Lord Hawke glanced down at the book once more and shook his head, returning his narrow-eyed stare to her. “But Atholl said he hadn’t any—“
“Yes, I thought that was odd, too, especially after I inquired as to what you’d visited Oliver’s Book Shoppe for and learned my father was the last known person to be in possession of the book.”
“Oliver’s?” Lord Hawke stammered, his hand dropping to his side, the book forgotten. “How did you know I sought out the bookseller?”
“I—well—” Ophelia hadn’t thought about how to explain her presence at Oliver’s Book Shoppe, but a measure of honesty could be shared without mentioning Abercorn. “My father and I went there several times when I was growing up. I still frequent the shop. I was there when you came in and demanded the book. I did not think anything of it that day, but when you appeared at my home several days later, I decided to lend my help.”
“Even after Molly nearly clubbed you with her cane?” He pinched the bridge of his nose and lifted the book once more. “It doesn’t matter. Molly and I thought this book gone forever. It disappeared shortly after my grandfather passed and my father took his place as the Earl of Coventry.”
The man’s shoulders sagged as if a long-time weight had fallen away. His brow smoothed, and if Ophelia weren’t mistaken, a slight grin settled on his face as he began once more to turn the book over and over in his hands.
“Where did you find it?” he asked, finally opening the cover.
“In a locked cabinet in my father’s desk.” She couldn’t help her triumph smile.
“I am surprised he handed it over to you so easily.”
“Oh, he did not,” she replied, gaining a sharp look from him. “I searched his office until I found the locked cabinet then I sprang the lock with a penknife and found your book.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “I brought it straight here.”
“You stole it from your father’s study?”
His eyes narrowed on her, and his shoulders stiffened much like they had at both Oliver’s and her family townhouse when he’d come searching. However, he had the book back. She’d returned it. Why did he appear so…irritated?
“Do remove your frown, or I will assume you are unhappy I returned the book.”
“You took this from your father’s study…without his knowledge. You must return it immediately before he discovers it missing.”
“I will do nothing of the sort, my lord.”
“Yes, you will!” he demanded.
Chapter 9
Colin glared at the woman, who despite his evident fury, did not back down or admit any wrongdoing. Lady Ophelia Fletcher was maddening, brazen, and in complete denial about the trouble she was in—and the discord she’d unwittingly brought to his doorstep. He need convince her to return the book immediately, or Colin would have little choice but to return it himself.
It was far too much of a coincidence for him to have come around inquiring about the book only to have it disappear from Atholl’s study only days later. Plus, he’d gained information from Oliver… And now this?
If Lord Atholl discovered his desk had been tampered with, the magistrate would be at Colin’s father’s doorstep before Colin could get the woman out.
“Lady Ophelia, while I am overjoyed to see this book, it was not wise of you to steal it from your father.” He gave her his most pointed glare, and her eyes brimmed with tears. Bloody bollocks, but he couldn’t have the woman running from his home in tears, that would cause a scandal just as easily as the stolen book being found in Colin’s possession. “Please, do not cry.”
Her lower lip trembled, and a single tear escaped.
“I am a cad, my lady.” He brushed the tear from her cheek before it could make its way down her face and off her chin. When she glanced up at him, her blue eyes were as clear as a cloudless London sky, as fresh as the air after a solid rainstorm, and as injured as a rabbit in a snare. “I did not intend to sound so gruff.”
And it was all Colin’s doing.
She glanced around the room, a most innocent blossom staining her cheeks, but her tears dried. “I guess I should have thought things through a bit more before…”
It would be ungentlemanly to allow her to take all the blame. “Truly, I thank you for your bravery and cunning in locating and returning my family’s book; however, I cannot allow you to suffer any adverse consequences on my behalf.”
She pressed her fist to her mouth, and her shoulders fell.
“Perhaps I can have a tiny look before you return it.”
Her gaze snapped to his, and he felt rather than saw her spirits rise.
Colin turned his attention to the book once more. Smuggling: A Journey from Kent to Denmark by Fair Wind Parnell. He traced his grandfather’s name, hardly able to believe the book actually existed—or, more accurately, still existed. He and Molly had spoken of it for so many years, it was like a mythological object, always spoken of in lore but never presenting itself in actuality. It was smaller than he’d imagined it to be—less than fifty pages. The binding, several decades old, should be tattered and cracking, yet it appeared unblemished.
That alone spoke to the book’s worth.
Not a value in shillings or pounds, much like his father assumed was the measure of a man, a title, or an estate, but a worth measured in honor, integrity, and bravery. It was what Fair Wind said made a man, or at least that is what Molly had told Colin on hundreds of occasions. Property, possessions, and the extent of a man’s coffers meant little if a man did not hold honor, loyalty, and love in his heart.
This was everything Molly proclaimed would elevate the first Earl of Coventry, Porter “Fair Wind” Parnell, from a known Sheerness smuggler to an ally and confidante of King George II. Within these pages, Colin could find indisputable proof his grandpapa was one of England’s most trusted men during the Seven Years’ War, taking missives between George and his nephew, Frederick II, in Prussia.
Colin could hardly draw breath.
His airway was constricted, and his body laced with tension.
Here, now, Molly would find her vindication.
Colin would be allowed to celebrate his grandpapa openly without his father’s naysaying condemnation.
All he need do was open the book and read the pages added after Fair Wind’s time serving the king was done, those that detailed his harrowing journeys from Sheerness to Prussia. Not from Kent to Denmark as the cover displayed.
Bloody hell, but excitement should be coursing through him, demanding he call for Molly, his parents…and anyone who’d disparaged his grandpapa in the past.
Yet Colin was unable to open the book, though he demanded his fingers do exactly that.
Instead, he brought the small volume to his nose and breathed in deeply. It was almost as if he could smell Fair Wind’s many adventures at sea; the scent of a salty breeze cascading over the white caps of the open ocean.
Would it be in his power to give the book back once he opened it, or would he forever claim possession of his great family legacy?
He had to risk it, to know for certain whether all Molly had said throughout his life was true. That all the hate and unsavory comments his father hurled at both Colin and his grandmama over their belief in Fair Wind and his accounting of the past could be thrown to the wayside and forgotten.
Their family could be mended.
Their future one of solidarity, not strife.
It was almost too much to hope for, but it was exactly what he’d wished for his entire adult life.
He held within his hands the means to solve every problem the Coventry family had, debunk every revolting story about his heritage, and solidify his family name for generations to come.
“My lord?” Lady Ophelia laid her hand on his arm. The warmth of her touch quickly seeped through her gloved fingers, down through his coat sleeve, and heated his skin. “Is all as it should be?”
“It is, thank you,” he choked out, his head swimming from lack of
breath.
“Are you not going to open it?” she asked, her voice that of a melodic temptress. Undoubtedly, she was the siren Molly had accused her of being because with her question came the irrevocable need to do as she said. “I know I am quite interested to see what is so special about this particular book.”
He glanced at her, inwardly praying she would take the volume from him and run—hide it where it would never tempt him again. But instead, her cerulean crystal eyes begged him to open the cover and show her what secrets the book held.
Colin was helpless to let the book go, just as he was powerless to look away from Lady Ophelia.
“Go ahead,” she coaxed.
Reluctantly, and with a sense of great loss that burrowed deep within him, Colin removed his stare from her and focused on the book. He flipped the cover open to see his grandpapa’s handwriting for the very first time. It was heavy on the page, the quill tip obviously having placed far more pressure to the paper than necessary—strong, bold, and unwavering, just as Colin envisioned Fair Wind to be.
He turned the next page…
And was greeted by the torn edges of several missing sheets.
His heart beat frantically, and he flipped several more pages only to find an accounting for Fair Wind’s first journey out of the Sheerness port and the wilds of the North Sea.
Erratically, he turned page after page, determined to find what his grandmama claimed should be written within. But no detailed explanation of Fair Wind’s true purpose at sea appeared.
Not even a scrap of evidence or a mere sentence to contradict his father’s assertion that Porter Parnell was anything but a no-good, unscrupulous smuggler.
“How can this be?” he groaned. “Is this the condition in which you found the book?”
His penetrating stare landed on Lady Ophelia, and she shrank back in fright at the venom that could be heard in his words.
“Y-y-yes,” she stammered. Her eyes showed nothing but innocence, not an ounce of guilt to be found. “I opened the cabinet and took the book, that is all. I brought it directly here.”
“There were no other papers with it? Possibly a small stack of torn pages?”
She shook her head, her auburn curls falling over her shoulder. “The drawer held no papers, only a few other books on trade winds and the landscape of other lands, some assorted writing instruments, and an ink pot…oh, and an old accounting ledger.”
“I think it best you return the book with all due haste.” He worked hard to hide his disappointment from Lady Ophelia. It was no good to him, and would only serve to harm Molly further. Without Fair Wind’s personal accounts of his travels for the king, the book was worth more as kindling in the Coventry hearth. Colin would not cause his grandmama any more pain.
“But you went to great lengths to find it.” She refused to take the book even as he attempted to place it back in her hands. “You must need it far more than my father.”
“It belongs to the duke. He purchased it from Oliver’s Book Shoppe.” Colin shook his head as she tried to hand the book back to him. “I think it is time you depart, Lady Ophelia. Your family must certainly be worried about your whereabouts.”
Her brow furrowed, and she frowned. It was something that normally transformed a person’s face into a less inviting version of their usual expression, but with Lady Ophelia, he found himself longing to smooth her brow, turn her frown into a smile once more, and tell her everything about…everything. His family, their strife, their scandalous past, and even his promise to Molly. Colin refused to admit his failure…especially to the divine creature before him. She was a lady, the daughter of a duke, and there was little chance she’d ever witnessed a scandal or had ever been touched by the less savory aspects of the human nature.
No, Lady Ophelia, with her fiery hair, fair skin, and eyes the color of a clear sea did not deserve to be drawn into his flawed and broken family.
“I suppose you are correct, my lord,” she sighed, crossing her arms, the book clutched tightly to her chest. “The book belongs to my father. I will simply return it since you are no longer interested in it, and we shall continue as if this never occurred. Unless…”
Unease settled on Colin. “Unless?”
“Unless you are willing to tell me what this is all about and who Fair Wind Parnell is.”
To tell her anything would lead to telling her everything. One certainly could not leave the conversation at: Fair Wind was my grandpapa and a famed smuggler.
There would be further questions, and the wanderings of Lady Ophelia’s mind would likely end far worse than the actual circumstances behind it all.
“I guess I will be going.” She paused for a brief moment, giving Colin the opportunity to speak, but he remained close-lipped. “Very well. It was a pleasure meeting you. I will see myself out.”
She pivoted to quit the room, and Colin’s chest tightened.
If she left without any further explanation, he suspected he’d never set eyes upon her again.
He should be satisfied to see her go, taking the blasted, no-good volume with her.
Neither she nor the book would bring him anything but trouble.
Then why did he feel a hollowness overtake him the more she moved toward the door—and out of his life?
Lord Hawke was insufferable. Did he think her dim enough not to notice the light in his eyes when he spied the book? The way he’d held it with such reverence as he smoothed his hands over the binding. The innate rightness she’d felt when the book was in his possession.
Only to have him shove the thing back at her and demand she return it to her father’s desk as if it weren’t of great import to him.
Well, Ophelia would show the man. She would return the title to her father and make certain Lord Hawke never set eyes upon the book again. As far as she was concerned, the lord could jump into the Thames, and she would not bat an eye or assist him.
She placed her hand on the door latch, prepared to open it and flee. He had been correct, at least in part, her family would be worrying over her whereabouts at any moment.
“Lady Ophelia,” he groaned. “Wait.”
She froze, her hand on the handle, and waited for him to continue. After the embarrassment he’d caused her, Ophelia would not wait around for more. She’d risked much taking the book and journeying to Hyde Park in her father’s carriage to see the title returned to its rightful owner.
“Fair Wind is a relation of mine,” he said. “My family is originally from Sheerness, Kent, or at least my father’s family is.”
Ophelia turned back to face Lord Hawke. “Why is the book so important to you?”
His jaw was clamped shut, and she feared he’d said all he planned to say on the matter. Rubbing his hand across his face, Lord Hawke visibly relaxed.
“Fair Wind was my grandpapa.”
Ophelia attempted to hide her shock at this information, but when he shook his head, his frame stiffening once more, she knew she’d done a poor job of it.
“If Fair Wind is your grandfather, then he was Molly’s husband?”
Behind Ophelia, the door slammed against its hinges, sending a draft of wind billowing her skirts about her ankles.
“Ye better believe it!” Molly cackled, thumping her cane heavily into the bare wooden floor as she entered the room. “Fair Wind was the best bloody seamen there ever was—and an even finer husband.”
“Molly!” Lord Hawke stalked past Ophelia and Molly, closing the door soundlessly before rounding to glare at the older woman. “Have you been listening to my private conversation with Lady Ophelia?”
“Sure have, ye foolish lad. Seems a boon I was, too, or ye woulda let Fair Wind’s book leave this house without me have’n a look.” The woman took a step toward her grandson, her skirts pressing against his legs. They would have been nose-to-nose had the woman been two feet taller. “You thought ta keep this from me, Colin, me boy?”
Her voice cracked, and Ophelia momentarily felt an immense amount
of compassion. “Lady Coventry—“
The woman rounded on her, pointing her cane straight at Ophelia’s heart. “Me name be Molly, none of this Lady Coventry nonsense.”
“I was only going to say…” Ophelia gulped when the woman slammed her cane back to the ground and turned back to face Lord Hawke. Colin. “Molly, please—“
Suddenly, the room grew uncomfortably warm, and Ophelia’s head began to swim. She cursed her forgetfulness once more and settled for fanning her heated face with her gloved hand.
“Don’t just stand there, Colin,” Molly chastised. But the woman’s voice sounded far away. “The lady be about ta faint dead away.”
Just as swiftly as it had started, her face cooled as a breeze cascaded over her scorching skin and her eyes refocused. Colin was waving his handkerchief before her as Molly dragged a straight-back chair in her direction.
“I don’t mind if the devil-haired woman faints, but not in me receive’n room. Imagine the horrors if she conked her head soundly and bled out on me freshly polished floor.”
Ophelia sat heavily in the chair with a mumbled thank you and leaned forward, hoping it would help her to breathe.
“Pull her hair forward.”
“Great idea, Molly.” Hands ran across the back of her neck, pushing her hair forward. “This should cool her quickly.”
“Let me have a look.”
Another set of hands touched her skin, these were rougher with callouses, as Ophelia breathed in deeply. She hadn’t succumbed to a case of the vapors in ages—since they’d rescued Lady Edith from the evil clutches of Lady Downshire.
“What are you looking for?” Colin said close to her ear.
“The mark of the devil. Ye be certain I’ll find it, too.”
“The what?” Ophelia squeaked, throwing her head back, at the same time Colin pulled Molly’s hands away from her.
As Ophelia stood, Colin had hold of Molly and was slowly inching her away from Ophelia.
The old woman grabbed her pendant with one hand and tapped her forehead, chin, and chest before turning her head to the side.
The Misadventures of Lady Ophelia (The Undaunted Debutantes Book 3) Page 8
