"Quite the gentleman. It's hard to believe he's in trade. Of course," Aunt Martha said, ruminatively breaking her bread into small pieces, "I suppose a royal art consultant isn't quite in the same sort of trade as a haberdasher. He cuts a rather striking figure, I think."
"Looks like a foreigner to me." After making this pronouncement, Uncle Emory sank back into silence, gesturing to the footman to fill his wineglass.
Jessica knew a moment's unease. If Sir John was to aid in her quest, he needed to win the confidence of her uncle. But it sounded as if he had lost it already—and she had a good idea who might be to blame.
Aunt Martha, oblivious as usual to the tension at the table, confided, "Your uncle is hoping that Sir John will persuade the Regent to visit Parham House. Sir John sent a note by this afternoon, offering to survey the collection to find items that might lure him here."
Sir John had apparently wasted no time. But, to judge by her uncle's expression, neither had Mr. Wiley. Deliberately she introduced that name into the conversation. "Did you tell Mr. Wiley that Sir John might be coming again? It might prove a bit embarrassing, if Mr. Wiley would turn away the Regent's consultant, or discourage him from looking around."
Her uncle's head snapped up at the mention of the librarian. "I told him to give Dryden reasonable access to the collection. And Mr. Wiley told me a thing or two about this consultant."
"Oh?" As if unconcerned, Jessica buttered her bread with long, smooth strokes of the knife. "I didn't know Mr. Wiley got out enough to learn anything of those around Carlton House."
The mention of the royal residence mollified him a bit. "Well, he's encountered him in this antiquary society. Doesn't fault his ability, mind you, for Dryden's very well thought of there at the society. But—"
The arrival of the footman with the next course cut off his comment. But Jessica knew what was coming. Her uncle waited only for the footman to walk out with their empty soup bowls before picking up his fork and pointing it at her. "His antecedents are cloudy, my dear. Mr. Wiley suggested he is a mere tradesman's son, dressed up as a gentleman."
Dressed up as a gentleman. That annoyed Jessica enough to impel her to intemperance. "Sir John behaves as a gentleman, too, Uncle. And his antecedents aren't the least cloudy. He told me straight off that his father is an apothecary in Dorset. I can't see what that has to do with his consulting on the collection."
"It has nothing to do with his consulting, but it has everything to do with your going out driving with him."
Jessica's heart sank. It hadn't taken Mr. Wiley very long at all to start his poisoning. At least this time he had done it openly. "It was an open carriage, and in the middle of the afternoon. Even so wicked a creature as an apothecary's son can't get up to much under those conditions."
Her irony made no impression on her uncle, who only regarded her dourly. "He is utterly ineligible."
Aunt Martha, who had been so complimentary of Sir John only a few minutes earlier, chimed in. "Yes, dear, he's not of our sort. Even if he does associate with the Regent, and has a title, truly, you can't be seen with a tradesman's son."
"And," Uncle Emory declared, "don't you think of presenting him to me as a suitor."
"A suitor!" Jessica felt the heat rise in her face. "That's absurd. I haven't any intent of—of snaring him." Her voice shook as she continued, "I know you can't understand this. But more than anything I want to ensure that my family's collection is secured. And I've told you before, I don't trust Alfred Wiley, and I don't think he's doing an adequate job. Sir John is an objective observer, with great experience in the field. While he's doing the Regent's work, I hope he might—" For a moment she couldn't think of a plausible reason for them to associate, but she took a deep breath and found that the words came to her eventually. "That he might—unofficially, of course—make some recommendations on what volumes most need to be restored, and which might be best preserved under glass. The sort of duty," she added bitterly, "that Mr. Wiley hasn't seen fit to perform for years now."
Uncle Emory glowered but only remarked, "I don't know why Sir John should go to the effort to do so, unless he has some ulterior motive."
"His motive might just be the desire to keep the collection from deteriorating further! Perhaps he just cares about preserving the nation's heritage!"
Her ringing endorsement had an unintended effect. Uncle Emory couldn't accept an altruistic apothecary's son, but self-interest he could understand. "No. He's a tradesman. More than likely he knows what's what, and knows once your father's bequest is executed, there will be items selected for sale. He thinks that, if he is in on it from the first, he will be chosen as the dealer."
Aunt Martha said helpfully, "Well, I don't know what's wrong with that, Emory. After all, he certainly knows his business. And only think if the Regent would ask to be shown some of the library. We could have a reception, with music, perhaps, or a Venetian breakfast?"
He nodded slowly. "Perhaps. Well, I know one thing. He's no fool. He'll want to stay on my good side as long as I let him into the library. So you can just cross him off your list of potential suitors, my girl. He won't be likely to jeopardize his future by courting you."
Jessica felt the panic rising in her—fear that this new association would be barred to her, anger that her own wishes counted for nothing, dread that Sir John would face insult because of her. "Uncle, please! Don't please say anything of the sort to him! I'm sure he hasn't the slightest intention of that, and it could only embarrass all of us if you do."
Uncle Emory considered this grudgingly. "That's so. I should be charitable, I suppose. His birth is no fault of his own, after all, and he's making himself useful, and hasn't once mentioned sending us a bill. And, as I said, he's no fool. I'm sure he learned long ago to keep his distance, or he wouldn't be tolerated as he is. But you, miss, you just keep your distance too, and don't be thinking you might make him lose his head and pay you court. I assure you, I will never, never approve such an unequal marriage."
Jessica had won her goal: Sir John would be allowed access to the library. But she knew a gnawing dissatisfaction. She pushed away her roast beef, unable to eat it for the sour taste in her mouth. "I don't know why you think that will intimidate me, sir. After all, you haven't approved any of the equal marriages that have been proposed for me."
"Don't you be impertinent, young lady! I am your guardian, and—"
"And I am of age," Jessica cried, to remind herself if not him, "and if I want to learn to stand up on a horse and join Astley's Circus, I can! You can do nothing but deny me my collection, and you're intent on doing that anyway!"
Uncle Emory rose slowly, and his voice trembled with fury. "Go to your room, Jessica. I won't have such insubordination at my own dinner table."
Jessica was glad to escape, knowing that she had suffered too much provocation and gone too far in retaliation. But she didn't go directly to her room. She stole through the front hall into the west wing, and found her way by lightning flash to the door of the library.
It was locked, as she knew it would be. She leaned her forehead against the cool wood, drawing deep breaths, calming herself with the thought of the wisdom of the ages that lay just beyond this door. She had to take the long view of her situation.
As bleak as her prospects seemed at the moment, she had made some progress. If nothing else, she had enlisted Sir John in her quest to secure, if not inherit, the collection. And she had gotten her uncle to consider that Alfred Wiley might not be the world's greatest authority on rare books. If she could just keep chipping away, perhaps Uncle Emory would relent and let her marry. And even if he didn't—
She raised her head from the door, listening to the relentless rain and the erratic rumble of thunder. There was a message there, she thought, if she could only translate it. Perhaps it was that July 23 would not be the day of her death. She would live on, even if she didn't inherit. And the library would live on too. She might even have some influence on its fate, if Uncle Emory al
lowed it, if Wiley didn't ruin it first.
She tried the door again. It was locked tight. But that was no real obstacle. There were many ways to open locked doors, and she'd bet her life that Sir John knew every one.
***
The next morning Sir John sent his card up with the message, "Meet me in the library." Jessica pocketed the card, made some excuse to her aunt, grabbed her reticule from the couch, and escaped downstairs to the west wing. She found him with Mr. Wiley in the main collection room. The heavy air was more electric than usual, and she suspected she had interrupted a verbal fencing match. We will have to get rid of him, she thought, giving Mr. Wiley a bright and completely false smile.
But Mr. Wiley showed no inclination to be gone, sticking to them like a burr in the guise of showing Sir John more treasures. Jessica trailed along after them, scanning the shelves, looking for something, anything, that might prove helpful. But all she saw were books in need of reshelving, manuscripts in need of repair. She cast a longing look over her shoulder towards Mr. Wiley's cluttered office. If she could sneak in there, she could steal that monograph he was writing.
But he would surely find it missing, and blame her, and suspect their scheme. Then the advantage of surprise would be lost. Jessica resigned herself to the directionless search Sir John apparently planned. It was so unlike him, she thought, not to have a plan in mind.
Just then, when Mr. Wiley stooped to pull a book from a lower shelf, Sir John caught her eye and winked. She smiled back, immeasurably relieved. He had a scheme, after all, but hadn't had time to share it with her.
With the adroitness of a Machiavelli, he procured them the time and the privacy they needed. He collected several books, spread them out on the table in the workspace, and pulled a magnifying glass from his pocket. Then he glanced around. "Where is that volume of Hakluyt's memoirs? I have a client who claims Raleigh as an ancestor. He might be willing to trade some Bacon for that."
That was enough to send Wiley out into the reading room, where the Hakluyt was locked in a display case. Once the librarian was out of earshot, Sir John took her by the arm and drew her over into the shadows of the shelves. For a moment, as she felt his callused fingers on her bare arm, she imagined what her uncle had imagined might be true, that Sir John meant to court her. But in the dimness his face was alight with something other than affection.
"We haven't much time to search. Tell me, does Wiley ever leave the library in the day?"
"Not for long enough." She separated a stack of books on the nearest shelf and peered through at the corridor, worried that the librarian would find them conspiring. "And he's taken to locking the door sometimes even when he's here. But you haven't told me yet what it is you think we should be searching for."
"An index of the contents of the St. Germaine trunk."
"But if there were one, wouldn't my father have known what the contents were then?"
"Not if the index is hidden."
Jessica frowned. He kept coming back to that trunk. Whatever he thought was in it, he must want it very badly. She determined to find out before they went much further. "You have utterly no evidence that an index exists. None. And there's plenty of evidence it doesn't."
The light in his eyes faded, and she was sorry she had been so brusque. Then he set his jaw stubbornly. "I know the way collectors operate. They wouldn't just stuff a trunk full of treasure and make no index. Your grandfather must have told your mother what to save, and if it's as extensive a selection as I think, one of them must have made a list, or items would have been forgotten in the heat of the moment."
"That's only a hunch. And a tenuous one, considering you knew neither my mother or my grandfather."
"I tell you, I know collectors."
"Why are you so obsessed with this index? It won't help us defeat Mr. Wiley. We need evidence against him, not against my mother and my grandfather!"
Exasperated, he replied, "What kind of evidence do you want then?"
"A copy of this brilliant monograph about Shakespeare's illiteracy. Even my uncle would be able to see how wild a notion that is."
"So tell him. Why do you need a copy?"
She let her breath out in annoyance. "Because otherwise he will ask Mr. Wiley if it's true, and Mr. Wiley will profess ignorance, and make helpful little observations about how spinsters so often give into their imaginations and believe their fantasies are real. And then Mr. Wiley will be warned that I know his secret."
"Precisely. Better that he remain entirely unaware as long as we can manage it. Your uncle is an estimable man, no doubt, but I don't think you should count on his discretion."
"But—"
Sir John cocked his head, then laid a rough finger across her mouth. "Hush," he whispered. "I hear him coming. Now no more provocations, Miss Seton. Let me take the lead here."
His finger was gentle enough on her lips, but this last request—or was it a command?—made her twist away and out from behind the shelf. Just as Mr. Wiley rounded the corner she sped out the back of the workroom, into the corridor that led to his office. Sir John could stay there and fence with the librarian if that's what he wanted to do. She was going to conduct her search while she still had access to the library.
What with her fear of discovery and the chaotic condition of the office, Jessica again had to confine herself to the desktop. Edging around it, so as not to tip over any of the precarious piles of books on the corners, she scanned each sheet of notepaper, then gingerly lifted the blotter to peer underneath. The page she had seen previously was gone, and for just an instant she wondered if she had been indeed imagining things.
Then she took firm hold of her emotions. She wasn't the lunatic in Parham House. Wiley was. He had probably squirreled the monograph away somewhere, waiting for some final dubious "proof to emerge from the collection. She tiptoed around a decade's worth of unbound journals and pulled open the nearest cupboard. It was jammed with papers. She knelt down and lifted out a handful, using her thumb to fan through the pages.
She would need all afternoon to go through one cupboard.
Despairing of the task, she replaced the pages and rose, brushing off her skirt. The floor hadn't been swept for years, she thought. Mr. Wiley never let the maids in to clean here. Struck by a thought, she spun around, knocking a book from the desk.
She made a grab for it, but missed, and it landed with a crack on the floor. Immediately, to still the reverberations, she put her foot down on it and held her breath. When there was no response from the workroom, she exhaled and replaced the book on the desk, sending up a prayer of gratitude that Sir John was keeping Mr. Wiley preoccupied.
As she expected, the rubbish basket was overflowing under the desk. Deciding to sacrifice her dress for convenience, she sat down on the floor and sorted through the crumpled papers.
She didn't find what she was looking for, that incriminating statement about Bacon as Shakespeare. But she did discover another rendition of Shakespeare's signature on a coffee-ringed sheet of paper. She smoothed out the wrinkles and folded it carefully, then put it inside the cover of the novel in her reticule. After restoring the rubbish basket to something akin to its earlier disorder, she slipped back into the corridor.
When she came to the corner, she flattened herself against the wall and slowly edged over till she could see into the workspace. Mr. Wiley was just turning away from her. Suppressing a gasp, she pulled back, pressing her face to the wall, breathing in the dry scent of old paint and plaster, listening hard.
They were discussing bindings, Mr. Wiley holding forth on the possible identity of the bookbinder Bacon had used. She stole another glance. Mr. Wiley had his back to her, but Sir John saw her and with a quick jerk of his head sent her back into hiding. He raised his voice slightly to say, "Bring that volume over here to the window, will you? Perhaps I can identify the bookbinder's stamp." After a moment, he added, "See? If you hold it up to the light, you can see it. No, look closer."
She took this as a
signal that Mr. Wiley was well-diverted and, still pressed close to the wall, she slipped around the corner and sped down past the shelves to the door. Her light leather slippers made a scuffing noise on the wood floor, but the adroit Sir John covered this up with another speculation about the binding. She glanced back through the shelves to see him looking over Wiley's shoulder, amused and annoyed. With a slight gesture of his hand, he urged her away. Laughing silently, she passed through the door and into safety.
She waited on an upholstered bench down the hall from the library door. Her heart stopped pounding after a few minutes, but she was still exhilarated by her adventure. She slipped her hand into her reticule, touching the edges of the folded sheet where it stuck out from the book, afraid yet to bring it out and look at it again for fear that Mr. Wiley would emerge.
But only Sir John came out of the library. She called out softly to him, and smiled as he turned and shook his head in admonishment. When he came up to her, she took his arm and drew him towards the backstairs. "Come," she whispered urgently when she felt his arm tense in resistance under her hand. He doesn't like being led, she thought with a tiny thrill. He would soon learn that neither did she. "I must show you what I found."
As always, curiosity proved the lure. Stealthily they went up to the gallery that ran the length of the next floor. Sir John closed the door firmly and then pulled a sidechair in front of it to serve as a warning of an interrupter.
The long narrow windows overlooked the garden, letting in a trace of flowery fragrance and the glare of west light. On the other wall, half in shadow, were the portraits of dead Setons. Tacitly they pretended to study the portrait of a fearsome baroness, done in oils on a dark background. "You didn't take a copy of Wiley's monograph, I hope," Sir John said in a low tone.
Poetic Justice, a Traditional Regency Romance (Regency Escapades) Page 11
