The Raven and the Rose
Page 12
She snatched it. “Or a natural match? As in Romeo and Juliet?”
“Or Othello,” he agreed. “I grant you your point, though it’s a pity to see love used as a vehicle for tragedy.”
“Or a pity that love addles its victims. All would have been well if Juliet had made a sensible choice and Othello had been less persuadable.”
“You don’t believe in overpowering passions?”
“Definitely not.”
“Yet there are all too many cases of jealous men murdering women.”
“That’s different,” Lucy said, annoyed by his good point. “Consider Romeo and Juliet. I don’t know of a single occasion of young lovers dying together through a misunderstanding.”
His lips twitched. “There, I grant you your point.”
Twitching lips should not have such a powerful effect.
The clock chimed the three quarters. “Your pardon, sir, but I must be on my way.”
She turned toward the front, but he said, “May I help with your load?”
One was slipping again so she saw no way to protest as he added hers to the two he’d selected. His hands were a great deal bigger than hers.
“This is an excellent shop behind its shabby appearance,” he said as she led the way to the front.
“It is.”
“It’s a regular haunt of yours?”
She came alert. Was he was a fortune hunter? Had he seen her leave her house and followed her here? He certainly looked in need of a fortune. His leather breeches were repaired in one place, his boots well-worn, and his hair in need of a barber.
“Very regular,” she said, enjoying the prospect of him lurking in Winsom’s to no purpose, for she wouldn’t return here for weeks.
He showed no reaction, but then, he was looking at the spines of all her books. “An Animated Skeleton goes oddly with a book on the evils of the free trade, but why do I suspect that both are for you?”
“I have no idea.”
“I wouldn’t have thought the free trade of interest to anyone in the City.”
“There, sir, you are wrong. Those wretches bring in foreign goods to compete with British-made ones, and they avoid taxes that honest traders must pay. In addition, I understand their practices are vile.”
“The Hawkhurst Gang,” he said with a sigh.
“Precisely! Vicious, evil men.”
“I agree, but a century ago.”
“You defend them?”
“The Hawkhursts? No, but I’m sure not every smuggler is evil and nor are all the people who benefit from the trade. Are you entirely sure that everything you eat, drink and use has paid full tax?”
“Yes, of course.”
“It can be hard to tell, except by price. Most people don’t look too closely at a bargain.”
Lucy remembered cheap silks and wondered about her mother’s tea and her father’s brandy. She suspected he’d not be overly scrupulous about its origins.
“If you’re not careful, sir, I’ll suspect you of being a free trader.”
He smiled. It really was a very nice smile. “I’m merely a simple country gentleman, ma’am, struggling to make ends meet in hard times.”
They walked over to the desk where Winsom was waiting to take their selections. Lucy knew she should be glad to have done with the man and yet she felt a tiny pang of loss.
Perhaps it was because he’d talked with her as an equal, in an easy and direct way. She’d had too little of that recently. She was tempted to linger, but he glanced at the clock and she suspected he was in as much of a hurry as she was. Her urgency wasn’t acute. If the carriage had to wait ten minutes, so be it.
“Please, sir, pay for your purchases first. I’m thinking what else I might wish to buy.”
He thanked her and gave his books to Winsom.
As he’d read the spines of her books, she did the same with his. A New System of Drainage and An Introduction to Trade and Business. She couldn’t imagine a fortune hunter making those selections. Clearly he truly was a simple country gentleman trying to survive in hard times.
He paid Winsom and took his books, now neatly wrapped in brown paper tied with string.
He inclined his head. “I wish you good day, ma’am, and eternal freedom from the horrors of love.”
There was a hint of humor in that which could beguile. Lucy smiled as she dipped a curtsey and said, “Good day, sir,” with a true touch of regret.
It seemed as if he might say more, but he turned and took his leave.
She wished she knew what had brought such a man deep into the City.
She wished she knew his name.
She wished they might meet again. Winsom cleared his throat.
Lucy turned, blushing. “I’m sorry.”
Winsome seemed to be concealing amusement, but he asked, “For how long will you want the novels, Miss Potter?”
“For how long?”
“Miss Hanway generally takes any one for a fortnight.”
Oh, yes. The novels were part of Winsom’s lending library. “I’m removing tomorrow to my aunt’s house in Mayfair. I shall probably be gone for a month.”
“That presents no difficulty. I shall make the lending period that long.” He wrote the price for that, the cost of The Evils of the Free Trade and the pink journal then gave her the total. She took a pound note out of her reticule and received back change.
He probably often wondered why she didn’t buy on account and have her bill settled monthly by her father, but for a long time now she’d not wanted her father to know what books she bought for fear he would disapprove. With hindsight that should have told her something. How easy it was to hide from an unwelcome truth—in her case, that her father had never really seen her as a possible heir.
As he wrapped the parcel, Winsom said, “I’ll miss your visits here, Miss Potter, but I predict mayhem amidst the gentlemen of the ton.” He tied the string and snipped off the ends. “You certainly had an effect on that gentleman.”
“Nonsense,” Lucy said, though inside her something purred.
That was truly alarming, and already she was late. She took her parcel and left the shop, wondering if he might be hovering.
He wasn’t, and she was aware of a twinge of regret. That meant she’d had a lucky escape. She hurried home and found the coach already waiting outside the house. She apologized to the coachman, and then to her father who opened the door, asking where she’d been and why she wasn’t dressed. She ran upstairs to change, trying to wipe the incident from her mind.
Lucy can try to wipe the incident from her mind, but she’ll soon encounter her disturbing gentleman again, and in very different circumstances. At a Mayfair ball, where he’s dressed in elegant style and revealed to be the latest ton sensation—the notorious and mysterious Earl of Wyvern.
Jo Beverley is widely regarded as one of the most talented romance writers today. She is a New York Times bestseller, a five-time winner of Romance Writers of America’s cherished RITA Award, and one of only a handful of members of the RWA Hall of Fame. She has also twice received the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award. She has two grown sons and lives with her husband in England.