Love In The Library (3 page)

"I assure you, Mrs. Bexley, I am ignorant of the process by which one would trace such a stolen item."

The look she gave him was part pout, part smile, and it displayed ample dimples. Yes, he thought, Elvin would most definitely find this woman attractive.

"Silly man! Of course, I know you have no knowledge of thievery. You're a scholar. That's why I selected you. I simply won't have anyone else."

He stiffened. "I regret, madam, that you have misunderstood what I said. I am attempting to convey to you how ill equipped I am to conduct an investigation of this nature."

She put hands to hips and glared at him in a rather formidable manner. "I won't have anyone else."

Would that he could avoid being rude to the lady, but what was a fellow to do? This search she proposed was out of his realm of expertise. Why could she not merely be seeking an educated man to oversee her library—if she'd had one, that is? "I'm sorry to disappoint, but it is out of the question."

Those aquamarine eyes of hers regarded him most solemnly. Then they brimmed with tears. Dear God, had he made her cry? This was really too shabby of him. "Please, madam, I beg that you not cry."

With that comment, she burst into sobs, burying her face in her hands as her shoulders heaved with the force of her muffled cries.

How in the blazes did one comfort a weeping woman? He felt beastly. He had broken the poor lady's heart. Here she was all alone in the world without a man to take care of her. How could he have been so insensitive?

What could he do to quell her hysteria? He was even more out of his field of expertise with sobbing females than he was at tracking stolen books.

Pitiably hunched over beside him, she seemed so tiny and helpless. Unaccountably, he found his arm extending across her back, his hand gently clasping her shoulder that was furthest from him.

His action resulted in her brushing against him and dropping her tear-streaked face against his chest as she proceeded to wail.

He sat there as helpless as a newborn foal for a considerable period of time, wishing like the devil he knew what to do. He patted her back and murmured in much the same way as he had murmured to the pups Her Whiteness had given birth to last month.

The wails eventually lessened to whimpers, but she still seemed decidedly forlorn. Which made him feel beastly. He would do anything to bring back her smile.

Then he thought of what he could do to make this crying of hers stop.

Chapter 2

All her life, Catherine had been possessed of the unfortunate propensity to cry whenever she was gravely disappointed. The ripping of her dress hem could reduce her to tears as easily as the heart-wrenching view of a cripple limping toward Bath’s healing waters. Her exasperated mother had spent years trying to coach her eldest daughter to control these outbursts. It was surely the only thing at which her dear mother had ever failed.

Catherine most definitely needed a handkerchief. What a difficult position she had put poor Mr. Steffington in. (Not to mention the state of his moist cravat. She must offer to have her abigail iron it for him.)

But first, she must figure out a way to gracefully extricate herself from this settee without him seeing her blotchy face. Distraught she might be, but not so distraught that she did not care what she looked like.

“I say, Mrs. Bexley, I did not mean to so offend you." The tone of his voice was so tender, it sounded almost as if he were speaking to a small child. "If I can be of assistance, I shall happily endeavor to be your servant.”

What an exceedingly delightful man! She sniffed deeply, then mumbled, “You’re too kind.” If only her tears would dry of their own accord. She really could not allow the man to see her ravaged face. She had her pride—as shredded as it was at the moment. Sniff. Sniff. “Pray, Mr. Steffington, have you a ha-a-a-nd. . ." Sniff. ". . .kerchief?”

He cleared his throat, and she realized she needed to peel herself from his person in order for him to extricate the handkerchief. “I believe I do,” he said.

Her face still buried in her hands, she returned to her former position—spine straight—on the settee.

“Here.”

From the corner of her eye she saw the proffered linen, gratefully claimed it, and proceeded to dab at her face, eyes, and squirting nose. What a pitiable sight she must be! She continued to hold the handkerchief to her nose while she gathered her wits enough to speak to this kindly man. (It was bad enough he’d have to observe her watery eyes, but she was determined the handkerchief would hide her hideous nose from his perusal. Nothing could be uglier than a lady with a bright red nose.)

“I shall never forget your generosity of spirit,” she finally told him.

“If I am to help you, I shall need to know everything you can tell me about the missing manuscript.”

She stood, grateful to escape his pitying stare—at least for a few minutes. “I suggest you follow me to the library. I shall show you the exact spot where it used to be kept.”

He followed her across the drawing room’s Axminster carpet, back down the stairs he’d so recently climbed, along the Carerra marble corridor and through a paneled door into the library which not so very long ago had been her husband’s domain.

It was an inviting room with its warm colors, dark woods and a fire glowing in its hearth. Unlike the brilliant, shimmering whites that dominated the wood moldings in the rest of the house, the wood in this library was a honeyed dark brown. Tall bookcases stuffed with finely bound leather volumes lined the walls at either end of the room. Though the books looked most handsome, Mr. Christie had informed her they would not fetch much at auction. Such a pity.

She strolled to the place of honor in the room. Many years ago Mr. Bexley’s father had Sheraton construct a classical, gold-leaf table that resembled an altar, and its surface was domed with a clear glass box. The empty table looked as incomplete as a debutante in her chemise and curl papers. “Sadly, this is where the manuscript was displayed.”

She noted that his gaze had swung around the entire chamber before settling on the gilt table. “It was stolen from here?”

“Yes.”

“When did the theft occur?”

“About four months ago.”

He winced. “The thief’s sure to have found a buyer by now.”

“I’m not as knowledgeable as you are about such things, but wouldn’t a potential buyer who knew that there were less than five of these in existence also know who owned them?”

“While there’s much merit in what you say, not all collectors are scrupulous.”

“There is that.”

He proceeded to walk around the table, then he dropped to his knees and raised his head to look beneath the table. “You did not have a mechanism to lock the glass case?”

“I don't believe there was one. Very careless, I know. The manuscript was purchased by my late husband’s father before he lost his sugar plantation in the West Indies. He’s the one who commissioned the table as well as this house.”

“Were you present when the book was stolen?”

She shrugged. “I don’t precisely know when it was stolen.”

He quirked a brow. She noticed his eyes were so dark a brown they looked black. Like his hair.

“When the maid noticed the manuscript gone, she thought I’d taken it away or sold it, so she did not mention it to me. And to be perfectly honest with you—and in the strictest confidence—I must tell you that just before it went missing, Mr. Christie had come from London to appraise it.”

“I’ll wager he thought it far more valuable than that Shakespeare folio sale he brokered four years ago.”

She was so proud of this gentleman’s knowledge, she forgot about covering her nose with his handkerchief. Turning to him, she smiled radiantly. “You would win the wager, my brilliant Mr. Steffington! I cannot tell you how exceedingly happy I am that I’ve found a man possessed of your knowledge to assist me.”

He held up a hand in protest. “Oblige me by
not
referring to me as
brilliant
.”

She pouted. “Very well, but you can’t keep me from thinking of you as brilliant.”

He cleared his throat, his brows squeezing together. “It is significant that the theft occurred after Mr. Christie came to Bath. It cannot be a coincidence.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting Mr. Christie is dishonorable?”

“No. The man's reputation is above reproach.” His dark eyes regarded her with intensity. Even though the Steffington twins were identical, she thought this one more handsome. Perhaps it was his somber countenance.  He was the antithesis of her late husband. Which was a very good thing. There was something utterly masculine about his near-black eyes and near-black hair that when combined with his tall frame and deep voice commanded her complete trust. This was a real man. He would serve her gallantly, whether it be finding the thief, or slaying dragons.

“I also know how slim is the probability of coincidence,” he continued.

Mr. Steffington was not only exceptionally well read, he was also possessed of a mathematic bent. She recalled her Papa using the word
probability
with great regularity, and Papa was most decidedly possessed of a mathematical mind.

Perplexed, she peered up at him. He was a full head taller than her. "Then how can the two events – Mr. Christie coming here and the subsequent theft of the Chaucer manuscript – be connected?"

"That is what we must discover."

We?
She thought she rather liked that he was going to allow her to participate in his queries. "Where do we begin?"

"First you must tell me in what ways you have attempted to locate it."

She felt most inhospitable standing there facing him in the cozy library. "Pray, Mr. Steffington, please have a seat on the sofa." The damask sofa of asparagus green was the only thing in the library which she had chosen—and then only because the one it replaced had been threadbare.

Once he sat, she took a seat on the opposite end of the sofa. "The first thing I did—after nearly suffering apoplexy—was to question all the servants."

"And how many have you?"

"Not so many as when Mr. Bexley was alive. I've got my abigail, a Frenchwoman named Jeannine; my footman, who showed you in and whose name is Simpson; my cook, Williams; and a maid, Hathaway."

"No servants have left your employ since the time of Mr. Christie's visit?"

Oh, dear
. "The housekeeper, who had been Mr. Bexley's housekeeper before we wed, took her pension and retired to her sister's in Cheddar, but I assure you she's incapable of dishonesty."

"It would be helpful if we could assure ourselves that she's not shown any evidence of coming into a large sum of money."

Catherine liked that his mind was so thoroughly latching onto her problem, but she did not like for him to think ill of Mrs. Higgins. "In order for my former housekeeper to have come into a fortune, the manuscript would have had to have come on the market, and I have not been able to learn that it has."

"I've not heard of that, either. Perhaps Mr. Christie has. Have you written him to apprise him of the theft?"

"Not actually."

His gaze narrowed. "Pray, madam, what did you
actually
apprise him of?"

She stiffened. "I didn't apprise him of anything. I merely wrote to him to ask if he'd addressed any inquiries about our
Canterbury Tales
."

"Why did you not tell the man it had been stolen? If anyone in the kingdom is in a position to find a buyer for it, Mr. Christie would be the man!" He sounded as if he thought her a complete idiot.

"I have not wished to advertise the fact that the Chaucer has been stolen."

She could tell by the intensity of his expression, he was carefully forming his response to her. Mr. Steffington struck her as a man who did everything carefully and methodically. "It would be to your advantage to let it be known throughout the three kingdoms that a nearly priceless manuscript has, indeed, been stolen from you."

So he did think her a moron. "You're right. I understand that, but I have my reasons for silence."

"Since I am already privy to so much private information, might I ask what reasons could possibly motivate you to do something so counterproductive?"

"The first reason is that my late husband's siblings were naturally disappointed that the manuscript was left to the eldest son. The five of them had hoped it would be sold when their father died, and the proceeds split six ways. I can't imagine how upset they must have been when the family's treasure came to me. And if they learned I'd lost it. . . "

She hesitated before continuing. Her solicitor, her sister Mary Alice, and Felicity were the only three persons who knew the truth about Mr. Bexley's fortune.

"And your other reasons?" he inquired.

She drew a breath. "I don't like others to know that my late husband was not as wealthy as he presented himself to be. In fact, he wasn't at all wealthy. This house is heavily mortgaged. On his deathbed, Mr. Bexley confessed he had nothing to leave me except the Chaucer manuscript. He made me promise I would sell it and live on the proceeds for the rest of my life."

She dare not allow herself to remember those final hours when Mr. Bexley tried to atone for his hedonistic ways, or she would erupt into a crying fit again.

Mr. Steffington's voice softened. "I will do everything in my power to restore the manuscript to you."

Drat! Tears once more seeped into her eyes.

 "But not if you're going to continue being a water pot!"

There was a knock at the library door. "Madam?" the footman said, pushing open the door.

"Yes?"

"A Mr. Longford is at the door. Should you like me to show him to the drawing room? He says he's here to collect you for the park. He's arrived in as fine an equipage as I've ever seen."

She drew an exasperated sigh as her glance darted to the clock upon the chimneypiece. It was three o'clock. She had completely forgotten she had agreed to go to Sydney Gardens with him. "Please tell Mr. Longford I've had some business. . ." She stood, shaking her head. "No, I'll tell him myself." She turned back to Mr. Steffington. "If you'll excuse me, I won't be a moment."