The Wild Marquis (23 page)

She raised her eyes, and for a moment he thought she looked at him as a mother would, as he remembered her from his childhood. Then her face hardened.

“I cannot believe my lord a liar,” she said.

Even now, more than three years after his death, her husband’s hold over her was absolute.

“I shall argue that my father belonged in an asylum,” he said with brutal frankness. “I have plenty of evidence to make the case.” He made the threat with every intention of carrying it through, and hoped he wouldn’t have to.

He could almost see her mind at work. In her heart of hearts she knew her husband had been insane. She’d witnessed, indeed suffered, numerous demonstrations of the fact. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to admit it.

“You are an ungrateful son but I cannot allow you to destroy the memory of your father.” Her words were icy but he knew he’d won. “I shall withdraw my objection.”

“You mustn’t fear for Esther,” he said, trying to comfort her now she’d given in. “I will never harm her, and you will still share her upbringing with me.
I am to be married. I look forward to presenting my bride to you. Why don’t you come to London?”

Somewhat to his relief she refused. It was bad enough having to replace all his friends with servants of his aunt’s choosing. Having his mother in residence at Berkeley Square would make life barely worth living.

“Excuse me, my lord,” she said, rising from her chair. “I will withdraw to my rooms. Will you stay here long?”

“I must return to London tomorrow.” He would have liked to show some gesture of affection, to kiss her hand or cheek. Instead he merely picked up her book and handed it to her. He recognized that surrender had been a bitter draught for her to swallow.

“You will see that you are doing the right thing,” he said, bowing deferentially. “As my mother you have my respect and affection. I hope that one day you will be able to return them.”

Perhaps she never would. Yet Cain wasn’t without hope that he could change her opinion of him. Certainly he would continue to try.

J
uliana arrived early at the sale room. Knowing the last day of the Tarleton sale would attract every bookman in London, and more than a few from elsewhere, she’d arranged to meet Sir Henry in plenty of time to find good seats. In the center, only one row back from the horseshoe of tables surrounding the auctioneer, they’d be able to see as many bidders as possible.

The great room buzzed with greetings and gossip. “I see Spencer,” Sir Henry whispered. “Are you sure he isn’t after the Hours?”

Juliana kept her voice low, though there was little chance of being overheard in the surrounding din. “He may buy a few lesser books, and he wouldn’t want to miss the spectacle, but he doesn’t now have the resources to buy anything important. I have it on good authority he’s in negotiation to buy Lord Blandford’s collection.”

“I still find it hard to believe Blandford is retrenching.”

“After spending over two thousand pounds on one
book at the Roxburghe sale? And that’s the least of his extravagances.”

“He’s the son of a duke.”

“I imagine even dukes have their financial limits.”

Tarleton’s eyes constantly scanned the room as they talked. “Winchester is here. He would be interested in the Caxtons.”

“He won’t bid high.”

“How do you know that, Mrs. Merton?”

Juliana blushed. “He has a new…lady friend. I gather she is very expensive.”

“I am impressed by your knowledge. Is Lord Chase one of your informants by any chance?”

“I have many sources,” she said coolly. And tried not to think of happy hours in Cain’s carriage, listening to tales of the demimonde. When she wasn’t herself behaving like a member of it.

A change in the pitch of the chatter, a general movement into seats, alerted her that eleven o’clock approached.

“So we are agreed,” Juliana whispered. “High on the Caxtons and the Shakespeares.”

“Agreed. But make sure I have enough left for the Burgundy Hours. I must have that manuscript.”

“I assure you I have your priorities in mind.”

A warning rap from the auctioneer’s hammer silenced the gathering. Juliana sensed the tension in the room at the long-awaited climax of the Tarleton sale.

The early bidding was somewhat desultory although prices were healthy enough. Things livened up when the fine section of early English printing went under the hammer. Juliana, competing on Tarleton’s
behalf, won two Wynkyn de Wordes and paid five hundred and twenty pounds for one of the Caxtons against stiff opposition. They lost the other Caxtons to Matthew Gilbert, who was buying with steady determination for his various noble customers.

“More than I hoped to pay,” Sir Henry muttered.

“A bargain at the price,” she said. “I doubt you’ll have to pay more for anything else. Except the Burgundy manuscript, of course.”

Juliana found the information she’d garnered correct: there were more spectators than bidders in the rooms but those who did bid were there to buy. Prices on certain books were exorbitant enough to build an atmosphere of growing excitement and anticipation.

She watched the crowd, trying to guess who was bidding on his own behalf and which booksellers represented which collectors. Then the porter held up the next lot, a large folio in an armorial binding. With a silent start of recognition she looked in her catalogue to see what it was.

“A collection of original documents relating to the early history of the Church of England. Letters of Henry VIII, Edward VI, Queen Elizabeth, Cranmer, Hooker, etc.,” she read.

A valuable group, she thought, unlike the contents of the volume sitting in her bedroom. But the binding was the same. How odd that Tarleton owned it. She scribbled a word in her catalogue and circled it. “Combe.”

Cain discovered the ladies in the drawing room, Esther clad in demure white muslin, Lady Moberley
in blue corded silk. Both garments looked new, and the dressmakers’ bills no doubt reposed on his desk across the square. He hadn’t been home yet.

“John,” Esther cried, leaping up with obvious delight.

He kissed her cheek and bowed to his aunt.

“Chase,” Lady Moberley said, with equally apparent disapproval. “I can’t fathom what business should take you out of town for so long at this time. You’ve missed a dozen events.”

“I’ve been to Markley Chase. It’s all right,” he responded to Esther’s anxious look. “Our mother has agreed to my guardianship. You shall live with me, though I am sure you’ll wish to visit her frequently.”

“Mr. Ditchfield?” Esther asked.

“Need not concern you. I’ve seen to him.”

“I should like to see Mother.”

“Of course you would. We shall go together.” Cain wasn’t sure if his mother would ever welcome him, but he wouldn’t give up hope. “Now, my dear, I should like to have a few words with Aunt Augusta, if you will excuse us.”

“Well, nephew,” Lady Moberly began, as soon as they were alone. “Are you going to tell me how my sister came to change her mind?”

“No. It’s a matter between my mother and myself. I want to thank you for your assistance and I shan’t impose on you for much longer. I doubt if it will be very long before my guardianship is approved by the court.”

His aunt appeared put out. She wouldn’t, of course, wish to lose her ability to send him her clothing bills.
“Yours is still a bachelor household. I do not feel it a suitable residence for Esther until you are wed.”

“I agree, Aunt. I hope my marriage will take place soon.”

“I hadn’t thought things had progressed so far,” she said. “Which young lady has caught your fancy?”

“Not anybody you know.”

The feathers ornamenting her turban quivered. “If I don’t know her she must not
be
anybody.”

Cain gave a faint smile. “The lady in question might argue with your phrasing. I certainly do. But in essence you are correct. My bride-to-be is not a member of the
ton
, which is why I must, again, ask for your help.”

“Are you intending to bestow my sister’s title on one of your light-skirts?”

“I have a proposition for you. I shall continue to pay Esther’s dressmaking bills without question. In return you will, just for a start, speak of my future wife with respect.”

It was close to noon when Cain wearily entered his own house. After nearly two weeks of unremitting travel and a session of hard negotiation with Lady Moberley, he was ready for an hour or two in his library with his feet up. His new butler handed him a note from Juliana. He very much hoped the contents wouldn’t require him to get back in his carriage and cross southern England again.

“My lord.” The letter began formally. “Now that your responsibilities preclude you taking an interest in bibliophilia, I feel it is in both our interests to resign
from representing you at the Tarleton auction.”

What the devil?
He skimmed the rest quickly, two carefully constructed pages in the same vein, with one clear meaning.

The foolish woman had taken him seriously when he’d complained about the expense of clothing Esther and his aunt and joked that he might not be able to afford the Burgundy manuscript. Dear girl, so clever in some ways and so naïve in others. She truly had no idea how rich a rich marquis could be.

Thrown over, by God. He’d see about that. It looked like he was going to have to get in a carriage after all, but at least the trip would be a brief one.

Then he noticed the postscript. “In case you remain interested, the Burgundy Hours should come up for sale at about four o’clock on Wednesday.”

Cain yelled for his butler. “I want the catalogue of the Tarleton sale and I want it now, wherever you’ve hidden it. And summon the town coach.”

The auction room was as crowded as a dockside brothel offering free samples. Forget any chance of finding a seat. Cain was lucky to be able to infiltrate the frenzied bibliomaniacs and find a spot against the wall at the side. He looked over the occupants of the seats, searching for one small woman.

“Cain!” Tarquin Compton’s languid tones were threaded with excitement. “The Caxtons are exceeding the Roxburghe prices!” He and Iverley were also standing, separated from him by three or four other men.

Cain didn’t give a damn about the Caxtons. “Can you see Mrs. Merton?” he asked, almost yelling.

“In the middle,” Tarquin replied, pointing.

“She’s bidding for Henry Tarleton,” Iverley added.

And there she was, right in the center of the action. She raised her hand to buy a hideous book for that tanned Adonis.

There was no getting near her, without trampling over the heads and shoulders of a dozen men who filled the benches between Juliana and him. It might come to that, if he couldn’t get her attention. He stared at her, willing her to turn in his direction. She was talking to Tarleton, exchanging congratulations on his purchase, no doubt. Really, he’d like to wring her neck.

Then he saw her startle, eyes popping. He followed the direction of her gaze and recognized the volume at once. Or rather the cover. A much shabbier version of the same binding resided on the table in Juliana’s bedroom. His fingers almost ripped out the pages of the catalogue in his haste to find the description of the lot.

“Iverley,” he called. “Do you know anything about that binding?”

“Combe arms. Family of the Earls of Melkbury.”

Combe. The name of the woman who had sold a collection of books to Joseph Merton just before his death. And who had, conveniently, died the same day.

“Any idea where Tarleton acquired it?”

“Might have belonged to his wife. She was a Combe.”

Oblivious to the outrage of the men he pummeled en route, Cain pushed his way to the side of his two friends.

“Tarquin, Sebastian,” he said. “I need your help.”

“If I’m longer than I expect,” he said five minutes later as he prepared to fight his way out of the room, “don’t allow Mrs. Merton to leave.”

The Shakespeares came up next, first the four folios, sold as a set, then the quartos individually. For Juliana’s plan to work, Sir Henry had to spend a lot of money on them, more than any of these books had ever fetched before. Then he’d have only a small sum left for the Burgundy Hours and Cain would be able to buy it.

As for her own interest in the Shakespeares, she’d sacrificed it, even her mother’s
Romeo and Juliet
. The thought of losing the book brought a lump to her throat. She consoled herself with the thought that she’d likely not be able to afford it anyway. There was a lot of serious money pursuing the Bard of Avon today.

By contrast, for the Burgundy manuscript Tarleton and Cain were the only contenders whose desire was as deep as their pockets.

Cain was there. He’d returned to London in time. She’d caught a glimpse of him earlier, but lost him among the mob packed into the airless room. He would, after all, get to stick his hand in the air and buy it, just as he’d suggested at their first meeting.

The memory made Juliana want to weep.

The auctioneer called the lot number for the four Shakespeare folios. Seeing no reason to be coy, Juliana sought his eye at once and entered the bidding at the beginning. She announced to the assembly that she
meant business. She never once looked away as the price ascended in rapid increments.

“Three hundred,” the auctioneer said finally. The room was so quiet you could have heard a mouse cross it, assuming the mouse could find floor space. The hammer fell.

Sir Henry looked a little queasy. No one had ever paid more than a hundred for the First Folio, which generally sold for more than the other three put together.

“Worth every penny,” Juliana said bracingly. “Did you see who was underbidding?”

“I’m not sure, but I think it may have been Tarquin Compton.”

“We can beat him every time,” she said. “He only has five thousand a year. Now for the quartos.”

Except that something wasn’t right. The prices for the quartos soared to unprecedented, ludicrous heights. Juliana bid bravely but Tarleton hadn’t given her carte blanche. When the “bad”
Hamlet
reached fifty pounds, he told her to stop.

“Who is paying such ridiculous sums?” she hissed.

“Compton,” Tarleton replied, definitely aggrieved. “You didn’t tell me he was interested.”

“I beg your pardon, I didn’t know.”

She guessed what was happening. Tarquin Compton was a friend of Cain’s. Her conjecture hardened to certainty when Compton won the
Romeo and Juliet
for seventy-five pounds, one hundred times the sum Juliana’s mother had paid all those years ago.

The idiot. The dear fool. He was spending a fortune
on the Shakespeares and she knew it was for her sake. She only hoped she’d misjudged Cain’s resources, because Henry Tarleton was going to have lots of money left for the Burgundy Hours.

As the prices rose, shattering all precedent, the mood in the auction room approached hysteria. Undreamed-of sums were changing hands in the pursuit of bibliographic rarities.

The occasion was a triumphant endorsement of the tastes and collecting habits of Sir Thomas Tarleton, her grandfather’s hated rival. No one but Juliana cared that much of his collection had been acquired from the Fitterbournes, at a bargain price. She watched as books her grandfather had bought and, at the time, overpaid for, sold for many times more.

The great Burgundy manuscript was the final offering, the climax of the day. A blanket of silence muffled the saleroom chatter as the number was called.

Lot 9382.

Nothing more, just the number. Everyone knew what it meant. And everyone was agog to see if the price would exceed the two thousand, two hundred, and sixty pounds paid at the Roxburghe sale for the famous Valdarfer edition of Boccaccio’s
Decameron
. On that occasion Lord Blandford had defeated Lord Spencer in a famous auction duel. Neither man was buying today.

What two new knights would enter the lists?

Cain was nowhere to be seen. Surely he wouldn’t miss seeing his family treasure sold? Even if Compton acted for him, Juliana regretted bitterly that it wasn’t
she. That she wasn’t sitting with Cain, arguing with him about his bids and exchanging commentary on their neighbors. She glanced at her client, who looked about the room with an avidity Juliana found repellent. At that moment she almost hated Sir Henry.