Corey McFadden (8 page)

They had left the grand ballroom, and the rush of cool air felt wonderful on Elspeth’s overheated skin.

“Here we are, one of the finest libraries in Bath, Miss Quinn,” Julian said, as
he escorted her through the portal. Where the library in Aunt Bettina’s leased home was very fine by Elspeth’s standards, this one was remarkable by any standard at all. Elspeth turned her enraptured gaze on row upon row of beautiful dark mahogany shelves, up and down the length of a very large, sumptuously appointed room. Someone, mercifully, had opened the French doors at the far end and a refreshing breeze blew through the room. Oh, how she wished for her spectacles, not, of course, that she would dare to don them in front of Mr. Thorpe. She’d certainly made an ass of herself in front of him enough times without that.

“And chaperones to your heart’s content, Miss Quinn. There will be no compromise to your virtue this evening.” Indeed, small card tables crowded the center of the room, each inhabited by a fierce foursome, dowagers and dukes, cads and ladies. There was little sound but the sharp snap of the cards, and an occasional shout of triumph or cry of angst. Actually, seeing their concentration, Elspeth rather felt Mr. Thorpe could seize her in a passionate embrace right here in the center of the library, to no one’s notice. The idea brought a wicked smile to her face, and she dropped his arm precipitously, lest her very touch communicate to him her most unmaidenly thought.

“What sort of reading do you most prefer, Miss Quinn?” Julian asked, steering her to the shelves.

“Oh, I read whatever I can get hold of, sir,” she responded, eager eyes on the rich leather spines of the books. “I suppose I like history best of all, although I enjoy poetry and the occasional scientific work.”

“Yes, I recall you were perusing a botanical treatise when I first came upon you,” he said, reaching for one of the books.

“Oh, yes, Ethridge’s. Wonderful illustrations,”

“Ah, here we are, Miss Quinn,” he said, pulling a book from the shelf, “Ramsey’s
History of Troy.
Care to take a look?”

Elspeth reached eagerly for the book. She loved the feel of soft leather in her hands, the smell of it, and the old parchment paper. If only she could see more than a blur this close.

“Let’s sit down for a few moments. I’m rather enjoying the quiet,” he said, leading her over to a brocaded settee in a far corner. He sat her down, then sat next to her. The settee was large enough to accommodate them both, and she noted that he made a point not to sit touching her in any way. Chivalrous indeed, but why did she feel a bit disappointed?

“Would you care to read to me from the preface, Miss Quinn? I cannot remember whether I’ve ever read this one.”

Read it to him? She only knew it was a book by the feel of it. “The light isn’t very good here, I’m afraid,” she said, smiling sweetly.

“Let me fetch a light then,” he replied, then rose and made for a table a few feet away, on which perched a perfectly adequate branch of candles.

Oh no! She took the opportunity to open the book and peer at it, hoping against hope that the print would be large enough to make out. No such luck. If anything, it was worse than usual, an old book with ink faded to brown, and old-fashioned curlicues that were hard enough to decipher under the best of conditions.

“Now then, Miss Quinn, I think this should be light enough for you,” Julian said, placing the candelabrum on a small table right next to her. He sat again and looked at her expectantly.

“I...I find I still cannot make out the words, Mr. Thorpe,” Elspeth said, looking helplessly at the book.

“Hah! I knew it,” he said, laughing. “Never met a Quinn yet who cared a farthing for being anything except decorative. Admit it now, you do watercolors and needlework, but you never could set your mind to reading. Nothing in that pretty little head of yours except what to wear to the next fete, eh?”

“That’s not true!” she sputtered. “I most certainly can read. In fact, I’ll have you know I read in Greek and Latin as well as English!”

“Shall I fetch you Cicero’s
Oration Against Catiline
? I know it’s here somewhere.”

“No! That is...I am not a trained monkey, sir! I do not wish to read to you.”

“Ah,” was all he said. He gazed at her with great equanimity. She glared back.

“Perhaps you’d like me to read to you?” he asked, finally, as the frosty silence lengthened. He took the book from her hands.

Elspeth did not deign to reply. Needlework and watercolors, indeed! Actually she was a dreadful watercolorist. Never touched the dratted, runny things.

Julian settled the book on his lap, then reached into his waistcoat pocket, drawing out a pair of spectacles. Elspeth could barely suppress a gasp. They looked for all the world like her lost pair, not that any one pair of spectacles was so very distinctive from any other.

He settled them elaborately on his nose, then made a great show of opening the book to a specific page. “No, no,” he muttered to himself, “light’s not right.” Then he leaned over her and drew the candles an infinitesimal distance toward him. He peered at the book, then brought it closer, peered again, then pushed it a long arm’s length away, and peered yet again. “No, that can’t be right,” he muttered, then made a great display of taking off the spectacles, squinting carefully at them, putting them back into his waistcoat pocket, then pulling another pair from his other pocket. These he settled carefully on his nose, then brought the book up. “Ah,” he said, “perfect. Here we are: ‘Few mysteries from the dim and distant reaches of time so fascinate our intrepid historian as does the majesty of Troy, so mighty, so glorious, so tantalizingly elusive....’ ”

“Excuse me....”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That first pair of spectacles you were using. What was wrong with them?”

“What an odd time to introduce a new topic of conversation, Miss Quinn,” Julian replied, in an aggrieved tone. “I am trying to better your mind.”

“Bother my mind, Mr. Thorpe! Are those your eyeglasses or are they not?”

“Well, actually,” he said, taking them again from the pocket, “I suspect they are not mine. Quite the wrong sort of lenses for me. I must have picked them up somewhere.” He held one lens up to his eye. “The rightful owner must be walking into walls without them, I must say.”

“May I see those, please?” Elspeth held out her hand.

“Well, if you don’t appreciate my reading, you might just say so, Miss Quinn,” he replied, handing over the spectacles.

She settled them on her nose, then reached for the book. “Ha!” she cried, peering at it, “‘...so tantalizingly elusive,’ indeed. You filched my eyeglasses. I’ve been blind as a bat for days!”

“I did not filch them.”

“Then why had you got them in your pocket?”

“Well, now I seem to remember you dropped them in the library, and I picked them up to return them to you.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Well, it rather slipped my mind.” He sat back and regarded her carefully through the lenses of his own spectacles. “You know, you actually are rather pretty when I can see you clearly. A man could drown in those great big green eyes of yours.”

“Oh, well, they just look bigger behind the lenses,” Elspeth replied, coloring at his remark. “Actually, Harry calls me ‘Owl Eyes,’” she finished hurriedly. Now why had she told him that? The man had just paid her a compliment, although, to be sure, he didn’t really mean it, and she just had to say something stupid in response!

“Owl Eyes. How utterly enchanting,” he said, smiling at her.

“Elspeth!”

She froze at her aunt’s trumpeting tone. Of all the bad timing! Why couldn’t she just have a few more minutes with Mr. Thorpe? He wore spectacles. He said she was pretty, even though he didn’t mean it.

“Elspeth, I am very disappointed in you,” said Aunt Bettina, bearing down on her like a ship of the line. “Imagine monopolizing Mr. Thorpe’s time like this. Do let me apologize for my niece, Mr. Thorpe. She was raised in the country, you know,” her aunt went on, simpering a bit, “and I’m afraid we quite have our hands full teaching her the finer points of deportment.”

“It’s not Miss Quinn’s deportment I find wanting, ma’am,” replied Julian, unfolding himself and rising, just a little too slowly. He put out his gloved hand to Elspeth and she took it, rising as well. The forgotten book clattered to the floor as she did so.

“Clumsy gel, now see what you’ve done!” snapped Aunt Bettina.

“No harm done, I assure you, ma’am,” said Julian, bending over to retrieve the book. “And I must apologize to you, Miss Quinn, for monopolizing your time.”

“Oh, of course you did not, sir.”

“That’s quite enough, gel,” Aunt Bettina interrupted, taking her arm abruptly. “Sir Richard is most provoked that you disappeared.” Hard fingers dug into Elspeth’s arm and she felt herself being pulled away. “I know Caroline has all her dances promised, Mr. Thorpe,” her aunt threw over her shoulder, “she’s so very popular, you know—but I’ll warrant she’ll make room for you if you hurry. Take off those ugly spectacles, gel!” she hissed to Elspeth. “Don’t you understand anything we’ve tried to teach you?”

Elspeth threw one quick glance over her shoulder as she was fairly dragged to the door. She could see well enough to note that Mr. Thorpe stood staring after them, his mouth a thin slit.

* * *

“Why, Julian, I wondered where you’d got off to.” Caroline’s voice pierced the noise, close to his ear. She had come up behind him. Had he seen her coming, he’d have made a quick getaway.

“Good evening, Miss Quinn,” he said, as she floated into his path. “You’re looking particularly lovely this evening.”

“Liar! You haven’t so much as looked at me,” Caroline said, pouting. “And I wore this dress because I thought you’d like it.”

“Of course I’ve looked at you. And your dress is lovely,” Julian said, scanning the comers of the room for Miss Elspeth Quinn.

“Well, you’re just the knight in shining armor I’m looking for to rescue me, Julian,” she said, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm.

“How may I be of service, my lady?” he asked absently. Ah, yes! There was Elspeth in the corner, seated between her aunt and poor old Sir Richard Sommers. Hardly any escape for her there. Still, she was safe enough for a few moments. Certainly none of the other young swains would dare approach her in the lion’s den, as it were. And when he did ride to the rescue, she was certain to be undyingly grateful.

“I’m supposed to dance the next dance with Mr. Ledbetter. But I’ve just realized it will be a waltz. I’m quite smitten with him, you know, but I do not wish to appear too eager. Will you dance it with me instead? You must insist you had asked me first; then I’ll be mortified to remember it was so. Then he’ll be terribly jealous, won’t he?” she finished brightly.

On the other side of the room, Bettina Quinn had arisen and was marching off, to the punch bowl no doubt. Surely, Julian thought, she could not be so blind as to Sir Richard’s actual intentions, or, indeed, his lack thereof. The old man dallied among the wallflowers every year, terrifying the girls and raising the hopes of their desperate mamas, but he was not such a fool as to marry again. He had married twice for money and had found both arrangements quite to his taste. The good ladies had even been so obliging as to die gracefully as their beauty faded. Now he basked in the attention of the pretty young things, but he seemed to have no wish to make any one of them his very own financial responsibility. Not unless he could find one very rich, and whenever he did, neither she, nor her mama, would have anything to do with him. If Bettina Quinn had expectations of fobbing off the country cousin on old Sommers, she was doomed to failure. Elspeth, he suspected, would bear up under the disappointment.

“Julian! I declare you haven’t heard a word I’ve said,” came Caroline’s imperious tones. She had gone so far as to snap her fan at him. He loathed fans.

“Of course I have, Miss Quinn. Although I must confess that my hearing is not at its best when the music is so loud.”

“Oh, pish! You can hear perfectly well and you know it. What I said was that you will dance the next dance with me. It will be starting in a few minutes. And now I’d like some punch, please.”

“Punch. Ah, yes, of course,” he answered lamely, moving her toward the punch bowl, where he could see an encounter with her formidable mother was inevitable. And dance? He did not wish to dance, not with anyone, unless of course Miss Elspeth Quinn might favor him with her attention. Still, it was clear Caroline would brook no dissent on this point. She’d been nattering on about young Ledbetter. Well, maybe she was sweet on him. That would be a fine thing, to put an end to any speculation about himself as the happy suitor. Over in the corner, Sir Richard had bent his head closer to Elspeth and was wheezing with laughter. The girl had a wonderful sense of humor, but he was surprised she bothered to put it to use with Sir Richard. Perhaps the old goat was laughing at one of his own self-alleged witticisms.

* * *

“Most interesting, Robert, wouldn’t you agree? I do believe I am closer to winning the wager than you are, dear boy.” Edgar Randall watched the dancers swirling around, a daring waltz that Lady Dowling had only recently sanctioned at her soiree, several years after it had become fashionable in London. “There, see how he smiles into Caroline’s lovely eyes? I do believe it will be a match at last.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Edgar,” tittered Thomas. “Remember there are two couples involved in this wager. And unless I’m much mistaken, the country cousin seems to have utterly captivated old Sommers. He’s hardly left her side all evening.”

Edgar glared into the corner where, indeed, the delectable little cousin sat, trapped by the doddering old fool for this last half hour. Still, Edgar had it on good authority that the girl was near penniless, and Sommers could not be such a fool as all that. Julian Thorpe, on the other hand, was well on his way. Edgar had not seen fit to mention to the mincing Thomas and Robert, when setting the wager, that he’d had a private talk with Julian a few nights back. Julian was under orders, orders ignored at his soul’s peril, to marry and in haste at that. Yes, indeed, he thought, watching avidly as Julian threw back his head and laughed at something the lovely Caroline had just whispered in his ear, Julian was an apple ripe for the plucking, and Caroline just the serpent to pluck him. His own pockets to let, with more creditors than friends these days, Edgar was desperately looking forward to a hundred pounds to pay off the worst of them and fob off the rest.