Perhaps, after all, he ought to find out what.
Juliana blushed whenever she thought of the Aretino affair.
Back in the shop she convinced herself that this was a perfectly natural consequence of examining erotic images in the presence of an attractive male. Yet again she found herself in need of a self-administered reprimand on the folly of thinking of Lord Chase as anything but a customer with deep pockets. With his reputation for debauchery it would be something of a miracle if she could manage to retain his attention.
His attention to books and nothing else. Of course.
Luckily she had just the task to help achieve the laudable goal of forgetting the sexual urges and images he’d aroused: finding those dreary volumes Mr. Gilbert had mentioned.
Joseph was never shy about soliciting book owners to sell their collections. In this case a Miss Combe, resident of a substantial house in the Salisbury Close, had responded to his letter of inquiry with an invitation to look at her library. Although any purchases were financed by Juliana’s modest fortune, he refused to take her with him on the trip to Salisbury. As usual, he traveled alone, leaving her to mind the store while he made the important decisions.
In this case his business acumen had been inexplicably poor. She’d have suspected he’d bought Miss Combe’s collection out of pity for an elderly lady, except that it was so unlike Joseph.
A few volumes had been found in the room when his body, stripped of his purse and watch, had been discovered. The local magistrate had concluded that robbery was the motive for Joseph’s killing. The thief had left the books, which were now shelved in the shop. The rest of the collection, a couple of hundred volumes, had been delivered by carrier a few weeks later. Still reeling from the shock of her husband’s murder and the challenge of running the business alone, Juliana had given them a cursory glance, enough to see they weren’t going to make her fortune. From that day to this they sat disregarded in the back room.
Now her eye ran over the spines with practiced ease. Mr. Gregory’s History of the Christian Church. Very dull. The Church History of England by Hugh Tootell. Excellent bedtime reading, for an insomniac. And many more in the same vein. Perhaps Mr. Gilbert would be interested, but she wasn’t optimistic. She pulled a shabby folio volume from the bottom of a pile. The calf binding had once been fine, with traces of a distinctive gilt tooling on the spine and along the inner dentelles and a coat of arms on the front cover. But the hinges were cracked and the leather badly scratched. Gingerly removing the loose front cover she discovered a collection of manuscripts.
Hoping for a buried treasure, she carried the folio upstairs to look at after dinner. It turned out the contents of the volume were more soporific than precious, and it wasn’t long before she gave up and went to bed.
She awoke from a heated dream in which she knelt naked before an almost fully clothed man. A particular man. Her half-sleeping mind shied away from what she’d been doing to him, but she knew. It wasn’t something she’d ever have imagined before looking at that shocking book. The act should have disgusted her but instead she found it exciting.
On the occasions when her husband felt amorous he’d give a little cough before they retired for the night and suggest she “prepare herself.” Then he merely rolled over in bed on top of her and did his business. She hadn’t exactly disliked it, but it bored her. Her role was passive and his exertions never varied. In her dream she was an active partner in lovemaking and she enjoyed the sense of power. She awoke with a frustrated ache between her thighs, not wanting the dream to end.
The inky darkness and silence told her that the city outside had called it a day and predawn deliveries to the busy commercial street hadn’t commenced. Yet something had woken her. She listened nervously. Was that scratching she heard on the floor below? Rats? She shuddered with distaste. The alternative was even more unwelcome. She’d told herself over and over again that Joseph’s death was the result of an unfortunate mischance, the attack of a random thief turned murderous. For weeks she’d suffered night terrors, but they’d subsided when nothing threatening occurred. Nevertheless, the idea of an intruder in the shop was horrifying. She huddled under the covers, pulling a blanket up over her head.
An hour later, when she heard nothing further, she convinced herself she’d imagined the noise. But sleep eluded her almost until dawn, and she awoke unrefreshed, with a sense of foreboding. Steeling herself for disaster, she descended the narrow wooden stairs and entered the shop through the door from the passage. The door was locked, as it should be, and she could tell at a glance that nothing had been disturbed. The same appeared true in the back office. Her money was still in place, and she was sure no one had disturbed the papers on the desk. She stared hard at the corner where the Combe collection was lodged. It looked different. But she’d moved some of the volumes the previous day and couldn’t recall how she’d replaced them.
Obviously she’d been imagining things. Just looking at the books had no doubt brought back thoughts of Joseph’s murder and her own fears.
She was late opening, not that the bell had rung. With most of London’s bookmen attending the first day of the Tarleton sale, she expected an even quieter day than usual. How she wished she was there too. She tried not to feel sorry for herself.
She returned to the front room to unbolt the street door and immediately it opened, almost knocking her off her feet.
Lord Chase seized her arm. Recalling her midnight fantasies she blushed deeply.
“Just opening?” he said. “I’d have thought a hardworking merchant like you would have been up and busy for hours.”
She was ridiculously pleased to see him. He really meant to be a serious customer. Her pleasure certainly had nothing to do with the way he seemed to bring light and excitement into her drab premises, with his air of careless elegance and the mischief in his blue eyes. She stared at him stupidly and smiled, eliciting a responsive curve of his sensuous lips.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked.
“Go?”
“To the auction.”
“You want to go to the auction?”
“Of course. I’m going to buy some books.”
“But it’s the first day.”
“So?”
Juliana gave her head a little shake to restore her brain to a sensible level of performance.
“There isn’t anything good being sold today. Just minor works and books in poor condition.”
“I don’t care. Surely you want to see the action?”
She did, indeed she did. How strange that a neophyte like Lord Chase could understand the appeal of seeing even the dross from a fine collection go under the hammer.
“Of course you do,” he coaxed. “Let’s go.”
“I shouldn’t leave my shop unattended for the third day in a row.” As though she’d be losing money by her absence. If only it were true! But she didn’t want Chase to think she was ready to accede to his every wish.
She peered past him at his waiting carriage, shining scarlet in the gloomy drizzle. A footman held the door open. The interior looked warm and inviting. And she’d love to know if the seats really were upholstered in velvet.
“I suppose I can spare you an hour or two,” she said. “Let me fetch my bonnet.”
At first Cain found Mrs. Merton’s response as entertaining as the auction itself. She seemed fascinated by the dynamics of the sale, giving little jogs of excitement when something significant happened. She maintained a sotto voce commentary about the various players in the room, imbuing apparently dull men with character and creating drama out of the monotonous progress of the lots, punctuated by the rhythmic cadence of the auctioneer calling the bids.
Most of all she was astonished by the prices. On the face of it they seemed low enough, most books selling for a few shillings, some for a pound or two. She bid on a few items herself but never won any.
“The prices are outrageous,” she complained after losing a very dull-sounding volum
e to another dealer. “It’s one thing to see great copies and exceptional rarities go high, but these are very ordinary books.”
“Why did you bid on that one?” he asked.
“I have a customer who will buy it from me, but not for a ridiculous price. I warn you, my lord. If you intend to buy at this sale, expect to pay a lot.”
“I’ve been duly warned. In fact I think I’d like to buy this book.”
He pointed to an item in the catalogue, two lots ahead. He had the urge to enter the lists.
“It’s rare,” she said with a frown, “but it must be in terrible condition, and very likely incomplete, to be sold today.”
“I don’t care. I want to read it. I like Herrick’s poetry.” The title appealed to him too: Hesperides, or The Works Both Humane and Divine. He didn’t know about the divine side of things, but recalled that the poet had quite a fondness for women.
“I’ve spoken to you before about reading these books.” Her admonishment was without bite. In fact, he suspected that she teased him after his own manner. He could tell she was as anxious as he to get into the fray.
“I won’t go too high,” she said firmly.
“You’ll bid until I tell you to stop, or I’ll do it myself and Mr. Sotheby’s ceiling will collapse with shock.”
A porter held up the Herrick and he could see, even from his seat halfway down the room, that it wasn’t a pretty sight. The volume was knocked down to him at five pounds against two determined gentlemen, Mrs. Merton grumbling with every bid that he was paying too much.
Since coming into his inheritance, Cain had been able to buy anything he wanted, hence his color-coordinated carriages and liveries, his wardrobe, and the lavish style in which he maintained a succession of mistresses. He couldn’t remember an acquisition giving him such a rush of pleasure as a shabby edition of poetry by a country parson. This book-buying thing could become a habit. He began to scan the catalogue in earnest.
“That’s a good book, and damn rare.” Tarquin Compton came up as he waited for Mrs. Merton to collect the Herrick at the end of a long day. Compton had been sitting in the back of the room with Lord Hugo and Sebastian Iverley.
“You didn’t bid on it yourself.”
“I already own a copy. A beautiful one in contemporary polished calf.”
“Mine looks as though it were bound in ancient distressed weasel.”
Compton laughed. “You can have it rebound. But it’s complete. I collated it myself. The auctioneers made a mistake selling it today with the rubbish.”
How about that? He couldn’t wait to tell Mrs. Merton.
“Would you like to dine with Iverley and myself next week?” Compton asked. It was the first time Cain could recall a male member of the ton seeking his company that didn’t involve a visit to a den of vice. This was Tarquin Compton of all people, addressing him with a degree of respect.
Just because he’d bought a rare book.
Chapter 5
Lord Chase offered to take Juliana home. Since it was raining hard it didn’t take much persuasion before she succumbed to the allure of the carriage, with its heated bricks kept in a compartment in the floor.
“You must be hungry,” he said. “Do you have someone to serve you a meal?”
“I cook for myself.”
“You’ve been working all day. It isn’t right.”
“That’s why people have wives,” she remarked wryly.
“No, that’s why people have cooks.”
Juliana climbed the stairs wearily to her tiny rooms over the shop, sorry to leave the luxurious velvet upholstery and delicious warmth. It had been a long day. Collapsing in a chair, she swathed herself in a heavy wool shawl and contemplated the state of her larder. Some bread and cheese was all it contained, stale and staler.
She also felt apprehensive. The memory of that noise in the night, forgotten in the excitement of the auction, returned in a rush and made her jittery. For the first time in months she missed Joseph. He had never been the most scintillating company, and she hated cooking dinner, but she would have enjoyed thrashing out the events of the day with him.
Surprisingly, she would also have enjoyed discussing them with Chase. His ribald comments had added an extra element to the personalities of the auction room.
During one heated exchange of bids between two collectors, she’d whispered that one of them liked to run up the prices against his longtime rival, who was unable to resist the challenge. The baited gentleman often found himself hanging out to dry in possession of an inferior book at an inflated price.
“Not the only thing Featherstone has had hanging out. The poor fellow was once compelled to depart the home of the lovely Lola Garcia through the window with his breeches unbuttoned.”
Juliana looked at the stout baronet and snorted into her catalogue. “Ssh,” she hissed. Then after a pause, “Why?”
“Her, uh, official protector unexpectedly appeared and would have been most displeased to discover that Lola was augmenting her income.”
Chase might not be well versed in the family relationships of the ton, but he certainly knew all about their unsanctified activities. She couldn’t recall when, if ever, she’d been so diverted.
She was still sedentary, trying to summon the energy to eat, when a knock at the door had her plodding downstairs.
“Who’s there?” she asked nervously.
“Chase.”
She opened the door to admit the most delicious aroma, followed by two liveried footmen staggering under the weight of covered trays. The marquis brought up the rear bearing a wine bottle and a winning smile.
“Dinner,” he said.
Juliana’s rumbling stomach and quivering nose quelled the instinct to protest.
“Upstairs?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Upstairs,” he directed the footmen.
“Right yer are, guv,” replied one, who looked about fifteen years old. The other, even younger, had his coat misbuttoned and his wig slightly askew. In fact both lacked the orderly appearance usual in such retainers.
Chase indicated with a nimble bow that she should precede him in their wake.
“Why?” was all she could say.
“I’m accustomed to feeding working women at the end of a long day. Admittedly most of my friends are actresses, but I don’t suppose booksellers are very different.”
Juliana could just imagine what usually happened after he provided a meal. She repressed her misgivings, ignored an involuntary tremor of anticipation, and followed the smell of food.
Cain fully expected Mrs. Merton to protest with some nonsense about her reputation. He was ready to tempt her with delicious dishes from his cook but his best wheedling wasn’t called for. She cleared some books off the table in a room that he guessed was more than half the total size of the flat. After looking around for a clean surface, she heaped them on the seat of the only comfortable chair. While Tom unloaded the dishes of food, she led Peter into another room to fetch plates and cutlery.
They were willing boys, his footmen, if on the unrefined side. He wondered what she’d think if he told her they were the sons of a whore from Mrs. Rafferty’s. Their mother, Bet, along with Mel, had rescued him after he’d been robbed and beaten his second day in London. She’d been his first woman. That was in the old innocent days when the brothel had seemed like heaven on earth to a randy youth, and all its inhabitants angels of the most deliciously fallen variety. Later he’d discovered the dismal and dangerous reality of bordello life. Bet was dead, of the pox, and he mourned her still. When his fortunes changed he’d given her boys a home. Mel had cared for them until they became old enough to work.
The apartment was shabby and redolent of that same dusty leather odor that he now associated with old books. Not surprising, since the room was full of them, far more than could be shelved in the bookcase that occupied one full wall. A small gateleg table, two plain wooden chairs, a console table, and a desk with a glass-fronted
cupboard above completed the furnishings. He noted that beneath the teetering towers of volumes the furniture was of decent quality, as were the china and glasses Peter carried in from the other room. The only decorative object was a watercolor portrait of a young woman with dark hair arranged in the style of the last century.
“It’s chilly,” he called out. “Shall I have one of my servants start a fire?”
Mrs. Merton came back into the room carrying knives and forks. “Please,” she said. “I couldn’t summon the strength to do it myself. But since I am to be treated to a meal we might as well enjoy it in comfort. You do intend to remain and share it, my lord?”
“Of course. Book collectors get hungry too.”
“I’m glad to hear you call yourself a book collector.”
“I’d like to talk about buying some more, but first sit down and eat. Let me pour you some wine.”
“I rarely drink, my lord,” she said, taking her place at the table and eyeing the chicken fricassee, York ham, buttered cauliflower, and stewed mushrooms the boys had uncovered.
He pulled a chair up across from her and filled both glasses. “Since we’re breaking bread together I think we should drop the formalities. My friends call me Cain.”
“An unusual name.”
“As a matter of fact, fratricide is one sin I’ve never committed.”
Her lips pursed into the little smile that made her look young and enchantingly pretty, despite the ugly cap. “Do you even have a brother?”
“Not that I know of. Cain isn’t my Christian name. Before I inherited the marquisate I was known as the Earl of Cainfield.”
“Does no one use your Christian name?”
“Never.”
“What about your father and mother?”
“My mother called me Cainfield. My father called me Amnon.” Now why the hell had he said that? In a room full of actresses it wouldn’t matter, but Mrs. Merton was a woman of education.
The Wild Marquis Page 5
