by Cindy Anstey
The library was not a large room, more on the order of a study and likely would be called such by any but her aunt. However, the size was of no consequence; it was a comfortable room. Tall, dark oaken shelves lined the walls; they were filled to overflowing with tomes of various sizes and colors. The sweet smell of paper and ink wafted through the air, and the atmosphere was relaxed. A large, inlaid desk sat catercornered from the windows, next to the fireplace, and a grouping of chairs was positioned cozily across from it. There was seating for all, but Uncle Leonard declined. He leaned, instead, on the mantel of the unlit fireplace.
It was a congenial gathering, and there was a lightness in the conversation that was unexpected. Sympathy was expressed for the astonishing plight of Mr. Pyebald—although Juliana could see no surprise in the eyes of their guests—and the proper topics of the weather, the previous evening’s entertainment, and Mrs. Reeves’s health were dispensed with in short order.
Juliana’s earlier lethargy quickly disappeared and was replaced with an acute awareness and feeling of pent-up energy. She met Spencer’s eyes on several occasions and had trouble looking away.
Spencer was excessively handsome; she found it most amazing that his looks improved every day. No sooner had she decided that he could not possibly get any more handsome, he did. And then there was that scent he wore, dark and musky and dreamy. It made her knees weak. Thank heavens she was sitting down.
Juliana smiled at Carrie’s teasing comment to Lord Bobbington regarding his lack of appreciation for the arts, and then she glanced back to Spencer and caught him staring at her.
There was a slight lull in the conversation, and Spencer opened his mouth twice as if to speak. Finally, he formed his question.
“Will you be in London much longer, Miss Telford?”
It was a startling deviation.
“I actually have not given it much thought lately.”
“I believe at one time you said that you would not be in London overlong. You mentioned something about needing to get back to your father, if I recall.”
“Yes, you are quite right.”
“No, Juliana. You cannot be serious.” Carrie pouted. But she did it very prettily. “You have not seen and done nearly enough to consider for a moment returning to stuffy Hartwell.”
“Hartwell is not stuffy, Carrie,” Uncle Leonard diplomatically countered.
“Indeed not, for I have the windows thrown open on sunny days and the rooms dusted regularly,” Juliana replied in defense of her beloved manor.
“No, no. Not that sense of stuffy. There is nothing to do. Too much … thinking, not enough frolicking, like here in London. You must stay the Season.”
Juliana laughed. “I beg to differ, Carrie. I do believe the people of Compton Green frolic as much as Londoners do, just in a different manner. But I have always said that I came to London with a purpose besides enjoying the Season.” Her hand unintentionally clutched at the spot above her bosom where her locket used to sit.
“I believe I know what that purpose is.” Uncle Leonard nodded, and she had no doubt that he did. “Do you need any assistance?”
“Excellent idea, sir,” Spencer encouraged.
Juliana glanced his way with a puzzled frown affixed firmly between her brows. But he was not looking at her; his gaze was still on her uncle.
“Thank you, Uncle. I would indeed.”
“Capital. I was wondering when I could step in. Shall we say early next week?”
“Or perhaps even earlier.”
The words were not from her mouth but Spencer’s. Juliana looked at him again, and this time he met her eyes and held them. He was trying to relay a message to her, but she didn’t quite understand it. There was a sudden atmosphere of urgency surrounding him. Juliana swallowed the lump in her throat.
“Would Tuesday be too soon?” Uncle Leonard asked as his eyes darted from Spencer to Juliana and back again.
“No,” answered Spencer.
Yes, screamed Juliana’s mind.
“Yes,” said Carrie aloud. “We are to visit the Faredells Tuesday afternoon.”
“Very well. The day after?”
“No, we are to go to Almack’s that evening.”
“Carrie, my dear, I do not believe Juliana will need the whole day to prepare. I am sure she could find a few free hours in the afternoon.”
“Yes,” Spencer agreed for her.
Juliana’s eyes widened at his presumption, and she tried to give him a pointed look. He refused to meet her eye. Finally, she sighed and agreed on her own. “Thank you, Uncle. The day after tomorrow will do nicely.”
“I say, Miss Reeves. Perhaps you should visit Compton Green as well,” Lord Bobbington interjected. “I hear that part of the country is lovely this time of year. I am sure Miss Telford would greatly enjoy your company.”
Carrie laughed. “Lord Bobbington, I have absolutely no intention of leaving Town until I can well and truly say that I have seen it all.” Her eyes sparkled, and she tilted her head to the side.
Juliana was sure she saw Carrie flutter her eyelashes. The look on Lord Bobbington’s face indicated that he was aware of her flirtation as well. And liked it.
Juliana smiled. It would seem that Lord Bobbington was no longer interested in Vivian. She glanced over to Spencer, hoping he, too, had seen the transfer of affection. But while his face was turned toward the pair, he was obviously lost in thought—for his expression was pained.
Juliana felt uneasy. Something was going on. Its undercurrent was apparent, but the cause was as clouded as Spencer’s countenance. She would have to ask him in a private moment. They knew each other well enough to do that. Perhaps, at Almack’s on Wednesday. She would simply have to be patient—never one of her strong suits.
* * *
SPENCER WAS EXHAUSTED. He had not slept all night, not a wink. Tossing and turning, he had heard the clock strike every hour until the sun had begun to seep through the heavy draperies. And still, he didn’t sleep.
Now, he stood on the threshold of his cousin’s town house banging the knocker at the ungodly hour of ten. It was likely that the family would not even be up yet. But Jason would be. That was all he needed.
“Good morning, Mr. Northam,” Jason’s butler said formally, as though they were not well acquainted. He held the door wider and gestured him in.
“Good morning, Clarence. Is Mr. Grafton up?”
“Yes, I believe he is already in the dining room, sir.”
“Excellent. I shall announce myself.”
“Very good, sir.”
When Spencer stepped into the dining room, he found it occupied by two men, not one. The short, stocky blond was his cousin Jason, and the balding, portly gentleman, his Uncle James.
“When did you come to Town?” Spencer asked the older man after the jubilant greetings had subsided. “I had no word.”
Uncle James slapped him on the back and handed him a plate. “Eat, my boy, you look wretched. I only arrived last eve. I was going to send you a note this morning. Business called me to Town, so I shall not be here long.”
Spencer looked at the laden sideboard with a churning stomach. He put a couple of bread slices on his plate and then joined the others at the table.
Jason and Uncle James looked from him to his plate and then back again.
“Are you ill, my boy?”
“He is either ill or in love. You look as if you have not slept, Spencer.”
“I am not ill, thank you very little. And although my appearance is due to lack of sleep, there is nothing in that which would—”
“Lordy, he is in love. Listen to him, Father. I have never heard such a huff.” Jason hooted with laughter.
“It is not love. It is a quandary.”
Jason thumped the table with his flat hand and hooted again.
Spencer discovered that his head was throbbing as well as everything else, and he began to regret coming to speak to his cousin.
Perhaps he should just go
back to his apartment. Let Juliana return to Compton Green and forget ever meeting her. If he felt this uncomfortable admitting his emotions to those he was closest to, how would he ever explain it to her? Besides, it was not fair; he had always avowed that Jason was his heir. How could he yank that rug out from under his cousin?
Spencer rose. “I believe that I am not in the best of moods to converse, right now. I think I shall—”
“Sit yourself back down.” His uncle smiled with the order. Although his grin was not nearly as broad as that of his cousin, it held the same smirk. “You are not leaving this house until you tell all.”
“Yes, indeed.” Jason nodded with enthusiasm. “Who is she? Have we met her? When is the wedding? Are you going to name your first son after me?”
Spencer shook his head in resignation, slid back into his chair, and smiled. “Well, that answers one of my questions.”
“Which was?”
“If it would cause you any grief were I to marry. You are my heir as it is now and—” Spencer was hit in the face with a crumpled table napkin.
Jason was reaching for another projectile, in the form of buttered toast, when his father put a stop to it.
“I had to ask,” Spencer explained.
Jason lifted one eyebrow and inquired, “What was the other question? I hope it is not as asinine.”
“If I have gone mad?”
This brought an immediate reaction. Both men burst into laughter and, in between their guffaws and snorts, nodded and tried to say yes. It all became too much for Spencer; he either had to join in the hilarity or leave. He chose to stay.
Within no time at all, he was telling them about Miss Juliana Telford, from the mundane facts of her family and where she lived to the fascinating facts about the way the sunlight cast a glow around her head and that her eyes were deep enough to dive in. He skirted her aversion to marriage and concentrated on her interest in natural science. And her lips—well, he didn’t tell them everything.
“My boy, I can tell you have been well and truly bitten. Oh, do not frown so. It is not a terrible affliction. It has its pleasant moments.” The older man drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Won’t your mother be pleased. She will make a happy grandmamma.”
Spencer smiled; his thoughts lingered on the enticing aspects that would produce said progeny.
He was hit in the face with another table napkin … or was it the same one.
* * *
“WHAT IS THAT?” Uncle Leonard asked, surveying the lumbering travel coach that pulled up before them.
Juliana was as unimpressed as her uncle by the old, worn, and dingy appearance of the vehicle. It had four horses and an expansive interior. It was a little much for a Town excursion.
“The coach I ordered, Mr. Reeves,” Maxwell Pyebald said with excessive brightness.
“And what, pray tell, is wrong with the landau?”
“Mama and Mrs. Reeves had to do some shopping this afternoon, so I took the liberty of procuring another carriage.”
“You might want to frequent another stable, Mr. Pyebald. This coach has seen better days, much better. However, the horses look well enough. What do you think, my dear, shall we risk it?”
Juliana knew that it was a question of mere courtesy. Had he seen anything amiss, besides dirt, Uncle Leonard would simply have sent the coach back. What he really was asking was if she still wanted to continue on their outing in the company of the manipulative Mr. Pyebald. Somehow, the man had attached himself to their small party. “It is fine, Uncle. I do not mind as long as it gets us from one point to another. It cannot matter how pretty it is.”
“Very well said, especially when we are going into a more industrial part of Town. Perhaps a sturdier carriage will be the better answer. Very well, let us be off. Let me help you up. No, thank you, Mr. Pyebald. As you can see, I am helping Juliana in.”
Juliana was pleased to note that at least the inside of the coach was presentable. Also, being larger meant that there would be fewer chances for Mr. Pyebald to touch her knees with his own. By accident, of course.
“So where are we off to?” Maxwell Pyebald asked as soon as he was seated across from Juliana and her uncle.
Uncle Leonard looked at him speculatively. “Are you sure you want to join us, Pyebald? Should you not be resting? This is not a pleasure outing but one of business.”
“Any outing in Juliana’s company, and yours, too, of course, sir, is a pleasant excursion.” He lifted his arm as if to show off the fact that it was no longer immobile. “Besides, I’m practically right as rain.”
“Indeed. Well, we are going to Leadenhall Street first. Could you instruct the driver?”
Mr. Pyebald nodded and did as he was asked, and they were off.
The trip to Mr. Dagmar’s office didn’t take as long as Juliana remembered. Still, the staircase was just as steep, the office as overstuffed, and Mr. Dagmar as welcoming. Although he was marginally more conciliatory than she had experienced thus far, now that her uncle had been introduced.
“Were you not here yesterday?” the publisher asked with more than a touch of acidity.
“No, it was, in fact, over a week ago. I wish for the return of my research.”
It was amazing how much more confident one could feel with the silent support of an uncle. Even Maxwell Pyebald, with his multicolored complexion, lent an air of intimidation.
“But, my dear girl, I did tell you, quite clearly, that I could not find it.”
“And, sir, I did tell you, quite clearly, to rectify that oversight.”
“But … but…” he stammered, looking around the room at the very helter-skelter piles of paper. “I would not know where to begin.”
The poor man truly looked overwhelmed.
“There are four of us, Mr. Dagmar. We will help.”
“What?” Mr. Dagmar threw a protective arm around the closest haphazard pile. “I do not think that wise, my girl. Things might get … they might get … confused.”
“They are already so, Mr. Dagmar. We are not likely to make a particle of difference. Now, Mr. Pyebald, if you would you start at the back, my father’s papers are bound in a red—”
“No, you can’t,” Mr. Dagmar practically wailed.
“Settle, sir, settle.” Uncle Leonard’s tone was that of a man to a naughty child. He turned to her. “Juliana? May I? I have a thought.”
“Absolutely, Uncle, be my guest.”
“Mr. Dagmar, could you call in your secretary?”
“My what? Well, I suppose.” Mr. Dagmar called out through the open door, “Mr. Pottie.” His squeaky shout matched his mouselike appearance.
The young man that came to the door had a friendly, freckled face and intelligent eyes. “Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Pottie,” her uncle addressed the secretary. “Would you be able to locate the Telford research? It was on the subject of the lady beetle.”
“Oh, yes, sir, the one in the red folder. I remember it ’cause lady beetles are red an’ it put me in mind o’ ’em. You know, all fat in da middle an’ it had bits a string holdin’ it tagether like little legs.” The young man walked over to one of the piles, rooted around for a moment, and then pulled it out from underneath. “This one, sir?”
Juliana squealed with delight. “Yes, indeed, that is it. Thank you so much.”
“No problem, Miss.” He smiled and blushed slightly as he passed the large pile of papers to her. “It were a good read, too, Miss. I rather liked it.”
“Pottie. That is enough. You may go,” Mr. Dagmar interrupted.
Juliana clutched the assorted paper pile to her bosom and smiled brightly. She was suddenly feeling ever so much more charitable to Mr. Dagmar. “Thank you so much for all your trouble.” She turned—ignoring the man’s muttered comment of good riddance to bad rubbish—and followed Mr. Pottie out the door. She practically flew down the stairs in her excitement, well ahead of everyone.
However, Mr. Pyebald stepped before her as
they approached the coach. He pulled himself into it, turned, and held out his hand. It was a unique method of helping a lady into a coach, to say the least.
Juliana had just settled her skirts and secured the red folder on her lap when her uncle put his foot on the coach step.
“Oh bother,” Mr. Pyebald sighed dramatically. “Mr. Reeves, I have left my cane behind. Could I trouble you?”
Juliana almost gasped. Could the man truly be so insensitive that he would ask an elder to be his lackey?
“Of course, Mr. Pyebald.” Uncle Leonard took his foot off the step and moved aside. “We will wait for you.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“Yes,” replied Uncle Leonard, “I am sure it is.” He gestured for Mr. Pyebald to alight and then joined Juliana in the coach.
They could hear the man stomp all the way back up the stairs.
“I do believe the young man is trying to contrive some time alone with you. Would you like me to fall in with those plans, my dear, or not?”
“Oh please, Uncle, I want no time alone with Mr. Pyebald.”
“I thought not.” He patted her hand. “You have much better taste.”
Juliana turned and looked at her uncle. A gentle smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes flashed with mischief. And then he winked. Juliana’s smile grew wider.
“Well, this is capital, capital indeed. Now that we have the return of the learned Telford papers, I can tell you my good news.”
“Good news?”
“Yes, I did some inquiring yesterday, while you were visiting the Faredells. I have an acquaintance in the publishing business. He does not print natural sciences himself, but he knows a man who does. Mr. Henley is going to meet us at The Crank House and introduce us to Mr. Crank.”
“Oh, Uncle.” Juliana threw her arms around his neck. “This is marvelous; why did you not say so earlier?”
“I did not want to get your hopes up, my dear, if Mr. Dagmar could not find the papers.”
When Mr. Pyebald returned with his cane, they set off again. He was strangely sullen and silent, tapping without rhythm on the top hat in his hand. He kept his eyes on the view from the window and made no comment until the carriage pulled up in front of The Crank House.
