Love In The Library (9 page)

A gnawing feeling that they would never find the Chaucer manuscript kept eating away at him like hungry maggots.
But I've given her my word
.

By the time his mount made its way through the mire to Radstock, it became abundantly clear that traveling to Cheddar and back on the same day would be difficult under ideal weather conditions. Under these conditions, it could take three or four days.

Three or four days they didn’t have, especially this time of the year when the days were already so short.

While he was waiting to change horses in Radstock, he consulted the folded map in his pocket. He suddenly realized why there were so few towns between Bath and Cheddar, and his stomach somersaulted. As the crow flies, the distance between the two cities was not great.

But he had failed to notice on his map the vertical script that identified the Mendip Hills. He had never before felt more like a moron. He should have known better than go off half cocked to where he'd never tread before.

He pitied the poor horse which would have to climb the muddy hills.

But more than anything, he pitied himself.

He had let down Mrs. Bexley. She would lose her home.

* * *

When Sir Elvin called upon Catherine that afternoon, she almost thought it was his brother who came strolling into her drawing room, even though Simpson had just announced the baronet. He was the image of Mr. Steffington.

As she looked closer, the differences between the two became more apparent. Her Mr. Steffington was not nearly so careful in his dress. He had come to her in Hessians that were not freshly polished, and his cravat had not been precisely tied. He had been comfortable in brown woolens.

His brother, on the other hand, looked as if he'd spent two or three hours of preparation with a gifted valet. From his charcoal pantaloons, to his claret silk waistcoat, to his rich velvet jacket, he presented a courtly appearance. How had he managed on so rainy a day? He must have been protected in a carriage or hackney.

"Won't you sit across from me?" she said.

He took a seat upon a damask settee that matched the one she sat upon. His gaze circled the chamber. "My brother is not here today?"

So Mr. Steffington had complied with her request not to mention the Chaucer manuscript to anyone. Had he not told his brother anything about what he was doing today? She feared that her version of his activities might conflict with Mr. Melvin Steffington's; therefore, she said as little as possible. "No, not today."

"I say, my brother's been rather quiet about the nature of the research he's helping you with."

She had known since that first day she could put her trust in Melvin Steffington – Aristotle. He had not betrayed that trust by confiding in his twin brother. She cocked her head and regarded him with dancing eyes. "I would be very surprised to learn that your scholarly brother was ever terribly communicative."

He chuckled. "Right-o. He has always been more given to reading than to talking."

His speech was really nothing like Aristotle's. The timbre of their voices was the same, but Sir Elvin's speech exuded the same confidence peculiar to those firstborn. Like Mr. Bexley. Melvin. Steffington, on the other hand, chose his words carefully and sparingly.

She was convinced she would never mistake Sir Elvin for his more sober twin, though as she peered at this one, she was astonished at how much the two looked alike. Astonishing, too, was her disappointment that he wasn't Aristotle. This was the first day she hadn't seen Mr. Steffington since their association had begun.

"What about you, Sir Elvin? Do you enjoy reading?" She wished to steer the conversation away from Melvin Steffington for fear her information might conflict with what he had told his brother.

He shook his head. "I've always preferred being out of doors. I'd rather shoot than anything – another difference between me and my twin brother."

"Yet you two are close?"

"Very. I cannot bear to think of him taking a post and moving away from me. The very thought is almost as painful as a death in the family."

She could not imagine Melvin Steffington ever confiding something so personal. Yet, because Sir Elvin had spoken of something so deeply emotional, she liked him far better than she had expected she would. He was not shallow like Mr. Bexley had been.

Oddly, she understood how Melvin's absence could disturb. For she greatly missed seeing him today. In a very short time she had become accustomed to and comfortable in his presence. "I understand."

"Forgive me, madam, for speaking of death so soon after your mourning has ended."

He displayed wonderful manners—as did most accomplished dancers. A pity he wasn't his brother.

There was a knock upon the door, and Simpson announced Mr. Longford. A moment later, that gentleman entered the chamber, his shiny boots still wet from the day's rain but the rest of him remarkably dry. She supposed his oilskins puddled on her marble entry hall.

Ever gracious, Sir Elvin replaced a cringe (displayed briefly after hearing Longford's name spoken) with a friendly greeting.

Mr. Longford wasn't nearly so gracious. He was unable to conceal his disappointment that Sir Elvin was calling upon the widow he so favored. After stiffly shaking the baronet's hand, he turned to Mrs. Bexley, bowing as he offered her a nosegay. "Allow me to offer these roses that match the bloom in your lovely cheeks."

"How thoughtful of you," she said.

The gentleman could not have looked more pleased with himself had he just placed a crown upon the queen's head. "That is the very same floral arrangement my brother procured for his betrothed, Miss Turner-Fortenbury—cousin to Lord Finchton, you know." He came to sit beside Sir Elvin.

Just to facetiously please Mr. Longford, she turned to Sir Elvin. "That would be Viscount Finchton, a sixth cousin, twice removed of Miss Turner-Fortenbury." Returning her gaze to Mr. Longford, she asked, "Pray, when is you brother to marry Miss Turner-Fortenbury?"

"Next month." Mr. Longford then faced his rival. "I daresay I know not which twin you are."

"Forgive me," she said. "It didn’t occur to me to introduce you two."

Mr. Longford glared at the man beside him. "We need no introduction. We were at Eton together."

She smiled at them. "Then you're friends?"

Sir Elvin shrugged. "I wouldn't actually say we're friends."

Mr. Longford shook his head. "No, not friends."

"Though I daresay we have no ill feelings toward one another. None whatsoever."

Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, dear, I still haven't disclosed the identity of the twin beside you, Mr. Longford. Which of the brothers do you think it is?"

"It must be Melvin because I understand he's been assisting you in some way only a scholar like he could."

"Actually, I am Sir Elvin."

Mr. Longford's countenance underwent a metamorphosis, and a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. (Even a man with the lowly rank of baronet merited Mr. Longford's admiration.) "It's a pleasure, Sir Elvin."

A short silence followed.

"Nasty day, is it not?" Sir Elvin's gaze swung from Catherine to Mr. Longford.

Mr. Longford nodded solemnly. "I had hoped to ride in Sydney Gardens today."

"I can't help but to worry about my brother. I'm not precisely sure what he's doing today, but since he rose at five this morning, I had a feeling he was going on a journey." He eyed Catherine. "It's a frightful day to be on the road on a lone horse."

"He'll be fine," Mr. Longford said.

Sir Elvin frowned. "We lost one of our younger sisters to lung fever after she got soaked in a rainstorm."

Catherine's pulse soared. Was Aristotle all right?

* * *

Long after her callers had gone and long after night fell many hours later, she kept hoping to hear from Mr. Steffington. Hadn't he said he would apprise her of his findings at the first opportunity?

She had difficulty sleeping. Hour after hour she lay in her bed gathering her blankets around her, the wind howling and rain beating against her window. Her thoughts kept coming back to the fact the Steffingtons' young sister had taken lung fever and died after being in the cold rain.

When she did finally go to sleep, she awakened frightfully, every part of her trembling. She could not dispel the horrifying vision of Aristotle's body beneath sodden skies in a muddy ditch. It had taken her a minute to realize where she was, to realize it was just a nightmare.

Nevertheless, she could not go back to sleep.

Rain continued all of the following day. She never left Number 17 Royal Crescent—not only because of the foul weather but mostly because she did not want to miss Mr. Steffington when he called upon her.

When he did not come that day, then that night, she grew alarmed.
Something has happened to him. And it's all my fault
.

Chapter 7

After changing horses and eating cold meat and a bumper of ale at the coaching inn in Radstock, Melvin left that establishment's warmth behind and braved the steadily increasing rain and chilling winds. The road which slithered through the Mendip Hills was nothing more than a muddy quagmire, and progress was incredibly slow. Already it was two in the afternoon, and he'd not covered half the distance between Bath and Cheddar. What a fool he'd been to think he could have made the trip there and back in a single day. No matter how early he had risen that morning.

When planning the journey, he'd no way of knowing he would be inundated with unrelenting rain. Had he to do it all over again, would he have waited? Probably not. Time was more precious than gold. They had but eleven days in which to locate the Chaucer manuscript, and not a single clue had yet been uncovered.

With the rain and mist, his visibility was impaired. But he did not need to clearly observe the miles and miles of verdant hills around him to know how alone he was. That he'd not seen a single traveler since he left the inn three hours earlier could be attributed to the wretched weather. The weather could not be blamed, though, for the absence of houses along the way.

By four o'clock, night was already beginning to fall. How could he expect his weary mount to continue on when they would not be able to see their way?
I can't give up
.

With the departure of the murky daylight, the temperatures began to drop. It could freeze. He could freeze. To death. He thought of Charlotte, his favorite sister who caught lung fever and died after making her way home from the village in freezing rain. It had been years since he'd allowed himself to recall that painful loss.

I must keep on
.

Whenever he thought of trying to take shelter, he would picture Mrs. Bexley lying on a wet street, rain pounding down on her, after she'd been forced from her home. In one of those odd transpositions the mind often plays, Mrs. Bexley's face was interchangeable with Charlotte's.

Because of that vision, he continued on throughout the night.

* * *

Ladies did not call upon unmarried gentlemen, but Catherine was far too worried about Melvin Steffington to have the slightest care for her reputation. So there she stood upon the step to the Steffingtons’ house on Green Park Road, her cloak completely saturated. Hopefully, it had protected the gown beneath.

The gray-haired servant who opened the door looked askance at her. No doubt he thought her a doxy. “I am Mrs. Bexley, and I must speak to Sir Elvin.” Her voice was uncharacteristically strident.

The man’s eyes widened. “Won’t you step in out of the rain?”

He left her removing her hood and shaking off her cloak in the entry hall while he began to mount the wooden stairs.

A moment later, Sir Elvin raced down that same stairway, his eyes never leaving hers. From the stricken expression on his face, she realized he knew no more about his twin’s location than she. “Have you news of my brother?"

A morose shake of her head was her only response. She felt like collapsing into a crying heap.

He recovered enough to assist her with the sodden cloak, which he handed off to the male servant. “Please, won’t you come into the library where it’s warm? You must be frightfully cold.” She was cold, but she had a warm house to go into. What of poor Mr. Steffington? She kept thinking of his sister who had perished from the cold.

During her sleepless night, she had come to the decision that she must share with the baronet the details of her relationship to his brother.

He indicated a silk brocade sofa which was closest to the fire. "Please, won't you sit here."

“I feel so guilty sitting here when your brother is being exposed to all the worst elements. Because of me.”

“Do you know where my brother has gone?”

I must not cry
. She gave a solemn nod. But as she began to speak, she was incapable of keeping her voice from cracking with emotion. “He’s gone to Cheddar.”

“But that’s across the Mendip Hills! In this weather?”

“He left early in the morning the day before yesterday.”

His eyes, so much like Melvin’s in every other way, were as cold as anthracite. “Yes, I know when he left. What the devil was he doing going there?” His heated expression softened. “Forgive my language. I’m not myself. Deuced worried about Melvin.”

“As am I.” She drew a deep breath to keep from bursting into tears. It seemed to work. “Your brother is the most noble man I’ve ever known.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.”

Of course his twin would know every nuance of Mr. Steffington’s most agreeable personality. “I believe he’s exposing himself to untold danger in order to keep a roof over my head.” A sob broke free.

He quickly moved to the sofa, sat beside her, and placed a gentle hand upon hers. “Pray, you must tell me everything.”

She told him about the stolen Chaucer, about the nature of the work Mr. Steffington was doing for her, and ended by telling him that when his twin learned of the letter from Coutts Bank, he promised to do everything in his power to find the manuscript.