he said, and snapped the whip, hurrying the horses to his aunt’s home.
Joy didn’t notice what she ate. She knew it was good, but it couldn’t be half as good as the time she was having.
They dined in a snug parlor because Lady Gray announced they were too few and too cozy a crew to dine in state. They dined in laughter instead.
