Allison Lane (12 page)

She seemed flustered.  “Where is Letty?”

“She was asleep on her feet, so I sent her to bed.”  He berated himself for acting so decisively, but she ignored it, more concerned about the lack of hospitality.

“You should not have to do this, sir.  I can tend him quite well.”

“True, but I don’t mind.  And even the best nurse needs rest now and then.”

She flushed.  “Your breakfast awaits you, Mr. Randolph.  If you wish to help, then see that Symington remains in bed.  He is not as well as he would have us believe.”

“I will try.”

“Thank you.  I sent a deck of cards to his room, along with a chess board.  Perhaps you can keep him entertained.”

“As you wish.”  He nodded.  “John seems cooler this morning.”

“I hope so.  I changed his tonic last night.  This prolonged fever is discouraging.  Despite his long exposure to cold and wet, I had expected a response by now.”

His hand froze as he again wiped John’s brow.  “Is this a subtle way of telling me he will die?”

“No!”  Shock filled her eyes. 

“Then what?”

She hesitated before succumbing to his silent plea that she talk.  “I do what I can for the sick and injured, but I am no doctor.”  She paced about the room.  “There is so much I do not know.  I often fear that my ignorance will kill someone.  Leaving Symington in Mrs. Hughes’s hands was a risk, for I had no idea whether his fever would worsen.  Failing to inquire about his servants was a mistake John is still paying for.”

“John’s illness is not your fault,” he said, interrupting her obvious anguish.  Her caring ran deeper than he had suspected.  “If I didn’t believe you were doing everything possible for him, I would have sent for a doctor by now.”

“
You
would?”

He bit back a curse.  “I know I have no authority, but Symington is aware that John has been a friend since childhood.  He would see that everything possible was done.”  Blessing the dimly lit room for hiding the embarrassment warming his cheeks, he rose to leave.

“Forgive my rudeness, sir,” she begged.  “I am unaccustomed to such loyalty.  Enjoy your breakfast.  If John’s condition changes, I will send word.”

His face snapped into a frown the moment he closed the door behind him.  He could not afford any more slips.  Allowing emotion to control his tongue removed a necessary censor.  He had to pause long enough to think before speaking.

But he had learned much today.  Whitfield had been right – again.  Elizabeth might suit him very well…

Three hours later, he entered the library to find Elizabeth poking at one of the window frames with a knife.

This was the most pleasant room in the Manor – and the best maintained.  He had spent several enjoyable hours there already.  His initial fear of encountering Fosdale had dissipated once the staff confirmed that the earl avoided the library.

It stretched nearly a hundred feet along the main block of the house, its bookcases alternating with settees and game tables.  Portraits clustered between Flemish tapestries on the walls, lit by the huge leaded windows that offered a spectacular view of the valley and surrounding mountains.  But the books had been his greatest surprise.  Whoever had stocked these shelves had excellent taste.

“So there you are,” exclaimed Elizabeth when he joined her.  “No one could find you.”

“Is something wrong with John?”  He had been exploring an older wing that had not been used for some time.

“His fever finally broke.  Letty is with him at the moment, though he was sleeping naturally when I left.”

“That is good news.  What are you doing to the window?” 

“Fixing a leak.”  She pressed another bead of paste along the edge of the frame.

“Surely there is someone more qualified to make repairs.”  The comment was out without thought, and he grimaced.

“Wendell, but Fosdale hates books.  Wendell has orders to ignore the library.”

Appalled, Randolph could only gape at her.

She smiled.  “You deplore his antagonism as much as I.”

“Of course.  But why does he keep a library if he despises it?”

“Surely you know more of gentlemen than that after living at Whitfield Castle,” she said, shaking her head in mock despair.  “A gentleman must have a library, and that library must be stocked with leather-bound volumes.  It proves that he is cultured, civilized, and can afford quality – not that Fosdale can.  Most of the books have been here for decades.  Fortunately for him, no one expects him to have read any of them.”

“I am not as unknowing as all that.  Publishers sell sets of books to those who need an instant collection, and many gentlemen have little interest in reading.  But I do not understand hatred.”

“My grandfather loved books and spent much of his meager income on this room, a fact Fosdale will neither forgive nor forget.”

“Pardon my curiosity, but if he hates the library – and avoids entering it, from what I hear – he can hardly be preserving it for show, so why not sell it?”

“He is.  Why else is Symington here?”

“To purchase a single manuscript.  But are you saying he will sell others as well?”  He fought to keep excitement out of his voice, for he had already discovered several volumes he would like to own – though he had to question whether his interest was strong enough to pay Fosdale for them.

“The Chaucer is the only thing of value.”

He hesitated, but she deserved the truth.  “I beg to differ, Lady Elizabeth.  This room contains many treasures.”

“You jest!”

“Hardly.”

“Are any of these supposed treasures in that case?”  She pointed toward the corner.

“Why?”

“The contents of the first two cases belong to me:  an inheritance from my grandfather.”

“Then he has done you proud.”  He met her eyes.  “I know books, my lady.  Whitfield would hardly employ me if I didn’t.  Your inheritance is a marvelous collection of first editions and rare manuscripts.”

“How can that be?” she said, half to herself.  “Grandfather lost nearly everything before Fosdale was born, a misfortune Fosdale still considers a personal insult.  All my life he has derided Grandfather as a man of no sense and less ability.”

“Yet he knows about the Chaucer, and he has a good – albeit somewhat inflated – idea of its value.”  Though they had not yet discussed the purchase, he had read the letters Fosdale had exchanged with Whitfield.

“But the Chaucer was a gift, so it never reflected Grandfather’s acumen.”

“From whom?”  But the question was meaningless.  Anger snaked through his belly as he realized that he had been set up.  Her reply confirmed it.

“The Duke of Whitfield gave it to Grandfather on the occasion of Fosdale’s birth.”

“I take it you do not share your father’s hatred of these volumes?”

“Never.”  She struggled to control her intensity.  “Grandfather and I were quite close.  He needed someone to converse with, to share ideas with.  And I have never been content with the frippery ways ladies fill their time, so I have read a great deal.”

“Will my—Symington’s purchase of the Chaucer prompt Fosdale to evaluate what else is here?”  An idea was forming in the back of his mind, but he needed time to examine it.  Fosdale was sure to make financial demands during the marriage negotiations.  What if he countered with the suggestion that Fosdale turn over the Chaucer as Elizabeth’s dowry?

“I doubt it,” she said, interrupting his thoughts.  “He would never admit that Grandfather might have acquired anything worthwhile.”  She frowned.  “Just how valuable are the books I own?”

“I can’t say at the moment, but I can give you an estimate in a day or two.”

“Thank you.”

It was dismissal, so he went in search of Sedge.

* * * *

Elizabeth watched him go, hardly daring to believe his words.  Yet he
was
knowing about books.  That was why Symington had brought him here.

You can always rely on this.
  Her grandfather’s voice echoed.  His gesture would encompass the library as he made the vow – which he had done often toward the end.  She had assumed that he meant the knowledge she had gleaned from this room, but perhaps not.  He had promised her security.  And he had left her a specific collection, listed by title as well as segregated by case.

She had wondered at his selection, for it omitted many of her favorites.  But she had never suspected them to be valuable.  The Fosdale poverty was too entrenched in her mind.

Yet this raised new questions.  Some of the books had been purchased by his ancestors, but most had not.  So where had he raised the money to amass this collection?  He had lost the fortune acquired by his forebears.  His only income derived from the estate.  But if it had covered acquisition of numerous rare books, why had he perpetrated the myth of poverty, a myth continued by Fosdale?  And why did Fosdale not suspect?  Surely the estate records would show the book purchases.  And why had he left the collection to her rather than his heir?  It made no sense.

But perhaps she was exaggerating its value.  Not all first editions were rare, and rarity did not always translate to fortune.  The value of an item depended on demand.  He might well have acquired odd volumes cheaply because few people wanted them at all.  His hope that they would appreciate over time had been prescient – after all, Mr. Randolph recognized them as having value – but that did not mean they would bring a fortune.

It made sense, she decided as she collected her tools – the window was again sealed.  Grandfather’s bequest was reasonable, for they would not bring in a great fortune until long in the future.  In the meantime, she loved books.  Fosdale did not.  Stripping them from the earldom inflicted a minor but well-deserved cut on Fosdale – payment for his mistreatment of his wife and daughters.

But even a minor infusion of money was most welcome in her present situation, for it could help her escape marriage.  Or had he meant it to be a dowry?  Everyone knew she would never find a match without one.  She was too plain to attract a gentleman’s eye.  But if Grandfather had expected her to use the library as a lure, he would be disappointed.  She would sell what she could – a stab of regret accompanied the vow, for the books were old friends she would miss dearly – then use the proceeds to complement her other earnings.  She could leave Ravenswood at last.

If the books brought enough money. 

But surely they would!  She did not need much.  And Mr. Randolph would hardly have mentioned them if they were not out of the ordinary.

Stifling her excitement, she went to check on John.  Planning her future could wait until she knew her income.  Fate might play tricks on her if she jumped too quickly to conclusions.

Mr. Randolph remained in her thoughts as she climbed the stairs, for he was unlike any gentleman she had ever met, as he had proved often since his arrival.  Where was his arrogance?  Not only did he respect her knowledge of healing, he had stepped in to care for John.  It was an unusual attitude even for an upper servant, and his position placed him above ordinary employees.  Sheldon was nearly as haughty as Fosdale.  She could not imagine him befriending a coachman, let alone nursing him.  So Mr. Randolph was unique. 

Or was he?  A frown twisted her face as she slipped into John’s room.  Had he decided that projecting an image of meekness and humility would convince her to wed him?  He had not mentioned marriage since arriving, but she knew he had not abandoned the idea.  If she was to maintain control over her own future, she must stop thinking kindly of him.  And she should certainly stifle any feelings of warmth when he entered a room.

* * * *

Cecilia stopped in the doorway of the morning room.  “Where have you been keeping yourself?” she demanded.  “I haven’t seen you in days.”

Elizabeth set down her book.  “Symington’s coachman has been gravely ill.  His fever has finally broken, but it is too soon to predict recovery.  I do not like the sound of his cough.”

Cecilia shrugged.  “Unfortunate, but that is the way of things.”

“It need not be,” snapped Elizabeth.  “If Fosdale did not treat the servants worse than slaves, John would not have been left in the cold and wet.  If he dies, it will be from a full day of neglect rather than his injuries.”

Cecilia knew enough to back off when Elizabeth used that tone of voice.  “Mama is suffering a migraine today.  She had hoped that having a gentleman in the house would enliven things, but we have seen nothing of our guest, despite that he is recovered.”

“Hardly.  His arm is broken, and he was suffering from exposure.  He must stay abed a week if he hopes to avoid an inflammation of the lungs.”

“Meg claims he is quite handsome.”

“And how would Meg know?  Mrs. Hughes and Sheldon are caring for his lordship.”

“She peeped into his room this morning.”  Her bland tone confirmed that Cecilia had sent her maid on that very errand.  Symington was not housed in the family wing.

“You are not taking a page from Fosdale’s book, I hope,” she said sternly.  “That would be unconscionable.  Flirt all you want once he ventures downstairs, but I will not tolerate compromising him.”

“I would never do anything to hurt him,” she protested.  “I merely needed to know if he was a gentleman I could like.  And he is.  Meg claims that he is elegant as well as striking.  I will fix up my blue gown.  When he sees me in it, he will fall madly in love with me.  I will see London at last!”

“Just don’t throw yourself at him,” she warned.  “Anyone of his rank will be accustomed to ignoring importuning females.  And consider his character as well as his looks and title.  A gentleman has complete control over his wife.  He can lock her away for life, and no one will raise voice in protest.”

“You always suspect the worst.  I could understand banishing someone like Charlotte Warringer, but no one would ever do such a thing to me.”  Charlotte was now thirty, without a single offer to her name, for she lacked looks, fortune, and a pleasing character.  “Everyone I meet adores me.  They forgive me anything and fall all over themselves to fulfill my every desire.”  She stared dreamily into the fire. 

But the protests raised Elizabeth’s suspicions.  She grimaced.  “Listen well, Cecilia.”  She paused long enough to banish censure from her tone.  “Flirting with the squire’s sons and bandying words with Sir Lewis are quite different from entering London society.  Everything I have read indicates that standards of behavior are much stricter in Town.  Foibles are harder to forgive.  No gentleman will tolerate feeling forced.”