She pressed her eyes closed. “I’ve become a common thief,” she whispered into the carriage. For the first time, Bridget forced herself to utter those words aloud and own them. She was sacrificing her honor to save Virgil. If she were being truthful with herself at last in this instant, she was saving herself, too. Because she’d witnessed over the years the evil Archibald was capable of. She knew what he did to those who’d thwarted him. And she did not doubt he’d have her committed as he’d vowed if she didn’t do this.
Fueled by that, she set her shoulders and shifted her thoughts to something safer—her upcoming meeting.
My name is Bridget Hamlet.
Given that she’d spent her childhood days in one of her family’s far-flung country estates and then chose self-exile so she might raise Virgil, none either knew or remembered a third Hamilton child.
Bridget silently mouthed all the details she’d worked out for her fictional existence. …I’m a widow. My late husband was a bookseller. My family landed gentry…
Having read every book inside her family’s once well-stocked Yorkshire estate, she’d read enough gothic tales of ladies sneaking inside a powerful nobleman’s household. Every last one included surprise that the employer should ask probing questions and so commenced the stammering. Bridget, however, was too logical to make that mistake.
The carriage rolled to a stop and a peculiar still gripped her. Where were the lurching stomach and the panicky thoughts? But then, mayhap this calm was just further testament that her blood was as evil as that of Archibald and Marianne.
“Here we are, miss,” the driver called, yanking the door open.
Gathering her valise by the worn leather handle, she held on to it with one hand. With the other, she accepted the hackney driver’s offer of help. Bridget reached inside her cloak and withdrew coin for the fare, and the young man grabbed it with quick fingers. He tucked the coin inside his jacket, scrambled back atop his box, and drove off.
Alone, she remained planted on the pavement and directed her attention up the brick finish of the townhouse. The structure and windows facing the streets and lanes marked it one of the first-rate houses, and stood as a sign of Lord Chilton’s wealth. But then, a man in possession of one of the most coveted tomes, no doubt, had fortunes to rival the king’s.
He’ll not miss that one book, then. He’ll survive and thrive even with it gone, whereas I have no hope of existence without it.
That reminder ricocheted around her mind. Even as it propelled her forward and up the steps of Lord Chilton’s residence, guilt stung her throat like vinegar and made it hard to swallow. Bridget set her valise at her feet and knocked once.
When no one rushed to open the door, she shifted back and forth on her feet. Her skin pricked with the feel of stares trained on her. Unbidden, she looked out. Several ladies strolling arm in arm gawked. The same hideous fascination that accompanied any other stranger upon first spying the crescent-shaped mark upon her cheek. Their lips rapidly moved but Bridget had always been rot at gathering a jot of what another person said after they’d moved their lips away from her line of focus.
Drawing her bonnet up higher, she faced the arched entranceway, and frowned. Where in blazes was the butler? Or any household servant, for that matter?
As a girl, her earliest remembrances of her dictatorial father had been a man who’d railed at servants and sacked them if they failed to answer a door in a single rap. What manner of man was the baron who’d serve as her employer? Was he an absentee nobleman, whose servants carried on as they wished because of it? She knocked again.
The panel was drawn open with such alacrity, she gasped. A young servant in dark garments and an easy grin on his lips stared back. He passed his gaze over her, lingering on her valise. “Mrs. Hamlet,” he greeted with the warmth of a lifelong friend who’d been reunited as he motioned her forward. “You’ve arrived. Early. I am Mr. Lodge—” She opened her mouth to return the salutation—but he spoke hurriedly. “That is, I take it you are Mrs. Hamlet?”
Grateful to have that wood panel as a barrier between the gaping passersby and herself, she rushed inside. “I am.”
A dark-clad footman came forward to collect her valise and she turned it over to his hands.
“Mr. Winterly will meet with you and go through your responsibilities. When His Lordship returns, it is Winterly who’ll perform the necessary introductions,” the butler prattled.
Bridget furrowed her brow. Who?
“Forgive me. Mr. Winterly is Lord Chilton’s man-of-affairs. A business partner and,” the servant dropped his voice to a low whisper, and she carefully watched his mouth, “brother.” He stole a secretive glance about. “Given you’ll be responsible for the female staff, I daresay it isn’t gossip, mentioning Mr. Winterly is also a bastard child of the Duke of Ravenscourt like Lord Chilton.”
Her mind spun under the flurry of gossip flying from this man’s lips.
“Shall we?” Not waiting to see if she followed, Mr. Lodge started forward.
Fiddling with her clasp, Bridget hurriedly shed her cloak and dropped it into the hands of the patiently waiting footman, and rushed after the head servant.
“You’ll find His Lordship exceedingly…” His words pulling in and out of focus, she cursed her partial deafness and quickened her steps until she walked alongside the loquacious servant. “…fair, generous, and kind to his staff,” the butler directed that assurance forward.
Fair, generous, and kind. In short, all things her father, brother, mother, and sister hadn’t ever been. She bit the inside of her cheek. Why couldn’t Lord Chilton be spoken of with loathing and disdain by his staff? It wouldn’t erase the wrongs of her actions here, but it would ease some of the guilt.
“…extremely successful and… Ah, here we are,” Mr. Lodge stopped abruptly at the end of the corridor. He pushed the door open and motioned her forward.
She hesitated, as an irrational fear needled around her insides that this was all some kind of grand trap and, at any moment, someone would jump forward, finger pointed, and calls for the constable flying from his lips.
“Hmm,” Mr. Lodge said with a frown, as he perused the room. He brightened. “Mr. Winterly should arrive shortly. If you’ll but wait until he returns?”
Bridget turned to offer her thanks but the words died on her lips, finding him already halfway down the hall. She stared bemusedly after him. What a…peculiar man. But then, she had spent so many years with only Nettie and Virgil for company that she’d settled into a largely quiet existence.
Taking a step inside the room, she assessed the office. The gleaming surface of the mahogany furniture and the leather button sofas and winged chairs all bespoke wealth and masculine elegance. It was not, however, the Chippendale furniture that commanded her notice. Motionless, she stood frozen, her gaze trained on the floor-length shelving that wrapped around the sprawling room. For all intents and purposes, it was a library. Yet, the pedestal desk on plinth bases with its leather top, and folios and ledgers gathered there marked it an office.
It was a perfect room for a man who dealt in first editions and had made a fortune on ancient tomes. Her fingers twitched. The need to pull each edition from the shelf and assess its age and history gripped her with a potent force. Surely there would be no harm in examining them? Except, given her intentions for Lord Chilton’s household, it would be an inauspicious beginning to be found poring over any of those tomes. As an inner battle waged between restraint and her own hungering, she cast a look over her shoulder. The hum of silence lingered in her one good ear. In the end, the pull of those books, however, proved too much.
Bridget drifted over to the front of the room, close to Lord Chilton’s desk and stopped. A foot away from the bookcases, she skimmed her gaze over the volumes.
Richard Verstegen: A Restitution of Decayed Intelligence: In Antiquities.
Edward Coke, Sir John Swinton, George Baker Quinta pars relationum Edwardi Coke Equitis aurati, Regij Attornati
Generalis / The fifth part of the reports of Sr. Edward Coke Knight, the Kings Attorney Generall.
She mouthed the titles of book after book. Seventeenth century works, they’d each been reprinted numerous times in that century alone. Closing her eyes, Bridget breathed deep the scent of the old works. That scent, beautiful and rich, filled her nose, calming her. And for the first time since she’d agreed to help Archibald, there was something more than fear and regret—there was excitement at working beside books she’d never touch in the whole of her existence.
Magnifying glass in hand, Vail examined Johann Coler’s astrological works he’d acquired from auction.
“Torn pages,” Edward Winterly, Vail’s brother, business partner, and man-of-affairs, stood at his shoulder as he viewed Vail’s morning acquisitions.
“Several of the books,” he conceded, setting aside the glass and book. “But the set can be broken up and will earn considerable coin for the copies that are intact.”
Edward snorted. “I hope yesterday’s purchase from Derby fares in better shape.”
By way of answer, Vail swiped the drawstring velvet bag from the edge and held it over. “Near flawless.” He rolled his shoulders to ease some of the tension he’d amassed from being bent over his work.
His brother grinned. Not unlike Vail himself, Edward revealed a tangible excitement in triumphing over members of the peerage. “So the transaction was a success, then.” White gloves already donned, his brother carefully loosened the drawstrings and withdrew the volume in question. He laid it on the satin fabric draped over the table.
“Yes,” he agreed as Edward examined the recent addition to his collection. Vail tightened his mouth as annoyance with Derby’s actions stirred back to life. “But not before Derby tried to maneuver another purchaser.” His brother briefly lifted his attention from that coveted tome. “Wanted to secure funds to compete for the Chaucer.” That first edition work men would fight, kill, or steal for, and for that reason it had been carefully hidden away until it went to auction.
“Ahh,” Edward said understandingly. “No one ever claimed Derby had a brain in his head.”
“A love of books and literature hardly determines how grounded or logical a person is,” Vail agreed.
Edward, engrossed in that copy, devoted all his attentions to Vail’s most recent acquisition. “It lacks the tract De iure Regis ecclesiastico, as found in most copies,” Edward correctly observed.
“Yes.” It was a testament to its rarity. A wave of pride filled him. Born to different mothers but also both bastards of the Duke of Ravenscourt, Vail had discovered Edward four years earlier, mucking out the stables of a pompous lord. It was the last horse shite any one of his kin would shovel. From then on, Vail had resolved to find his siblings where he could and help them all make better lives for themselves. Since he’d joined Vail’s employ, his brother had proven adept at assessing the value, worth, and integrity of coveted books and documents. Whereas Vail didn’t care about the words on those pages past the fortunes they earned him, Edward had an abiding appreciation for the profits and the content in those books.
“Are you ready for me to locate a buyer for it?” He directed that question towards the book. Vail set prices and drove meetings and decisions but, as his man-of-affairs, Edward oversaw the acquisition of purchasers.
Vail shook his head. “I would still have the pages and cover cloth dusted first and—”
A knock sounded at the door. His butler and brother, Gavin Lodge, entered, and looked between Vail and Edward. He cleared his throat. “My lord,” he greeted.
“I’ve already told you, you needn’t call me ‘my lord’,” Vail said gently.
“I can’t call you by your Christian name. You’re my employer,” Gavin groused. “I hardly need the staff believing the only reason I head your staff is because I’m your brother and—”
“I expect a debate on what you might call Vail is hardly the reason you’ve come ’round,” Edward drawled, turning the page of his book.
Their younger sibling cleared his throat. “You’re correct. A Mrs. Hamlet arrived a short while ago. I took the liberty of escorting her to your office.”
Mrs. Hamlet? Vail stared back with befuddlement. “Who is—?”
Edward snapped his head up and cursed. “Your housekeeper.”
What in blazes had happened to Mrs. Kelly? “I have a housekeeper.”
Man-of-affairs and butler exchanged a look. “Had a housekeeper, my lord. Had a housekeeper,” Lodge explained.
“She instructed your maids to set fires in every room.” Edward’s face turned red.
Vail narrowed his eyes. “In every room?”
“She insisted it was unnatural to not have lit hearths, even after I’d explained the reason for it, she did so anyway.” As a rule, regardless of whether it was a freezing winter’s day in London or a hot, humid summer one, no fires were lit, no windows opened in any place where his books were kept.
“I’ve found you a new housekeeper. Mrs.—”
“Hamlet,” Gavin cut in, always eager to be involved in a discussion or exchange, regardless of whether or not it affected him.
“She’s the widow of a late bookshop owner and, given that, I felt her experience marked her ideal for your household.” Edward returned his focus to the book. He proceeded to pass the magnifying glass over the pages of that text, lost as he invariably became in those antique editions.
Gavin made a clearing sound with his throat. “I might point out that the young woman is waiting,” he whispered.
Lingering beside the leather tome, Edward gave Vail a pleading look.
Oh, blast. “I’ll do it,” he muttered, grabbing his jacket from a nearby cranberry upholstered armchair. He started for the front of the room.
“Thank you,” Edward called after him.
“This is the extent of my dealings with the staff,” he warned, not deigning to look back. It wasn’t that he believed household duties beneath him. Minted a baron after Waterloo, he still didn’t put much value behind a title. He’d been a whore’s son who’d varied between having a full belly and fine shelter or having an empty belly and tattered garments. Ultimately, it had always come down to whether his mother had a protector at any given moment. Furthermore, seeing as the last woman had compromised a fortune’s worth of his collections, he’d be wise to at least oversee this particular task.
“Vail!”
He stopped and glanced back.
Gavin came sprinting down the hall. “I forgot,” he said faintly, breathless. He handed over a note. “This arrived earlier.”
The fragrant hint of jasmine flowers that clung to the scrap was familiar and once beloved. Now, it was nothing more than a reminder of his own foolishness. Accepting the missive, he needlessly scanned the flourishing scrawl. “Thank you,” he said, dismissing his brother. “That will be all.”
With a jaunty wave, Gavin skipped off.
His youngest sibling gone, he unfolded the page and hurriedly read yet another note from Lady Adrina Mast, the Countess of Buchanan, and recent widow. There had been a time when any word she’d written would have had him at her side. He’d been a boy when he gave his heart to her. Now, he felt nothing but a detached indifference to her desperate notes. Stuffing it inside his jacket he resumed the walk to his office.
He entered the room and stopped. The woman who’d been hired for the role of housekeeper was positioned behind his desk and remained wholly engrossed in the titles before her. She stood on tiptoes, surveying the shelves that contained the most recent additions to his collection.
Having dealt with thieves, scoundrels, and thugs who’d fight for and steal prized collections, he’d learned a proper wariness of anyone who came too close to his books. Particularly a servant new to his employ, who’d commandeered a place behind his desk. He entered the room but, engrossed as she was, Mrs. Hamlet continued to work her gaze frantically over the titles. Vail folded his arms at his chest. “Mrs. Hamlet,” he said
in hushed, icy tones. No one would ever accuse him of being unfair or cruel to his staff, but neither was he a man who’d tolerate a person entering his household and infringing upon his space.
The auburn-haired woman muttered something to herself and then bent down. At her blatant ignoring of him, he cocked his head. What in blazes?
Mrs. Hamlet froze and reached long, gloved fingers for a volume—
“Mrs. Hamlet,” he barked.
The woman cried out and, knocked off-kilter, she tumbled against the shelving unit.
“Have a care with my—” That frosty warning died on Vail’s lips as she faced him. In possession of auburn curls that shimmered hues of red, Mrs. Hamlet had a delicate, heart-shaped face and impossibly wide, almond-shaped, blue eyes that would have marked her a great beauty in any court—except for the large crescent-shaped birthmark upon her left cheek. The unusual crimson mark spanned half her face, transforming someone who Society would have considered a flawless beauty into someone wholly unique.
At his scrutiny, she brought her shoulders back and glared. “Forgive me, Mr. Winterly,” she said with a surprising strength, wholly devoid of an apology from this woman who’d been caught sneaking about his offices. There was fiery glitter in her pretty, cornflower blue eyes; eyes that mocked him for his scrutiny. Yet, having battled Society’s condemnation for the whole of his life, Vail saw something more behind that brave showing—insecurity.
Then her address registered. Ah, she’d mistaken him for his brother, then. “Lord Chilton,” he offered, correcting her error. He’d neither the time, nor inclination for cases of mistaken identity.
Mrs. Hamlet wheeled her gaze to the doorway and then searched the room.
Vail shot a hand up and waved his fingers. “Me, Mrs. Hamlet. I’m your—”
“Oh, bloody hell,” she whispered.
He started.
The young woman gasped and slapped a palm over her mouth. “Oh, dear.”
A laugh escaped him and he quickly tamped it down. Why, she was refreshing. Wordlessly, he motioned to the pair of seats. She instantly scrambled to claim the nearest Louis XV carved walnut fauteuil à la Reine.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 146
