Encounter with Mr. Bad Luck

by Michelle Marcos

  Eleven

  The British Museum boasted some of the oldest and rarest printed books known to man. With the exception of libraries in Greece and Italy, England held some of the most ancient manuscripts still extant. Whether newly published or being kept from decay, books on nearly any subject could be found upon the shelves. If one knew where to look.

  The museum itself was shaped like a large square, with a spacious courtyard in the center. That was where the Reading Room was located, a grand circular building with mullioned windows and a glass-tipped dome. On the ground floor, long tables radiated from the center of the room, like spokes in a carriage wheel. No less than three floors ran along the curved walls of the cavernous room, each packed floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves. The sheer volume of knowledge inside this room took one's breath away. Just walking the tiers took considerable time, let alone browsing the thousands of books. It was a good thing she knew precisely whom to ask for help.

  Alex Hastings was the Assistant Keeper in the Department of Printed Books. Though it was early in the day, if her experience was anything to go by, Mr. Hastings would already be on the job. He was tall and slender, and his silky blond hair was always slightly rumpled from where he'd tug at it whenever he read. Mr. Hastings was once a student of her father's while he was studying at university, and that semester began Alex's lifelong admiration of Sir Rupert. Alex was in his late twenties, and an extraordinarily handsome man. But his masculine beauty was encumbered by an unfortunate case of social awkwardness.

  Isha found him on the ground floor perched atop the ladder against the high shelves. His tall frame was leaning on the ladder's railing, absorbed between the cardboard covers of an oversized folio. He didn’t even hear her coming.

  "Good morning, Mr. Hastings," she called up to him with a smile. "Ought you to be reading at your post?"

  "Miss Elmwood!" He slipped the folio hastily back onto the shelf, and clambered down the ladder. Self-consciously, he yanked on his plain waistcoat and adjusted his unstarched cravat. "What a wonderful surprise to see you."

  "It's been a long time, Mr. Hastings. How are you?"

  "Can't complain. I've accepted a teaching post at Oxford. Mathematics and astronomy. I'll be here at the museum just a few more months. I start in the new academic year."

  "That's wonderful news! Congratulations! My father would have been very proud of you."

  "I'm flattered." His intense blue eyes crinkled at the edges, and he flashed her an immaculate smile. "He was a great man, your father."

  She nodded wistfully. "A pity you would have to leave London, though. How does your wife feel about moving to the countryside?"

  He shrugged, embarrassed. "Not married. Not yet."

  Isha looked up at his coloring cheeks. "I find it exceedingly hard to believe that a young lady has failed to capture your heart."

  His blond head ducked as he shyly glanced at a spot near his shoes. "Actually, one has. But I regret I've not yet learned how to capture hers."

  Poor Mr. Hastings. He might be a bit gawky, but what he lacked in confidence he made up for in brilliance. Dark brown lashes fanned across his high cheekbones. What on earth could make such an intelligent, good-looking man so ill-at-ease among the ladies? He could have his pick of them…if only he became aware of his innate good looks.

  She touched him on the forearm, seeking his eyes. "Any young lady who does not notice you must be as blind as a bat, Mr. Hastings. You are quite the catch."

  "Doubt that. Unless one can turn base metal into gold."

  She tsked. "Nonsense. You are not for the alchemist, Mr. Hastings. Have you declared yourself to her?"

  He shook his head silently.

  "Ah, well, that is the answer. You must muster the courage to state your affections. 'Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful.'"

  He grinned. "William Shakespeare."

  "Just so." Isha hoped she got through to him. Mr. Hastings was such a good man. It would be a pity if he were imprisoned by shyness just as he had the opportunity for lasting happiness.

  He sighed. "Continuing in the 'measure for measure' vein, in repayment for your kind words, what may I do for you today?"

  Isha glanced around her. Her tormentor was not nearby.

  "What do you know about…Bad Luck?"

  "Bad luck?" Mr. Hastings gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "Everything. I've been under its lash my entire life."

  Given her present circumstances, she couldn't even smile at that quip. "Not as a concept. I'm talking about Bad Luck as an entity, a person. Can there be such a thing?"

  "Do you mean a literary device? Personification?"

  "Not quite." She needed to tread carefully; otherwise, Mr. Hastings will think her a candidate for Bedlam. "Not anthropomorphism. I'm wondering if there really is someone like…that is, if there is anything among the texts that describes Bad Luck as a living creature."

  Mr. Hastings scratched his head, mussing a thick lock of sun-colored hair. "Hmm. I don't think so. Although I do recall something about one of the Norse gods…what was his name? Loki. Yes, that's right. I think he was the god of mischief or some such thing. Is that what you mean?"

  Isha felt a spark of hope. "Perhaps. Bring me what you have."

  She followed him to a spot along the wall and watched as he hung the ladder in place. He scanned the titles and pulled out a black hardcover book, which he handed to her.

  "If what you're looking for isn't there, Miss Elmwood, do let me know."

  She thanked him and ensconced herself at a remote table. A quick glance around the room told her no one was looking, so she pulled out her spectacles from her reticule and slipped them on.

  Over the next several hours, Isha pored over every book she could find which might lead her to information about Mr. Bad Luck. One book after another, her research led her from Norse mythology to Greek and Roman; through the legends of faeries and pixies; and into the folklore of leprechauns. Neither Loki nor Eris nor Puck offered her any clues to the mysterious man in the red cravat. There was nothing to help her in her quest to even identify the miscreant, let alone defeat him. In frustration, she jerked off her spectacles and sank back in her chair.

  "Time misspent and talent misapplied."

  Her heart skipped a beat. She jerked her head up to see Mr. Bad Luck sitting in the chair opposite her.

  "You startled me!"

  His eyes sparkled. "What are you doing?"

  She closed her book. "If you must know, I'm trying to find out who you are."

  "You won't find your answers here, in—" he turned the spine of her book over, "—Folklore and Mythology of the British People."

  "What choice do I have? You won't even tell me your name."

  "I won't tell you my name because it is unpronounceable to you. But if you want to address me, you may call me Mal-Luck."

  "Mal-Luck," she repeated. How appropriate. "Where do you come from?"

  "Not far."

  She remembered her readings. "Are you some sort of a god?"

  "Only when I look in the mirror." He laughed at his own joke. "No, I'm no god."

  "Then how do you have all these powers? How are you able to appear and disappear at will?"

  "There is much you don't understand. And that is among the things I have no intention of explaining."

  Irritation snapped through her. More knowledge inaccessible to her. "Are you here to curse me?"

  "Curse? No."

  "You told me that you bring ill-fortune."

  "I bring about change…which some people may find unsavory."

  She pursed her lips. "You seem to derive the most unearthly enjoyment from doing that."

  He smiled broadly. "I happen to love what I do."

  "But why me?"

  There it was again, that look of preternatural understanding. "That is a question too often asked from within the storm. The answer is even more
illuminating when the question is asked beyond the storm."

  A question mark curled in her forehead. That was a message for her, but the message was wrapped in riddles.

  "Not everything is as it seems, Isha. As I've been telling you all along, it is not your vision that needs correcting. It's your perspective."

  It was so unsettling how much he seemed to know about her. From his nearness to his handsomeness to his perspicacity, everything about him made her uncomfortable.

  "What do you mean?"

  He stood up. "Come with me. I want to ask you something personal."

  She stiffened. "No. I'm through revealing my private thoughts. I've got nothing more to say to you."

  "Fine." He gripped her by the arm. "Then come and say your nothing over here."

  It was impossible to fight his superior strength. She nearly stumbled as he pulled her out of the Reading Room and toward the hall of antiquities. What must others think of her as she was being hauled across the marble floor by an invisible force?

  Finally, Mal-Luck brought her to the foot of a large statue. "There. What do you see?"

  Isha smoothed out her dress, biding her time until the last of the curious onlookers stopped staring at her in bewilderment.

  The piece must have been new to the museum because Isha had never seen it before. The marble was beautifully carved into the figure of a semi-nude woman, one hand resting on a baluster. She was caught in a moment of denuding—the fabric that was draped from her hips to the floor seemed to still be in the process of falling off her beautiful body, exposing her perfectly shaped breasts. Her other hand was raised to her head, grasping the veil from atop her head and lifting it from her face. The most exquisite feature of the statue, however, was the woman's face, which was visible through her veil. How the sculptor could have managed to create the appearance of a diaphanous veil out of marble through which her face showed was a testament to his masterful artistry and skill.

  "I see a statue. A rather superbly crafted statue." A little plaque on the base read the piece's sculptor and its name: RAFFAELLE MONTI. Veritas.

  "And the woman?"

  Her eyes fluttered from the lovely face, down to the pert breasts, across the narrow waist. "She's…beautiful. Stunning. Rather wish I looked like her, actually."

  "And if you could become as beautiful as her?"

  Hope shot through her. Did he really have the power to do that? In a flash, the possibilities opened before her. "You can do that? You can make me beautiful?" She'd rather be clever and pretty than clever and plain.

  Slowly, he shook his head. "I cannot make you beautiful."

  "Oh."

  "I cannot make you beautiful because you already are."

  Not this again. How can he expect her to believe she was beautiful when everything in her life pointed the other way? "I really wish you would stop saying things that I know to be untrue."

  He pointed to the statue. "This is you, Isha. A beautiful woman, her beauty covered. At least the lady in the statue is trying to remove the veil, whereas you…you don't even know you're hiding behind one."

  "Why are you here? Why are you plaguing me with all of these—" Emotion was rising in her like a tide. "Can't you see how unhappy you're making me? First you ruin my sister's life, and now you're ruining mine. Why should you seek to make us both spinsters?"

  "Whoever said you were to remain a spinster?"

  If he'd upturned a bucket of ice water over her, she couldn't have been more surprised. "What do you mean?"

  "You're going to marry a very special man, Isha. One who isn't intimidated by a woman who is plainspoken, intelligent, and better read than he is. One who delights in a woman who is warm and witty, but who'll be patient as she learns to fill her own shoes. One who doesn't need to feel superior by choosing a woman that feeds his vanity. Though most men want a woman on their arm who makes other men wish they were him, you will have a man who will make other women wish they were you."

  She shook her head. "That man doesn't exist."

  "But he does."

  Her derisive snort drew the look of a couple who entered the hall. "Then that would really require a leap of the imagination."

  For the first time since she'd encountered him, Mal-Luck's expression darkened. Anger fanned to flames behind his darkening scowl.

  "I've had enough of your disbelief. It's time to remove the veil, Isha. Whether you like it or not."

  A tremor went through her, but this time, there was room to escape. "Leave me alone, won't you? For once and for all, leave me alone!" She shouldered past an elderly couple who stared at her as if she'd gone stark raving mad.

  Isha stomped back to the Reading Room to collect her reticule, which she'd left beside the book she'd been reading. Mr. Hastings approached her table.

  "There you are. I was wondering where you'd gotten to. Is there anything else I can get you?"

  "Yes. A headache powder. And a weapon of some kind."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Isha looked up into his puzzled face. "Nothing. I'm sorry, Mr. Hastings. It's been a disconcerting day. Here's the last book you gave me. Thank you for all of your assistance."

  He took the book from her hand, but remained riveted to the spot. As Isha fished around her reticule for a handkerchief, Mr. Hastings tugged on his waistcoat and took a deep breath.

  "Miss Elmwood?"

  "Yes?" She blinked up at his face.

  "Will you—" He swallowed hard and mouthed something inaudible. "Will you…b-be needing anything else? I think we may have a volume on Teutonic elves."

  "No, thank you, Mr. Hastings. It really has been a most trying day. I must be going."

  His shoulders sagged. "Of course. Good-bye, then." He turned and walked slowly back toward the shelf.

  Reticule in hand, she spun around. And collided full-on with Mal-Luck.

  He reached down and clamped his large hands around her wrists.

  "Repeat after me. Bookshelf."

  She tried pulling her hands away, but it was like her wrists were encased in stone.

  "Let me go!"

  "After you say it."

  "Bookshelf!" She tugged at his grasp, and he released her.

  And then it hit her, what he'd made her do. Her eyes became wide as saucers when she saw his dimples deepen in a mischievous smile. She followed his gaze to a spot over her shoulder.

  She turned and froze in horror. A bookshelf on the second floor of the Reading Room began to tilt forward slowly, as if being pushed from behind by an invisible hand. Directly beneath the railing on the first floor, completely oblivious, stood Mr. Hastings.

  "Mr. Hastings!" she called out. The young man turned around and stared at her in puzzlement.

  There was no time to explain. Just as the books began to slide out of the massive bookshelf, Isha ran at him and slammed her body against his.

  They landed safely, if painfully, under the walkway. Mr. Hastings struggled to regain his balance. "Wh—"

  A woman screamed just as books cascaded over the railing and crashed onto the floor. Mr. Hastings wrapped his arms around Isha and turned her away from the falling books. A split-second later, the tall bookshelf flipped over the low balustrade and crashed onto the floor below with a sickening sound of exploding wood. Inches from their feet.

  They stood there in that clinch, panting at the horrifying sight. Mr. Hastings looked down at her. "Are you all right?"

  She nodded dumbly, her mind reeling from the sensation of his tight embrace.

  "Good Lord, Miss Elmwood. You saved my life!"

  And very nearly took it from him. Her own words caused the accident, however inadvertently.

  "I'm sorry, but—"

  Nothing could have prepared her for what happened next. He took her mouth in a bold kiss.

  Isha's gasp of surprise was smothered by his mouth. He pulled away, leaving Isha
staring up at him in awe.

  "You've no idea how long I've been waiting to do that."

  "Mr. Hastings!" she panted, her mind racing against her pulse. Heat poured into her face.

  His expression changed, as if something was being born in him. The shy, self-deprecating veneer crumbled, replaced by an electrified confidence.

  "Dash it all, I can't die before I get to do this." His mouth descended once more, this time in a soft, velvety kiss.

  Isha became a kaleidoscope of emotions. It seemed unreal, like something out of a dream. The fantastical being, the near death, the handsome man, the powerful kiss. And yet, the more passionately Alex Hastings's mouth smoothed over hers, the more it began to sink in that this might not be her dream coming true, but his.

  His arms moved up her back, folding her against his tall body. Her breasts flattened against his chest as her arms snaked up around his neck. Oh, this was so much better than she had ever imagined. Whether or not she was beautiful, Mr. Hastings was certainly making her feel that way.

  The commotion in the Reading Room had grown. People began to surround the wreckage. Voices called out Mr. Hastings' name. He ignored them.

  "I used to wish that you would fall into my arms, Miss Elmwood. I never dreamed that you would run into them."

  She blushed. All this was too much to contemplate. "Me? But…w-why did you never say?"

  Regrets amassed in his expression. "How could I? You are…there is no other I would rather…if you had rejected me, I…" He shook his head, unable to convey his tortured thoughts. "How can I thank you?"

  That kiss was certainly an admirable start, she thought.

  Mr. Beauchamp, the Principal Librarian, found them. "Are you hurt?"

  "No, sir," said Mr. Hastings. "Neither of us is. Miss Elmwood here saved me from certain death."

  The librarian's palms covered his ample cheeks, flanking a too-thick moustache. "Thank heavens you're both unharmed. What an alarming accident! I can't imagine how such a thing could have happened."

  Mr. Hastings stepped over the massive pile of mangled books that had fallen around them. "Take my hand, Miss Elmwood." Gingerly, she followed him over the wreckage.

  "Dear me! Miss Elmwood, shall I send for a doctor? Completely at the museum's expense, I assure you."

  "No, thank you," she replied, unable to hide her fluster. "I'm quite all right, Mr. Beauchamp, really. Just a little shaken, that's all." More from Alex Hastings's declaration than from the falling bookshelf.

  Her hand was still wrapped in Mr. Hastings' tightening fingers. Suddenly, he turned to her. "Miss Elmwood, would you do me the honor of allowing me to see you home? There are one or two things I've been meaning to tell you for quite some time, and I can see now that there is no time like the present."