The Wild Marquis

by Miranda Neville

  A scattering of bids were placed. The price was still in the hundreds and everyone knew these were skirmishers, idlers without a hope of victory who wanted to boast they’d fought for the great book. Juliana remained motionless. She’d decided not to enter the bidding until the auctioneer called one thousand. She was preparing to raise a discreet hand when Sir Henry covered it with his own.

  “I’ll bid on this one myself,” he said.

  She was disappointed yet also relieved. If Cain had to lose the manuscript to Tarleton she’d prefer not to strike the killing blow.

  Sir Henry raised his hand at one thousand and fifty, and someone else bid eleven hundred. Juliana strained her neck to see who. Iverley had made a symbolic attempt at seven hundred and fifty, then dropped out. Compton was quiescent. Sir Henry reached fifteen fifty before she spotted him.

  The picture of nonchalant elegance, he leaned against the wall, one boot braced behind him. His eyes were half closed, and the casual observer might have thought him bored and detached from the proceedings. Juliana knew better. She knew the dazzling blue eyes glinted with mischief behind the hooded lids. The Marquis of Chase was experiencing enjoyment of no small order.

  And yet he didn’t engage the auctioneer’s eye, neither did he raise an arm. Both hands were busy with a large snuffbox. Even at a distance she could tell it was a valuable piece, flashing gold and encrusted with glittering diamonds.

  The bidding reached eighteen hundred, eighteen fifty, nineteen. Sir Henry stopped and thought. Juliana wasn’t sure of his limit, but she guessed he could manage two thousand pounds. The attention of the room was divided between Sir Henry, to see if he had another bid in him, and a mad search for his opponent, whom no one had identified.

  “One thousand, nine hundred pounds,” intoned the auctioneer, giving Sir Henry an invitational look.

  Tarleton nodded.

  “One thousand, nine hundred, and fifty. Two thousand pounds.” There was scarcely a pause between the bids but Juliana had been ready and looking. She’d seen the auctioneer aim the fleetest glance in Cain’s direction.

  Cain hadn’t moved. He leaned against the wall, holding his snuffbox. He didn’t need her, Juliana thought. He’d set up his signal with the auctioneer and was secretly bidding like a practiced collector. She was proud of him.

  Tarleton nodded again. “Two thousand, one hundred pounds.”

  Could Cain afford to go higher?

  “Two thousand, two hundred.”

  The room was dead silent. Juliana’s fists clenched. She willed Sir Henry to stop. The baronet thought about it, seemingly for a lifetime. Then nodded again.

  The bubble of tension burst as the Roxburghe record went down and the room erupted in applause. Each succeeding bid was greeted by howls of approval.

  The manuscript was Tarleton’s at twenty-nine hundred. Surely Cain would stop now. This was a far greater sum than they’d ever discussed. But he remained motionless.

  The Marquis of Chase never took snuff.

  “Three thousand pounds!” The auctioneer gave up his air of disinterested calm and cried out the incredible sum in a paroxysm of delight.

  Sir Henry’s shoulders slumped and he shook his head in defeat.

  The hammer fell. “Three thousand pounds to Lord Chase!”

  And that was the last Juliana saw of Cain as a mob surrounded him, until he was borne out of the room in triumph on the shoulders of a dozen cheering bibliophiles.

  Chapter 28

  Cain found himself the hero of the hour. He suffered congratulations and backslapping from scores of men, every one of them anxious to make the acquaintance of London’s newest collector.

  Not a few of them wanted to sell him books. Among the diverse offerings were a series of sixteenth-century French romances, two hundred and fifty English Puritan pamphlets, and a New Testament printed in Glagolitic characters, whatever they were. One enterprising gentlemen went so far as to offer Cain the hand of his daughter in marriage, or rather his choice of three young ladies, each one generously dowered with a selection of duplicate volumes from her father’s collection.

  Only one young lady interested Cain and he couldn’t find her. Drat her for being so short. He’d quite lost her in the crowd. In the end he left the premises, expecting to catch her as she emerged. He didn’t think she was in any peril inside the auction rooms, among so many people, but he couldn’t risk missing her altogether.

  The street was scarcely less crowded, as auction-goers swarmed out and milled about, awaiting their carriages or merely chewing over the events of the afternoon.

  “Splendidly done, Cain,” Sebastian Iverley called out. “I thought Tarleton would have an apoplexy. Pity he didn’t.” The lanky collector actually laughed.

  Tarquin Compton nodded his approbation. “I’m glad you returned in time for the Hours. It was priceless to see the room go wild trying to find out who was bidding. Did you get what you wanted from Uncle Hugo?”

  “I did, and thank you for suggesting I call on him,” Cain said, his eyes glued to the door.

  “The old boy is the fount of all knowledge when it comes to births, marriages, and deaths. In his next life he should be a copy of the Morning Post.”

  “Have you seen Mrs. Merton?”

  “She got into a hackney, not five minutes ago,” Tarquin said.

  Cain swore. “I told you not to let her leave.”

  “I didn’t know you meant after the auction was over.”

  “Was she with Tarleton?”

  “I don’t think Tarleton is best pleased with Mrs. Merton,” Sebastian remarked. “He didn’t get one half of the books he wanted today.”

  “That’s hardly her fault,” Tarquin said. “And at least he’ll get all the money once the legal niceties have been concluded. Do you think—”

  “For God’s sake,” Cain interrupted. “Was she with Tarleton?”

  “She was alone. Are you going to tell us what this is about?” Tarquin’s last question was directed at Cain’s back as he ran across the street and jumped into his waiting carriage.

  “St. Martin’s Lane,” he ordered his coachman. “Fast.”

  He caught her as she paid off her hackney and extracted the key to her door.

  “Why in hell didn’t you wait for me?” he demanded.

  She turned in surprise. “Why would I? I expected you to be angry with me for accepting Sir Henry’s offer and bidding against you.”

  “Oh that. I know why you did it. To make sure I got the Burgundy Hours.”

  “I thought you were short of money. Clearly I was wrong.”

  “Yes, my love. Even after today I’m nowhere even close to the poorhouse. But I am touched by your thoughtfulness. Thank you.”

  “It wasn’t just for you,” she said with a rueful smile. “Sir Henry would have been an excellent customer in the future. You ruined it by buying all the Shakespeares. Now he’s furious with me.”

  “I thought you’d be happy I bought the quartos for you.”

  “Thank you,” she said primly, “but it would be most improper for me to accept such a gift. And the prices were far too high for me to buy them from you, even my mother’s Romeo and Juliet.”

  Cain’s inclination was to take her in his arms and tell her not to be a goose. That she could spend whatever she wanted on any book she liked once they were married. But he’d made the mistake in the past of prejudging Juliana’s response to proposals, honorable or otherwise.

  Besides, there had been a number of recent developments about which she knew nothing.

  “I have some important news for you. Let’s go inside.”

  He dismissed his carriage without giving orders for its return. She unlocked the door leading to the stairs, but instead of taking him up to the flat, she led him through the connecting door into the shop.

  Quarto, the canine version, lumbered out to greet her, licking her hand in an adoring fashion, then baring his teeth at Cain as though he were an early dinner.

&n
bsp; “Good Quarto,” Cain said. “Where are the boys?”

  “I sent them to Holborn. They were anxious to see their new home.”

  “They were not supposed to leave you alone. I’m not happy you went out without them today.”

  “I came to no harm,” she said dismissively, discarding her bonnet and flinging it onto the book table at the rear of the room. “What news? What happened with your mother?”

  “I know who your father was.”

  The gloves she’d just removed fell to the floor.

  Juliana gaped at him, unable to utter a word. Whatever she’d expected, it wasn’t this. “Who? How?” she finally managed.

  “I’ll answer both questions. It’s quite a tale.” He indicated she take a seat.

  She sat with elbows on the table, chin on her fists, watching Cain, who was pacing as much as the cramped space allowed.

  “I returned from Markley Chase this morning to find your delightful letter.” He flashed a wicked look at her and her stomach turned a somersault.

  “The reason for my journey will have to keep. This is more important for the moment. When I received your note I naturally dashed hotfoot to the auction to see why my representative had resigned, without even the courtesy of giving me her reasons.” She would have argued but he held up a hand for silence. “Then I noticed the volume of manuscripts and recognized the binding.”

  Once again Juliana was impressed by Cain’s powers of observation. “I noticed too,” she said. “It’s the same as the one I have upstairs. But in much better condition.”

  “And what did you think?”

  “I wondered who the binder was.”

  Not the right answer apparently, judging by Cain’s expression of exasperated amusement.

  “Didn’t it occur to you, my dear little bookworm, to wonder why two similarly bound volumes of manuscripts, on the same subject, ended up in two different places?”

  “Yes, I did think it odd.”

  “Iverley told me the coat of arms was that of the Combe family.”

  “That’s what I thought. Perhaps Tarleton bought his volume from Miss Combe. It certainly had more valuable contents than mine.”

  “Tarleton’s wife was a Combe.”

  “Oh?” This was all very interesting but Juliana didn’t see the point.

  “As soon as I heard that, everything fell into place. I just needed confirmation. So I went to see Lord Hugo Hartley.”

  He’d lost her. She threw up her hands in bewilderment.

  “Don’t you see?” he asked. “Romeo and Juliet was the clue. The Capulets and the Montagues. Cassandra was Juliet. She fell in love with her enemy’s son.”

  And finally Juliana understood.

  “Tarleton,” she whispered.

  “Lord Hugo told me that Sir Thomas Tarleton’s son was named Julian. I’d wager a large sum that he and Cassandra ran away to be married against the wishes of both fathers. You, my dear, are Juliana Cassandra Tarleton, the missing heiress to the Tarleton estate.”

  “And Sir Henry?”

  “Sir Henry has a very good reason to make sure you never prove Julian and Cassandra married.”

  She fetched the volume of manuscripts and they sat together at the book table, going through each document and examining it minutely. Or rather Juliana did, at times using a magnifying glass to examine any fine print or microscopic script.

  Cain kept busy finding the answers to Juliana’s questions about his deductions.

  “Miss Combe was Lady Tarleton’s sister?”

  “Lord Hugo wasn’t certain, but it seems a fair inference.”

  “And she was the person who reported that Julian Tarleton had married, thus delaying Sir Henry’s inheritance.”

  “That fact at least should be easy to confirm.”

  Juliana wrinkled her nose. “If she knew Julian had married, why didn’t she tell Sir Thomas?”

  “Perhaps she quarreled with him. Everyone else did. Or perhaps Sir Thomas knew but didn’t care. Perhaps he hated Fitterbourne so much he preferred to deny the marriage. But I don’t think so. Lord Hugo says he loved his son. And he never changed his will.”

  Cain didn’t want to bring up Fitterbourne’s attitude to the marriage, the cause of his worst quarrel with Juliana. Yet it lay between them, almost palpable, during a long moment of silence.

  “My grandfather must have known,” she said at last.

  He said nothing, merely gave her shoulders a comforting squeeze.

  “It makes sense now,” she went on. “He wouldn’t do it for money, but I can see him not wanting to share his grandchild with Tarleton. He hated him so much.” Cain couldn’t believe how dispassionate she sounded. Fitterbourne had deprived her of legitimate birth and two fortunes, and still she didn’t condemn him.

  “You know,” she mused, “a child belongs to his father’s family. My grandfather may have wanted to keep Cassandra’s daughter for himself. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t tell anyone.”

  In Cain’s opinion George Fitterbourne had been a selfish old bastard, and if he didn’t change the subject he was going to tell her so. Instead, without going into details, he recounted his own discovery that Tarleton had blackmailed his father to gain the Burgundy Hours.

  “You’ve discovered a charming new grandfather for me,” Juliana said. Preferring to dwell on Tarleton’s crimes rather than face Mr. Fitterbourne’s, she was grateful to Cain for allowing her to excuse the latter’s conduct.

  “I spoke with my mother,” Cain said. “She has withdrawn her objection to my being Esther’s guardian.”

  “What? That’s wonderful news! Are you reconciled with her?”

  “Not entirely,” he said. “It’s complicated. I’ll tell you the whole story another time. How are you getting on with those manuscripts?”

  She turned back to the folio and gave a little huff.

  “What’s that? Did you find something?”

  “Quite the opposite. There’s something missing here.” The individual documents had been mounted onto the blank leaves of the volume. Juliana showed Cain how one item had been removed, leaving only a stub.

  “Is it the only one?”

  A quick search revealed evidence of several similar removals. She leaned back in her chair and sighed deeply. “Supposing there was evidence of the marriage and it has been removed?”

  Cain stood and rubbed her shoulders. She leaned against him gratefully. “You’re tired,” he said. “What you need is a drink. And food. I don’t suppose there is anything in your kitchen? No, of course not. I’ll go out and get something. Where is your key?”

  “Take the key to the shop door.” She showed him where it hung on a hook, just inside the entrance to the back room.

  “I’ll lock the door behind me. Don’t let anyone else in. I won’t be long.”

  He stepped over Quarto, who was lying on the floor in the aisle. “Look after your mistress, Quarto.”

  The bulldog opened one eye and growled.

  “Good dog. That’s the idea.”

  Juliana was tired of reading about tithes, benefices, and preferments. Whoever assembled this volume seemed to have no sense of organization and little discrimination. She couldn’t see the rationale for collecting such a dreary miscellany. If this represented the history of the Church of England, she would have to say the Reformation had been a poor idea.

  A glass of wine would be more than acceptable and her stomach rumbled at the prospect of dinner. She rubbed her itching eyes, wondering what time it was. Later than she’d realized. The shop was in darkness apart from the narrow pool of light cast by the reading lamp, an oil-fueled contraption designed to focus illumination on a small area. Only the dog’s rhythmic breathing disturbed the silence.

  There was no need to feel edgy. Accustomed to working in the evenings, she had never come to any harm. Previous break-ins had come in the middle of the night. The door was locked. She had a dog.

  True, the dog was fast asleep. But he was a big animal
and looked quite alarming when awake. And he lay on the floor in the middle of the passage that led from the front of the shop. Anyone who came in would have to go through Quarto to get to her.

  She resisted the urge to huddle next to him on the floor. The comfort of another warm, strong body would be even better, and she wished Cain would hurry back.

  Summoning her resolution, she returned to her discouraging task. Perhaps she could get to the end before he returned with dinner.

  Her heart practically leaped from her chest at a noise from the direction of the door. Then she heard the key turn in the lock and turned weak with relief.

  The doorway was hidden from view by the rows of bookshelves that jutted perpendicular to the wall, so she only heard Cain’s stumble. Knowing from experience that the front of the shop would be in darkness, she rose and picked up the lamp.

  “Hold on, I’ll bring light.”

  She rounded the table and almost tripped over Quarto, who was awake and on four paws. He looked down the aisle and woofed a happy welcome.

  That was odd. Quarto hated Cain.

  “There’s a good boy,” said a familiar voice. “Now sit.”

  Quarto sat. Juliana stood frozen beside him.

  “Such a welcome, my dear. First your delightful dog. And now you, bearing illumination.”

  Sir Henry Tarleton stepped into view, an unlit lamp in one hand, a key in the other. “Rather a surprise too,” he said, approaching steadily. “I expected the place to be empty. The lamplight didn’t penetrate to the street. He glanced briefly over his shoulder. “You need to clean your windows.”

  “Where did you get the key?” Juliana blurted.

  “I’ve had it for months.” He pocketed it with a jaunty flourish. “You keep yours in a foolishly accessible spot. It was easy to borrow it for long enough to make a wax impression. Luckily I didn’t make an impression. You never remembered that I came into the shop once.”

  “I thought I knew you.”

  “Once openly, that is. I searched the premises thoroughly in the weeks after your husband died. I didn’t know until recently that he’d bought more books from the Combe collection.”