Love In The Library (7 page)

I don't need to tell you that the lawyer I consulted told me even if it is sold to another party, it is legally my possession.

Has anyone approached you in these past months about its sale?

I depend upon your discretion that news of its theft not be revealed to anyone else.

Yours ever most sincerely,

Catherine Bexley

"Very good," he said.

"Can you think of anything I've forgotten?"

He shook his head.

Simpson knocked at the library door. "I've brought you the post, madam."

"If you'll wait just a moment for me to address this, I'll have you post it."

When she finished, she and her footman exchanged letters, and he went off to post his mistress's letter.

Not wishing to appear nosy, Melvin refrained from watching her as she read the single post.

But he could not block out the sound of her distress. Her breath hitched, then he once again heard her whimpering noises, which caused him to spin around and face her.

He couldn't bear to see a woman cry, but he could hardly ignore her. "Pray, madam, what is the matter?"

"N-n-nothing." She turned her face away from his scrutiny as if she were embarrassed for him to see her cry. "May I trouble you for a hand. . ." Sniff, sniff. ". . .kerchief?"

He extracted one from his pocket and handed it to her.

Not normally one to pry, he now felt it his responsibility to try to alleviate the poor lady's suffering. What gentleman wouldn't? "Now see here, Mrs. Bexley, you are
not
fine! You must tell me what's wrong."

His comment had the effect of making her cry even harder. Her sobs reverberated throughout the chamber, her shoulders quivering with each new wave of cries. Good lord, had his comment sent her off into a fresh torrent of tears?

Obviously, his commanding tone had not achieved the desired result. He sat there for a considerable period of time, all the while trying to decide what he should do next. Did one put his arms around a sobbing woman? Did one murmur sweetly? He was so destitute of experience in this arena that it put him in quite a quandary.

Yet two times in as many days he had found himself in the awkward position of trying to comfort the same weeping woman.

He exercised his new-found habit of clearing his throat, then gentled his voice in much the same way as he did with Her Whiteness's new pups. "Forgive me if I've made things worse."

Her face still buried in her hands, she shook her head vigorously. "No-o-o-o-o."

So she wouldn't forgive him?

Then she continued. "You did not. . ." Big sniff. ". . .make things worse. In fact. . ." She paused to blow her nose. "You have been my sole bright spot."

He felt as if he'd grown a foot taller. "I do so want to help you."

"No one can help me. Read this." She handed him the letter.

Chapter 5

The letter was indeed bleak. It was written in the neat script of a professional clerk, this one in the employ of the Coutts Bank in the Capital. Though it was couched in legal terminology, two things were very clear: the date, November 22—which was less than two weeks away; and the fact that if Mrs. Bexley had not paid the overdue amounts owed on the mortgage of Number 17 Royal Crescent by that date, she would be forcibly evicted from that location.

What was the poor woman to do? Melvin—possibly better than anyone—understood her need to stand on her own. She loathed the notion of being a burden to her brother—another trait she and Melvin shared.

Though she fiercely wished to take care of herself, there was some inherent quality in her fair femininity that elicited in him a need to help take care of her. Not like a husband, of course. More like he felt about Lizzy.

But entirely different. Very perplexing.

Perhaps because she had only recently left Longford, Melvin’s first thought of extricating her from this dire circumstance would be for her to wed the man. But he quickly dismissed that line of thinking. He liked Mrs. Bexley far too well to wish her united to such an oaf.

He turned to her and spoke with a conviction he was far from feeling. “I will do everything in my power to locate your manuscript before that date."

She peered up at him, her moist eyes red, her voice quivering. “But there is no way we could have a buyer for it that soon—even if we should find it.”

“I assure you, Mr. Christie would be more than happy to advance you a portion of the money anticipated from the sale—if you have obtained possession of the Chaucer.”

She blew her nose once again (in a most dainty fashion), wiped at her eyes, and attempted to gather her composure as she met his gaze. “You truly are the brightest star in my galaxy, Mr. Steffington.”

Now he felt as if his chest had expanded by six inches. “I may not prove worthy of your trust, but it will not be from lack of effort.” His attention returned to the stack of newspapers in front of him on the big desk. “Now, back to the task at hand.”

He scanned every page with one very specific goal. He was determined not to divert his attention by reading the articles. His thoughts
were
diverted by the heavy burden he’d put on his own unworthy shoulders. What did he know about locating stolen manuscripts? What if he let her down? What if she lost her home because she’d erroneously placed her faith in the wrong person?

Why had he made her such a promise? Next, he’d be telling her he could walk on water. The
probabilities
of him doing either were nearly the same.

As the footed wooden clock on the chimneypiece ticked away, the afternoon passed, page by yellowed page. His hopes extinguished. Neither of them had found anything promising. Light slanting into the library from the tall, velvet-draped casement grew dimmer. Just like their prospects.

He cleared his throat. “I regret to say that I’m finished with my two months of
Morning Chronicles
, and I have found nothing. How go you?”

She frowned. “I’m on October 29
^th
, and I’ve not found anything either.”

His lips folded into a grim line. “Then I go to Cheddar tomorrow.”

A pair of incredibly solemn blue/green eyes met his, and she spoke morosely. “Number three on our list.”

He'd never felt so impotent. “Here, I’ll take the 30
^th
.” He reached across the desk and took the final edition.

As he’d come to expect, they found nothing in the last three newspapers. “I’m sorry number one proved so fruitless.”

She shrugged as she lighted the oil lamp which sat upon the desk. To his surprise, she began to speak like a young girl during her first Season instead of a woman on the verge of being thrown out in the streets. “Please say you’ll come to the Upper Assembly Rooms tonight.”

The only thing he disliked more than assemblies was dancing at assemblies. Why in the bloody hell did he have such a difficult time turning down this woman? He met her hopeful gaze. “Will I have to dance?”

“I have not danced since before I lost Mr. Bexley, but I find I should like to stand up with you.”

"Then it will be my honor to stand up with you, madam."

* * *

While Catherine watched the beautiful Felicity dancing with her husband, Thomas Moreland, she nodded most agreeably to Mr. Longford, who sat beside her, continuing to ramble on. She had tried to listen attentively to him, but, really, the topics on which he spoke were vastly uninteresting. Granted, the weather was a universal conversational gambit, but after lamenting that that day’s fine blue skies had turned to gray rain clouds, how much more could one say?

Not to be deterred from his linguistic dominance, Mr. Longford transitioned from weather in Bath to the disastrous effect such rains would have on his massive farming interests. “You may be surprised to learn," he said, "that I am the largest non-aristocratic landowner in England.”

Before she could inquire about those vast farming interests, he proceeded to tell her he was now in possession of nearly 900,000 acres. “Since my father died, I’ve added two nice parcels, one sixty thousand acres, and the other 100,000 acres.”

No doubt Mr. Longford would think her late father's 30,000 acre farm as insignificant as a cricket field. “Then I pray the rain doesn’t endanger your harvest.” She spoke without removing her gaze from Felicity and her handsome husband.

They were the loveliest couple on the dance floor—and certainly the most in love.

Theirs had been a true love match. Felicity had saved a young, dying Thomas when he’d been left for dead one night on the London Road. He had gone on to India and made his fortune but always remembered Felicity with singular affection. After he returned to England, he rescued her family’s ancestral lands and captured her heart in the process.

Every time Mr. Moreland’s eyes rested upon his wife’s blonde beauty, it was impossible to conceal his adoration of her.

Perhaps the Morelands were the reason why Catherine had vowed never to marry again. Her marriage to Mr. Bexley had, unfortunately, not been a great love match. She often wondered why he had married her when he obviously preferred spending his time with other bloods. Or doxies. She supposed she was merely a pretty object he wished to possess, much like the richly illustrated
Canterbury Tales
.

Since a love like the Morelands' was a rare occurrence, Catherine knew the probability of embarking on a loving relationship was so low as to be out of consideration.
Probability
. Mr. Steffington’s use of that mathematic term reminded her so much of her dear Papa. Papa, too, loved books, but he especially loved mathematics, and frequently discussed
probability
.

At the end of the dance, Thomas Moreland escorted his wife back to the settee where she’d been sitting beside Catherine, then he excused himself to return to the card room.

Why did Mr. Longford not choose to go to the card room? The man was most provoking! "Do you not agree that the Morelands are the loveliest couple to grace these Assembly Rooms?” Catherine asked him.

He leaned forward to flash a smile at Felicity. “Indeed. A most handsome couple.”

Felicity bestowed a smile upon the gentleman who sat on the other side of Catherine. “Thank you, Mr. Longford.” Returning her attention to Catherine, she said, “Have I told you my sister is increasing?”

“You hadn't told me, but from something you said earlier, I surmised that she was. I’ve been hoping this time it will be a son. There are only so many mirthful names to bestow up on little girls.”

Felicity tossed her head back and laughed heartily. “Yes, I suppose our family has overdone it a bit with Felicity, Glee, and Glee’s little Joy.” She sighed. “I do hope Blanks gets a son. Thomas so adores our boys.”

There was a tap upon Catherine’s shoulder. At first she thought it must be Mr. Longford, but then she noticed Felicity’s gaze lifting, and Catherine turned around, tilting her head to peer up at Mr. Steffington.

Actually, there were two Mr. Steffingtons, and owing to the fact one was bent toward her, she couldn’t tell who was who because she quite obviously couldn’t see which was the taller—the surest way to differentiate the identical twins. Her brows raised.

Still bent toward her, he spoke into her ear to ensure he would be heard over the hum of voices and trills of laughter that surrounded them. “May I have the honor of standing up with you the next set?” Both twins were eying her. Which twin was this? Because she had turned down Sir Elvin Steffington at the previous assembly, she felt this one must be
her
Mr. Steffington. Melvin Steffington.

“It will be my pleasure, Mr. Steffington.” She placed her hand into his and tried to avoid Mr. Longford’s open-mouthed gawk.
Oh dear
. How would she apologize to the poor man? Why was she always having to worry about hurting Mr. Longford’s feelings? Would that she didn’t have to put up with the man at all. Every minute in his presence was tormentingly tedious.

It was quite the opposite with the man who was leading her onto the dance floor. He never bored her, even though he spoke little. She always felt so comfortable with him.

How handsome Mr. Steffington looked dressed in impeccably tailored black coat, snowy white cravat, and subtle gray pantaloons. She supposed his brother had a say in how his twin dressed for these assemblies for Sir Elvin dressed in perfect taste; his brother's daytime attire had indicated a careless disregard for dress.

The other women must have found his appearance agreeable because nearly every lady in the ballroom was watching him.

Once they took up their position on the dance floor, most of the dancers lifted their gazes to the gallery above as the musicians took up their instruments and began to play. Catherine was particularly happy the dance was to be a waltz. That would enable them to converse, and she knew if she could just be engaged in conversation with Mr. Steffington, she would immediately know without any doubt which twin she was dancing with.

He clumsily drew her into his arms, murmuring. “I pray I don’t trample your feet.”

There was something utterly masculine in his exotic sandalwood scent. She was almost certain this twin was Melvin.
Her twin
. “If you should step upon my feet, any pain would be offset by my pleasure at dancing with you.”

He peered down at her, his brows squeezing together. He was a great deal taller than she was. The tip of her head barely came up to his shoulders. “Do you know which twin I am?” A devilish glint sparkled in those black eyes of his.

“Of course I do. You’re Melvin Steffington.”

“You must have seen us standing next to one another.”

“I did not!”

“You told me you would be able to tell us apart by our speech, but I don’t think
May I
have this dance
? qualifies.”

She started giggling.

“May I ask what it is you find so amusing?”