Master of Love

by Catherine LaRoche

  His eyes narrowed and his tone turned lazy. “What fine sanctimony, Miss Higginbotham. But on what basis, may I inquire, would a respectable spinster librarian such as you judge my ‘physical endowments’?”

  “My lord, this game is beneath you,” she said, her words clipped. “Surely you have far better hunting among the ladies of the bon ton.”

  “Actually, I find they have little to offer.”

  “Compared to them, I have nothing to offer and far too much to lose.” She turned fully toward him, trying hard to hang on to her pique like a shield. “I am not a . . . a light-skirt, sir. People depend upon me. I cannot let them down.”

  “I think you underestimate your charms, my dear Miss Higginbotham. But you have nothing to fear from me. I’m no seducer of lambs, nor do I compromise the help.”

  It was a deliberate insult. She couldn’t help her sharp intake of breath but worked to gather herself quickly behind a rigid façade. “Of course, my lord.”

  Lady Barrington came up and laid a manicured hand on Lord Rexton’s arm. “Miss Higginbotham, how went your little labors with the books this morning?”

  Callista clenched her glass stem and greeted her with a small nod. “Well, my lady.”

  “Excellent. Rex and I,” the lady said, patting the viscount’s arm, “will be at the Duchess of Worchester’s ball this evening. I’ll be sure to let her know about your services. I expect she’ll be most interested in learning of your work here. Her Grace enjoys reading those lady writers’ novels and might well have a commission for you.”

  “Thank you. Your ladyship is too kind.” Kind indeed, to waste no time in starting the rumor mill to churn.

  “Not at all.” Lady Barrington’s lips curled in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Some of the ton might be a tad shocked, I’m afraid, and rather old-fashioned about such things as the working classes and young women keeping to their proper places. But I’ll explain that girls like you are more forward-thinking these days.”

  Luckily, Callista was spared a further cut-and-thrust session with her hostess when Mr. Claremont stepped up to their group, bringing along two other gentlemen, whom he introduced to Callista as fellow members of the British Philosophical Society. It turned out the luncheon crowd was the organizing committee for the society’s upcoming conference, to be held in late May in Edinburgh in conjunction with Scottish counterparts from the Royal Society of Edinburgh. Present also were several philosophy tutors and a junior instructor from the University of Cambridge’s Trinity College, the aristocratic college from which the previous Lord Rexton had graduated and where the current one had apparently spent time as well. She soon met more gentlemen than she could keep track of, along with some of their wives, all interested in the new library that was making Lord Rexton the talk of the Philosophical Society. Although they were outwardly respectful of their host and patron, Callista gathered Lady Vaughnley wasn’t the only one wondering what use the Master of Love could make of such a collection.

  Graves announced luncheon, and Callista accepted the escort of the aptly named Mr. Plumptre, the society’s rotund treasurer, as they headed downstairs to the dining room. “I hear Lord Rexton’s new books have wonderful breadth across the full range of philosophy,” he wheezed beside her. “Do you plan to organize the collection by subject matter?”

  “Lord Rexton and I were just broaching that point, Mr. Plumptre.”

  To her surprise, Callista found herself, over oxtail soup, at the center of a most interesting discussion about the great libraries of the world and the principles of organization behind them. Although Lord Rexton continued to watch her far too closely for comfort, by the time the sole in anchovy sauce arrived to table, she began almost to relax. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d dined at such a bountiful table with the congenial company of book lovers. Certainly not since her father was alive and they’d all lived in Paris.

  “I find a broad division by subject matter best,” Mr. Plumptre said around mouthfuls of boiled bacon cheek dressed in spinach cream sauce. “That way we can easily find our philosophy volumes.”

  “True,” Callista replied, “but it’s not always clear in which subject area a book should be placed. The classification system most often used was proposed two centuries ago by Francis Bacon. He believed there are but three branches of knowledge: history, which derives from memory; poetry, deriving from imagination; and philosophy, from reason. According to that system, all the books being published today in the new sciences of biology and chemistry and such should be placed in philosophy, under the subcategory of philosophy of nature or experimental philosophy. But such books are so different from Plato or Aquinas, the kind of philosophers who interest you gentlemen”—she gestured down the table—“that I wonder whether this categorization is still useful today in the nineteenth century, when there is now such an explosion of new knowledge.”

  “Excellent point, my dear.” Mr. Claremont nodded, waving over a footman for more of the pease pudding. “What if instead of trying to keep up with more categories, you simply used fewer? When I did research at the Vatican Library, they divided everything up into either ‘sacred’ or ‘profane.’ ”

  Luncheon continued almost pleasantly, with the guests trading stories of libraries and ideas for the new collection. Lord Rexton, Callista noticed, sat mostly silent throughout the meal, contributing little from his position at the head of the table.

  Mr. Thompson, the Trinity College junior instructor, a pale and thin young man, jumped in as the tartlets and Trocadero cake were served. “Before coming to Cambridge, I served as tutor for Lord Shelton’s two sons, and one of my tasks was to reorganize his library. He’d had a classification system when he started his collection years earlier, with a big catalog recording shelf numbers where books were located. But by the time I showed up, he’d added so many new volumes the shelves overflowed and books were pushed off to other shelves that were supposed to hold a different category. The numbers in the catalog book were scratched out and written over so many times that none of it made any sense.”

  “That, Mr. Thompson,” said Callista, laying down her fork from an excellent rhubarb tart with ginger cream, “is exactly the problem with a catalog-book-and-fixed-location approach. It’s the reason I cannot advocate it for Lord Rexton’s library. Such a system really only works if you plan never again to add another book to your library!”

  Mutters of agreement ran around the table over the ridiculousness of that notion.

  “But is it not true, Miss Higginbotham,” inquired Lady Barrington, “that the library of the British Museum, the most splendid library in all the land, uses fixed location and numbers all its shelves? I seem to remember my husband speaking of such, as he frequently conducted research for his books there.”

  “Quite true, my lady,” said Mr. Plumptre, still chewing heartily and reaching for the French plums. “Quite true—shelf 78B and 121A and such.”

  “Surely you don’t set yourself up as a greater authority than the British Museum?” The lady threw her challenge down the table.

  All eyes turned to Callista, and she clenched her napkin into a wadded ball on her lap. “The British Museum library struggles with these issues as well. My father knew the head catalog clerk there, who often mentioned their difficulty in keeping the record and shelf labels accurate. Because we have the option of starting afresh with this new collection at Rexton House, I’m thinking of trying something quite different here.”

  “So you do have a recommendation,” Lord Rexton murmured, dangling a Tokay dessert wine in one hand while he popped grapes into his mouth.

  And what a hothouse expense those must be this time of year, Callista couldn’t help but think. “Yes, my lord. Instead of a catalog book, I’d like to experiment with a catalog system of individual cards, perhaps arranged in specially made drawers. One could then easily add a new card with identifying details for each additional book acquired into the collection.”

  “But how,
then, does one know where to find the book?” Lady Barrington asked. “Surely any catalog is useless unless it directs one to the properly numbered shelf?”

  “I think perhaps instead of numbering the shelves, we could number the books themselves, perhaps with some special code to indicate a subject classification as well.”

  “It sounds terribly confusing to me,” the lady replied, shrugging. “But then again, we’re quite the outsiders in such a roomful of intellectual luminaries, aren’t we, Rex? I fear I don’t know what we can contribute.”

  “Don’t fret, my lady. Your beauty warms the room,” Mr. Claremont said, gallant and oblivious, as seemed his wont.

  To Callista, the unspoken statement about what contribution Lord Rexton had to offer was all too obvious: the patronage of his money, the bounty of his table, his own pretty face. She found herself feeling strangely sorry for him and wanting to offer a defense on his behalf. “In possession of such a library, Lord Rexton’s credentials are quite stellar. I’m beginning to suspect there’s not another collection in England outside the British Museum to rival what’s under this roof.”

  Her comment hung awkwardly in the air. “Somewhat lost on Lord Adonis, though, isn’t it?” Mr. Thompson offered jokingly. “If I had the looks and manners of his lordship, I wouldn’t waste my time in a library.”

  An uneasy chuckle rippled round the room. “You waste enough of your time there now, Thompson,” joked Mr. Walpole, the graying shock-haired head tutor from the university, “although at least you’re not as bad as that fool lord last year. Remember that scandal? The young buck fancied himself the next Plato, actually got his father the earl to bribe the university so he could teach our students the drivel he was churning out. They ended up laughing him off the lectern. Last I heard, he was licking his wounds in India.”

  “Lord Rexton’s situation is nothing of that sort,” Callista said staunchly. “I’m sure he simply appreciates these books for the treasures they are.”

  “They’ll look lovely on my shelves.” Their host tossed another grape into his mouth with studied nonchalance. “Heaven knows when I’ll ever have time or occasion to read them.”

  She furrowed her brow at his indifference and saw his expression harden over in response.

  He straightened to pour himself more of the Tokay from the table decanter. “Not everyone, my dear Miss Higginbotham, spends their evenings curled up with a book. Some of us are otherwise occupied.” He gave her a lazy and dismissive once-over and popped in another grape.

  She felt a crimson flush spread at his implication, clear to all, that she was a washed-up spinster.

  Lady Barrington stood to signal the end of luncheon and began to lead the company from the table. She smiled and took Lord Rexton’s arm. “To each their own. Miss Higginbotham obviously cares little for balls and musicales and questions of social standing and reputation. She’s content to spend her time on books and sales to gentlemen who I’m sure are very grateful for all the useful services she provides.”

  Callista stiffened in hot humiliation. So much for a pleasant luncheon—she should have known the harpy and Lord Adonis weren’t to be trusted. She couldn’t have been more clearly branded a fallen outsider. Even Mr. Claremont frowned in some confusion. The company turned, stepping away from Lord Rexton and Lady Barrington, and left them standing arm in arm. Rexton looked rigid, frozen to the spot. Even the tightness of Lady Barrington’s smile seemed to indicate she sensed she’d gone too far.

  Callista backed away, pushing a hand hard against the knot at her waist. “If . . . if you’ll all excuse me, I must get back to the library.” She hesitated, desperate to escape and loath to have any further contact with him, yet conscious of the requirements of her duty. “My lord, might I have a moment of your time later today? There are some questions of organization I really do need to settle with you.”

  He bowed, a Greek god of icy perfection. “I shall put myself at your service.”

  Her eyes rested on his for just a moment, and then she fled.

  Chapter 3

  Callista: Dom mentally tried out the name he’d had to inquire from Danvers. Bizarre though it was—she wasn’t at all Dom’s usual type—she’d intruded into his thoughts all afternoon. He’d endured squiring Anna and Lady Vaughnley on an interminable round of social calls through which he’d valiantly flirted and engaged in the expected risqué double entendres. As he now paced down the corridor to his library, an irritating twinge of conscience marred his anticipation. To his surprise, the delectably prim Miss Higginbotham had defended him at luncheon; to his disgrace, he’d returned the favor by exposing her to ridicule. He knew he’d behaved badly when he’d done nothing to deflect Anna’s snide comments and instead added his own, but the earnestness of the woman’s defense had prodded his old shame to lash out. On seeing her whitened cheeks, he’d regretted right away setting her up for sport. Too late—the damage had been done.

  He sighed. He should have been inured to feeling left out, and jealousy over the scholar’s life was only ridiculous self-indulgence at this point. The bookish woman, however, had a strange way of provoking his demons. She’d reacted with such courageous hurt that he could tell she, too, was accustomed to being made an outsider.

  Callista: he savored the name. Gorgeous gray eyes—he’d caught mere flashes—luminous, heavily ringed by black lashes and winged brows, yet haunted somehow. Porcelain cream skin, but so pale across the cheeks and shadowed under those lovely eyes. A tall, elegant frame, almost painfully thin—except, he’d noted, for a most pert little bosom. And hair he was ready to bet she would loathe to have described as red. Perhaps one could charitably call it a rich auburn brown, but he would put down money that, unpinned and unwound from those damnably tight braids and that chignon, her hair would be a vivid Titian red.

  He’d tried at first to be as lightly flirtatious with his new librarian as he was with the other ladies—indeed as he was with all ladies. But she just threw him fleeting glances from those serious gray eyes and refused to reply in kind. So he’d watched her throughout the meal and tried to figure her out; it was an old seducer’s trick—pay attention not to a woman’s words, but to the tone of their delivery, to her hand gestures and the movement of her body. In the case of the Honorable Miss Higginbotham, everything about her bespoke caution, reserve—even fear. He’d never met a woman who held herself so stiffly, with such an air of tense fragility radiating from that rigid spine. She cut her food with obsessive precision and drank very sparingly, although she ate surprisingly well for someone so thin. Had she gone hungry recently? She’d held her own with the company but hadn’t smiled once during the meal—not even while talking with the professors.

  What in blazes made someone so tautly controlled?

  And what made him so intrigued?

  You’re getting jaded, old boy.

  Self-disdain was no new emotion. What did surprise him, as he walked through the library’s heavy double doors, was the itch tingling through his veins to see her again. His prickly librarian put him off his stride, yet despite his careening emotions around her, he found he rather welcomed the novel sensation.

  It was his favorite time of day to be in the room. The late-afternoon sun slanted in low through the west windows overlooking St. James’s Square and cast the room in a rich golden glow. As a boy, he’d often hidden among these lengthening shadows to devour books his father and tutor had said scathingly were far beyond him. Pacing now into the chamber, the sight of its occupant brought him up short and lifted the corner of his lip.

  The oh-so-correct Honorable Miss Higginbotham was tucked in his favorite leather armchair by the low-burning hearth, asleep. One hand held a blue-bound book on her lap and the other pillowed her cheek in a childlike gesture that broadened his smile.

  He approached quietly. As a gentleman, he admonished himself for spying on a lady in a private moment, but the devil in him found it impossible to resist.

  Relaxed in sleep, she no longer ga
ve off such a formidable impression of tight-lipped, grim determination. She was a handsome woman, although her looks were far more challenging than Anna’s petite and blond prettiness. She was quite tall for one thing, coming up even to above his chin, he’d noticed earlier. A strong jaw and high brow framed her face, centered by a nose he’d call . . . assertive, he decided, cocking his head for a better look. And her lips, soft in repose, had a tantalizing bow shape. Taken all together, her features made for a striking combination.

  Pacing silently around the armchair, he considered her gown—well-tailored, good-quality woolen, but in a drab gray with a high neck and no ornamentation; she had been the sole lady at luncheon without jewelry. He tried to judge her age. Not a young schoolroom miss, but he doubted she was as old as his thirty-two years. Late twenties, perhaps? He frowned at those dark shadows marking the thin skin under her eyes. Surely she wasn’t supporting an entire household by herself?

  She shifted restlessly, and one of the last sunbeams of the day fell upon her hair. Yes, definitely a fiery red. It would have some curl, he guessed, were it not so ruthlessly scraped back into those braided loops, now hanging crooked at her temples, and bound at her nape. She was definitely not making the most of her looks, although the severity of her toilette somehow suited her, for she was clearly not a frivolous woman.

  And then he saw they were not alone. A scrawny boy of about fourteen years sat on the floor with his back against the far corner of the settee, scowling at him fiercely.

  Ah, this must be Billy.

  Dom lifted one arched brow in inquiry. Damned if he’d be made to feel ashamed by some footboy for standing in his own library. When the lad jerked his chin back toward the door and stalked silently over there himself, Dom didn’t know whether to be annoyed or amused. Apparently he was being summoned for an interview.