Lady Lucianna’s father, the Marquis of Camden, had refused to allow a proper betrothal between Montrose and Luci. The man had gone so far as to throw Luci from her home and ban her from seeing her mother and siblings.
And so, instead of waiting until her father agreed and consented to the marriage, thus having the wedding blessed by her family, Luci had chosen to travel to Scotland to see the appropriate ceremony done. Odd for a woman who, only a few short weeks prior, was determined never to wed, let alone trust a man with her future.
Ophelia shook her head and focused on the passersby.
She breathed in and out. Deep inhale, slow exhale.
It would not do to allow unease to overtake her in such a public place—her cheeks flushing, her eyes widening, and her pulse racing to match the pace of a galloping thoroughbred. It would inevitably end with her vigorously fanning herself, or worse yet, falling into a dead faint. And would only serve to impress upon Luci—and Edith, once she heard of the incident—that Ophelia was less than capable of, well…anything.
Glaring out the window, she noticed an urchin slip past a finely dressed man, the boy’s grimy hand snaking into the gent’s pocket and back out again before the imp veered away and turned sharply, entering a shop across the street. By the time Ophelia tried to spot the thief’s mark, the gentleman had disappeared, as well.
“…what about another choice with gold leaf on the edges?” Luci asked the proprietor.
Ophelia had been mistaken when she believed inviting Luci to live with her until the wedding was a grand idea.
If anything, it was tedious.
She sighed, meaning to turn and regain her seat, but a familiar gentleman strolled past the stationery shop with an elegantly garbed woman on his arm, causing Ophelia to press her face against the glass to watch the man as they moved farther down the street with their heads tilted together in a conspiratorial manner.
Glancing over her shoulder, Luci was busily flipping through another stack of samples on her quest to select the perfect paper product to announce her coming status as the Duchess of Montrose. There was little doubt she’d remain occupied for at least another hour.
Ophelia slipped out the open shop door just in time to see Lord Abercorn, the man responsible for their dear friend’s death the Season before—and the man Luci’s father had demanded she wed—step into Oliver’s Book Shoppe with the spinster, Lady Sissy Cassel, at his side. It was not hard to peg Lady Sissy as Abercorn sister, although her greying hair and stooped shoulders made her appear more the age of the duke’s mother. Ophelia had met the older woman only once, the previous month at the Abercorn townhouse, and Sissy had left little lasting impression on Ophelia.
The walk to the shop three buildings down took only a moment, but Ophelia didn’t risk entering the business. She pressed herself to the wall bordering the shop and leaned around to peek through the windowpane, freshly cleaned to a shine. She pulled back when she noticed Abercorn turn down an aisle. Her nose left a print on the clean window, but Ophelia stilled herself from rubbing it off with her sleeve.
It would be possible, if she hurried, to slip into the shop and down another aisle without Abercorn noticing her. She needed to see what the man was up to.
As far as Ophelia and her friends were concerned, Abercorn should not be allowed out in polite society. She didn’t trust him.
A bell sounded overhead as she entered the shop, and the owner, Oliver, issued a greeting from somewhere deeper inside.
The smell of old leather and candle wax assaulted her. She always enjoyed the mixture of scents, the comfort row after row of books provided, and, most of all, the silence of the bookstore; however, Abercorn’s mere presence did away with any security and serenity she gained from being surrounded by her most favorite thing: books. This shop was not her safe haven or her sanctuary when Abercorn was near.
Safely in the aisle, she paused before hurrying toward the back of the shop. She’d been to Oliver’s more times than she could count and knew the place well. Abercorn and Lady Sissy were three rows down in the History of the English Coast section. She’d scoured the section many times but found the books mainly about their country’s many sea ports, including import and export routes favored over the last three hundred years. In short, the titles nestled on the shelves in that row lacked adventure beyond the mundane. No tales of swashbuckling pirates sailing across the seven seas in search of hidden treasure and their ladyloves. No tales of Arabian nights with hooded thieves and enchanting maidens. Not so much as a tale of a long-ago Robin Hood, stealing from the wealthy upper class and giving to the downtrodden paupers of Nottingham.
Abercorn was a shrewd businessman and tales of fancy were certainly not to his liking, but why would he be interested in trade in and out of England?
If she were utterly honest, Ophelia had little knowledge what men of vast wealth and power busied themselves with all day in their offices. Even her father, a duke much like Abercorn, did not concern himself with family matters, nor did he share news of his business ventures with his children.
“Can I help you with something, miss?”
Ophelia yelped with fright as she swung around to see the shopkeeper only a few feet away from her at the end of the aisle.
“No, sir, thank you,” she hissed, putting her hand to her chest as her bosom heaved. “I am merely having a look around.”
“If you need anything, I will be behind the counter.” The shopkeeper nodded in the direction of the tall desk along the far wall toward the front of the shop before returning to his post.
Ophelia sighed in relief.
Taking in the shop—or the areas she could see through the opening in the shelf before her—it was only Ophelia, the shopkeeper, and Abercorn and his sister in the shop. She watched the duke closely as he moved down the row, scanning the shelves, his back to her. When he reached the end, he turned and started down the next aisle. Another row on England, these mostly featuring large, handwritten volumes depicting various countryside landscapes and their native plants and animals. The duke pulled a book from its place, and Ophelia shifted to see the cover; however, Abercorn moved down the aisle toward Oliver’s desk before she could make it out.
“Good day, my lord,” the shopkeeper greeted Abercorn. “And my lady. Will this be all?”
Abercorn responded, but his voice was too low for Ophelia to hear.
Oh, bother.
“Ask him, Franny,” Lady Sissy whined, but again, Abercorn spoke too softly for Ophelia to hear what was said.
The shopkeeper and Lord Abercorn spoke for several minutes before Abercorn handed over his coin for the book he purchased.
Perhaps Edith and Luci were correct, and Ophelia was unequipped to undertake anything more than writing the articles for the Mayfair Confidential column in the London Daily Gazette.
The front bell chimed as Abercorn and Lady Sissy exited. Ophelia watched as they promptly entered his parked carriage. There would be little hope of keeping further watch on the man today.
Ophelia allowed her fingers to caress the spine of a book as she stepped around the tall shelf and into Oliver’s line of sight. His eyes bulged, and his breath hitched. She’d startled him—and that might be enough to throw the proprietor off and allow her to ask the information she sought. She was here for a reason, after all. It was not enough to simply follow Abercorn. They were in dire need of information. Anything that could lead to the apprehension of the man for Tilda’s death.
“Good day, Lady Ophelia. I did not know you were still here.” Oliver busied himself with a stack of papers on his desk, giving her the privacy she normally needed, but she would not be turned away so easily. When she continued to stare at him, he set the papers aside and faced her from behind his desk. “Can I assist you with locating something?”
“I think you can.” She smiled at the man.
“Anything, my lady.”
Anything? She supposed she’d put his words to the test. “What was that man”�
��Ophelia glanced over her shoulder and pointed toward the door Abercorn and his sister had left through—“asking about? And what book did he purchase?”
The duke’s trip to Oliver’s Book Shoppe may very well have naught to do with Ophelia, her friends, or Tilda’s death, but she needed to know. At least, for her own sake.
A measure of confidence infused and emboldened Ophelia. “It would be very helpful to know what Lord Abercorn was doing in your shop, Mr. Oliver.”
The man’s eyes narrowed on her, and Ophelia suspected she’d gone too far. But hadn’t Edith risked it all when she’d climbed into Lord Torrington’s father’s tree? And hadn’t Luci endangered her reputation by kissing Lord Montrose in that well-lit garden? It was Ophelia’s turn to chance her name.
She could do this.
She had to do this.
She not only owed it to Tilda’s memory but also to Edith and Lucianna.
“Come now, Mr. Oliver,” Ophelia coaxed as she took a step toward the proprietor in the dim shop. “We have known one another for many, many years. My father used to bring me here when I was still in short dresses and childish frocks. I dare say, my hair mayhap still plaited. Please, I just want to know the reason for Lord Abercorn’s visit to your shop.”
His lips pressed into a fine line, and he tapped one finger on the desk. “I pride myself on keeping my clients’ acquisitions private, my lady. I am certain you can understand that.”
“I can; however, I am more than a client, am I not?” Ophelia’s brow rose, and she stepped closer to Mr. Oliver. “It is a simple, unimportant, morsel of information I seek. Nothing more.”
His eyes followed her as she advanced on him.
“My lady, you must—“
“My father will be greatly angered if I return to him without what he seeks.” Ophelia detested bringing her father, the Duke of Atholl, into the matter, but she was running out of options, and Oliver seemed no closer to speaking. “He is a valued patron of your bookshop, is he not?” There was little need to wait for a reply, but Oliver nodded all the same. “What can it hurt to tell me what Abercorn was here in search of…that is, unless it has to do with my father’s collection?”
Oliver’s brow shot high, and Ophelia had the sense that she’d stumbled upon something completely unintended, but she pushed the notion from her mind. Her father had nothing to do with Abercorn.
The shopkeeper rubbed the back of his neck and sighed, pondering the limited options she’d given him. Certainly, the man would speak, and Ophelia would have the information she needed, as useless as it might be.
“Lady Ophelia, while your father is a valued client, he will understand I am unable to give you the information you seek.” He glanced over Ophelia’s shoulder toward the door. “Besides, would you want me sharing news of your purchases with anyone?”
Bloody bollocks. Ophelia certainly would not want Oliver sharing with all and sundry her adoration for adventure tales or her love for romantic stories. She would not want her recent purchase of Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere to be known by anyone in polite society. She was not embarrassed by her reading pleasures, but she did enjoy anonymity regarding her purchases.
Glancing back toward the door, she noted that Lord Abercorn’s carriage remained at the curb outside the shop. Lucianna would be completing her transactions very soon, no doubt. Ophelia headed toward the back door of the bookstore, knowing she could depart and re-enter the stationery shop where she’d left Luci without being seen by the passing carriages. She was nearly there when the front door sounded yet again.
Ophelia ducked into a small reading alcove she’d never noticed before at the back of the store and hastily pulled the drape closed to block her from view.
Heavy footfalls sounded across the wood plank floor and echoed through the empty shop.
Peculiar, Abercorn had made no sound as he traversed the rows in search of his book. Nor had his boots made any noise as he’d departed Oliver’s. And Lady Sissy’s slippers only shuffled along the floor.
A measure of relief flooded Ophelia, allowing her to take a deep breath before grasping the curtain. Her hand stalled when a deep, raspy voice sounded after Oliver’s customary greeting.
She peeked through the slit in the hanging drape.
A man stood before Oliver, his hands hanging stiffly at his sides. His side profile showed a strong jaw, tanned skin, and fair hair that hung a bit too long over his collar. While Edith’s hair was the color of pure spun gold or morning rays of sunshine, this man had hair so fair it was nearly white, though it could be the deep tan of his complexion that cast the illusion. His stance was wide, and he moved his hands to his hips as his voice rose.
“I would appreciate if you could check your records, sir,” the man huffed, running his hand through his hair to return it to its place. “I have, on good authority, word you were at one time in possession of the book I seek.”
Oliver’s eyes narrowed, and he retrieved a ledger from the shelf next to his desk. “When did you say I might have had the book?”
“Ten years ago, perhaps longer,” the man replied, his cultured tone and finely tailored jacket spoke of wealth. “It is called Smuggling: A Journey from Kent to Denmark, by Fair Wind Parnell.”
“Ten years, you say?”
“There about, yes.”
Ophelia dared pull the curtain open a bit further to hear Oliver’s quiet reply.
“My apologies, but my ledger does not span more than five years of acquisitions, my lord.”
The man rubbed his jaw and turned toward Ophelia’s hiding spot, causing her to shrink back to avoid being seen eavesdropping.
“But you have other ledgers?” he asked. “This is of the utmost importance, and time is of the essence.”
The man was clearly agitated, but why would a book, especially one over ten years old, be of any import?
Ophelia nearly giggled at the thought. Most of her collection was made up of books twice her age, and all were still relevant and captivating. She scooted closer to the curtain again as the man stared at something to the left of the alcove she hid in.
His eyes.
They were the most entrancing hue of green. They fairly glowed in the dimly lit shop and were only accentuated by his dark complexion—and the irritation rolling off him.
She envisioned that he must be the spitting image of every pirate ever written.
It did not take much imagination to picture the man bare-chested, the salty sea breeze blowing his hair back as the noonday sun heated his skin. His grip on the helm of his impressively large vessel firm as he barked orders to his crew who worked frantically about the deck. His men would fear him, yet respect his leadership. He would be valiant, courageous, and chivalrous.
Was not every riveting man written of in books—tales of love and adventure—marked by those three traits?
He would be a captain in command of his men and his ship—or at least that would be how the tale went. But would he be a pirate? A naval captain? Or a mere merchant?
Certainly not a smuggler as intimated by his inquiry to the shopkeeper.
No, a smuggler would not sail into battle to win the heart of a woman.
Oliver offered the man a slip of paper and a quill, which the man gladly accepted before scribbling something.
Ophelia exhaled her pent-up breath as Oliver promised to inspect the ledgers kept at his home for the sought book and assured the customer he would send word to the address provided.
With a curt nod of thanks, the man returned the quill and paper to Oliver and strode from the store, the chime signaling his departure.
She exited her hiding spot and hurried to the middle row and a clear view of the front of the shop and the happenings outside the window.
The man, whoever he was, waited as his footman opened his carriage door and then entered the conveyance. Barely enough time had passed for the servant to leap back onto the perch before the carriage pulled onto Bond Street and out of sight.
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Leaving Ophelia staring after him, puzzled and highly interested in his plight to secure a book.
Chapter 2
Colin Parnell, Lord Hawke, departed Oliver’s Book Shoppe in no better mood than he’d arrived. He jammed his fingers through his hair, reminding himself for the tenth time he was in serious need of a trim as he threw himself against the velvety soft cushion of his father’s town coach.
Blast it all, but the situation irritated him to no end.
“Well?” a raspy voice asked from across the enclosed carriage as it jerked into motion. “Did that fool Oliver have me book?”
“Our book,” Colin corrected, bringing his glare to the woman. His tone and narrowed stare softened immediately when he took in his grandmama’s hopeful look. “My apologies, Molly, it is only I am frustrated and tired of hitting dead ends with our search.”
The old woman smiled, her teeth perfectly straight but stained by her love of Turkish coffee.
“Bollocks, but I detest disappointing you,” Colin huffed. “Pardon my speech, Molly.”
“Do not ye be worry’n ‘bout disappoint’n me, lad,” Molly chastised, crossing her thin arms over her nearly flat chest. Since the sickness had taken hold, she’d slowly diminished in size, though her demeanor was in no way less frightening, especially when she turned her anger on a subject. “None of this would be necessary if’n your scoundrel of a father was not so determined to prove your grandpapa, me dear Fair Wind, a debauched smuggler.”
Colin massaged his temples, praying his headache did not return. Molly had arrived in London only a week prior from his family’s country estate in Tintinhull, Somerset, under the guise of requiring a physician, but it hadn’t taken long for her true purpose to present itself.
“You know how it angers Father when you call Grandpapa ‘Fair Wind’.”
“What do ye expect me ta call him, child? Porter? Lord Coventry? M’lord?” The woman huffed as her knuckles whitened on the head of her walking cane. “He be Fair Wind ta me, always has been, and always will be since the moment he entered that tavern in Sheerness. He was no gent then, nor when he went ta the good Lord.”
The Misadventures of Lady Ophelia (The Undaunted Debutantes Book 3) Page 2
