Love In The Library (14 page)

She nodded sheepishly.

At that point he realized he had actually consented to allow the woman to address him by that ridiculous name. A name he disliked. A derivative of Aristotle. He was mad at himself for not holding his ground better with her.

He pulled open the carriage curtains at peered at the hilly  Warwickshire countryside. Already the sun was waning. Their timing could certainly have been better. If they tarried for long at Granfield Manor, it would be dark when they left. Having their coachman traveling strange roads at dark could be problematic. And what if there were no posting inns? This was a most aggravating situation. He certainly had not planned very well.

"As much as we are racing against the clock—and Coutts Bank," he said, "perhaps we should find a posting inn for the night and show up fresh in the morning at Granfield Manor."

She gave him a somber look. "I understand your concerns, but I think we won’t be long at Granfield. Shouldn't we be there shortly?"

"According to my calculations, we should be there in the next half hour."

"Pray, Mr. Steffington, don't worry about getting stranded at night. If anyone should worry, it should be me—the world's biggest coward—and I know we'll be safe tonight."

"How, madam, can you possibly know such?"

"Women' intuition," she said without a second's hesitation.

He frowned. "That's just like something a woman would say. There is no logical foundation whatsoever for what you've just said."

"Are you saying that women are stupid?"

He thought what she said was very stupid, but only a fool would tell her that. "Of course not. You know who Thomas Telford is. You are not stupid, madam."

"But I'm illogical?"

"Well, actually, yes!"

She turned to peer from her window, presenting him the back of her head. For the first time he noticed that her hair did not look quite the thing. In fact, it rather looked as if she hadn't brushed it this morning.

"I refuse to speak to you, Mr. Steffington, until I must when we reach Granfield Manor."

"As you like it, madam."

* * *

By the time their coach reached the gatehouse to Granfield Manor, the sun was slipping behind the distant hills, casting a deep shadow over the wheat-colored parkland that spread out before the Elizabethan structure that had to be Granfield.

While not as large or as magnificent as Burleigh House, Granfield was a grand old house anchored on either side with stately ogee-topped towers. As they drew closer, she realized it was built in the old courtyard style of architecture.

Their coachman pulled into the courtyard and drove to the large, timbered front door. A footman came and opened their door.

Melvin cleared his throat, then spoke in a most strident voice. "Dr. and Mrs. Melvin Steffington to see Lord Seacrest's library."

"He is expecting ye, sir?"

Melvin shrugged. "I'm not sure. A letter was dispatched to him earlier in the week."

"If you will just come into the morning room, Dr. Steffington," the footman said, "I shall tell 'is lordship ye are here."

In the morning room they each sat in one of the two large velvet-covered chairs that faced the fire. The chairs' wooden arms gave a bit of a throne effect. Despite the fire, the room was bloody cold with its icy stone floors and a cool draft whistling around the closed, Gothic looking windows.

Melvin noted that Mrs. Bexley's hands were trembling. Perhaps she should not have left off her muff. Even though it was not yet four o'clock, night was falling fast. The farther north they went, the earlier night came this time of the year.

Presently, a man he assumed was Lord Seacrest emerged from a doorway at the opposite end of the long corridor, a smile on his face. Though Melvin had expected the peer to be a stooping white-haired man, he was anything but. He was only slightly older than Melvin and was in possession of a thick head of light brown hair. He dressed well. Melvin was sure Elvin would approve of his wardrobe choices.

Melvin and Mrs. Bexley stood as he approached.

"Dr. Steffington! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord Seacrest. I received your most welcome letter just this morning. I must say, I hadn’t expected you so soon."

His attention then turned to Mrs. Bexley.

Melvin cleared his throat. "Allow me to introduce my, er, wife to you, my lord."

Lord Seacrest effected a bow. "Very good to meet you, madam. Won't you both come to my library?"

"It will be our pleasure," she said, slipping her arm through the crook in Melvin's arm.

Seacrest's gaze swung from her to Melvin. "Do you know, Dr. Steffington, I had already heard of you?"

"Is that so?" Melvin was shocked.

"Yes, when Dr. Mather was here during the summer, he said if I ever lost the services of my man of letters, he would highly recommend you."

"He actually named me?"

"He did, indeed." Lord Seacrest opened the door to the library. "This is, as you surely know, my obsession."

"Ah, we speak the same language," Melvin said as he moved into the chamber and stopped, his gaze slowly taking in as much as he could of the room. Nothing about it looked Elizabethan. Vastly different from other libraries Melvin had toured, it was a huge, square room. Scarlet draperies had been pushed away from the three casements which provided a view of Seacrest's park. It would have been even more stunning at mid-day when the sun sparkled over what Melvin suspected was River Avon.

All four walls of the library were lined with beautifully bound leather books. Thousands of them. At the far end of the chamber, a fire blazed in the huge marble chimneypiece, where a half a dozen throne-like chairs formed a cozy semi-circle facing it. Some half a dozen other intimate seating areas scattered across the chamber's huge red Turkey rug.

Melvin moved to the nearest section of the library and began to read titles, some of which he unconsciously translated from the Latin or Greek to English: Homer, Aristotle, Euripides, Plutarch, and many other ancients.

So mesmerized was he examining the library, so happy was he to be viewing this wondrous collection, he almost forgot his reason for coming. He abruptly quit looking at titles and ran his eye around the chamber once more, this time seeking a prominent display worthy of something as significant as the Chaucer.

On the wall to his left, he spied a glass enclosed bookcase and began to stroll toward it. As he came closer, he noticed it was locked. Very good. Whatever was in there was indeed valuable.

"What have you here, my lord?"

Lord Seacrest shadowed him. "That, Dr. Steffington, features the choicest
jewels
of my collection." He extracted a key from a small pocket in his yellow silken waistcoat and inserted it into the lock of the glass-doored case.

At closer inspection, Melvin realized this was no common glass but appeared to be extraordinarily thick.

"Your Shakespeare folios?" Melvin asked, disappointed as he came closer and saw the quarto books with which he was so familiar. There was nothing else there, save more than a dozen of these exceedingly valuable two-hundred-year-old books.

"Indeed." It was impossible for Lord Seacrest to tamp down his surging pride in his voice.

"Why, you must have the most extensive collection of these in the entire kingdom," Mrs. Bexley exclaimed.

Oh, she was good at playing to men's vanity.

Melvin should know. As did Elvin. And Long
mouth
.

Seacrest shrugged. "That is my goal, Mrs. Steffington, but alas, Lord Spencer's collection is far better than my own."

"Lord Spencer is much older than you," she said, smiling up at the earl. "It's taken him decades to achieve what he's got. And look at how young you are! To think you've done all of this in so short a time."

Oh, she was good! Melvin glared at the flirt in action.

The earl was doing anything but glaring. Were he bird, he would be a peacock at this moment, preening under her praise as he cast admiring glances at her.

The peer spent the next half hour gloating over his folios, insisting that his visitors don gloves and examine them, and talked to them rather as if they were uneducated baboons. Melvin decided he did not like Lord Seacrest. Especially since the man addressed nine comments out of ten to Mrs. Bexley and swept his approving gaze from her face then slowly down the length of her torso, pausing appreciatively at her breasts.

Melvin decided that her dress was much too low cut in front. It was a wonder he hadn't noticed it that day as they rode together in the carriage all those hours. Why did she not pull together her cape about her throat? She was apt to take lung fever from being so inadequately dressed.

It was difficult for Melvin to get excited over these Shakespeare folios, given that he was well acquainted with others like them. They were not all that rare. Nothing like an illustrated Chaucer manuscript. Getting his hands on that—even if he'd never met and agreed to help its female owner—would send Melvin's pulses surging with excitement.

Once the last folio was restored to its special place on the glass shelf, Melvin said, "I assume these are your most rare books?"

"I believe so." Lord Seacrest turned to Melvin (finally realizing her husband had accompanied the lovely lady with whom he was so enchanted). "Though I am in possession of a Bible, the origin of which your Dr. Mather was unable to assist me in establishing. Pray, come here and let me show it to you. Perhaps you shall be better able to date it for me."

Melvin followed the home's owner, his gaze flicking to the tall windows. Uh, oh. It was already pitch dark outside with nary a moon to offer brightness.

Lord Seacrest unlocked a small, built-in cabinet made of walnut and withdrew a fat Bible, then placed it in Melvin's still-gloved hands. "Feel free to flip through it and tell me what you think."

The worn leather binding gave no clue as to its age because often books falling into disrepair were rebound in such a manner. Not having original binding, of course, decreased the value of items like this.

His eyes narrowed as he carefully opened the book and started to read at around the thirty percent mark. It took no more than a page for him to pinpoint the date. He looked up at Lord Seacrest. "I'm surprised Dr. Mather was unable to date this."

"He said that books covered in this manner weren't very old."

"He must not have gotten much farther than the cover, and I will own that having a contemporary-style cover does devalue the book, but one has only to read a few pages of the old English to date it." He handed it back to Lord Seacrest. "Congratulations. Your Bible predates your Shakespeare."

A smile flashed across their host's face. "Then I am very happy you have paid me a visit today. Now I wish to repay you with dinner. I know I may sound boastful, but my chef is one of the finest in England. He's French and was formerly chef to the Prince Regent in Brighton." No doubt, Seacrest was accustomed to getting whatever he wanted. His pockets were undoubtedly deep enough.

"We really can't," Melvin said.

At the same time, Mrs. Bexley said, "We should love to!"

Melvin bowed to her. "A wise husband defers to his wife." He was grateful for the opportunity to remind Seacrest that Mrs. Bexley was married to him. Sort of.

Over the three-hour dinner, Melvin kept looking at his pocket watch. Another day was almost gone, and they hadn't gotten any closer to finding the Chaucer than they were on the first day.

He was concerned, too, about traveling these strange roads so late at night, particularly because of his wife's fear of highwaymen. Well, not exactly his wife, but the earl needn't know that.

To his consternation, he learned there was no posting inn near Granfield Manor. "You'll have to travel all the way to Redditch to find one," their host said.

"And how far is Redditch?" Melvin asked.

"Twenty-five miles."

They were no longer on flat land. Those twenty-five miles could take many hours to traverse.

"Do not worry, Dr. Steffington. I've had a room freshened for you and Mrs. Steffington to stay the night."

Chapter 11

Mr. Steffington closed the bedchamber door behind him. "Now see what you've gotten us into? We should have left when he invited us to dinner. Why did you accept?'

"Because I was starving! Recall that I hadn't eaten all day." She had been ever so unwell that morning that even the sight of food was enough to have her casting up her accounts.

He frowned. "And now we're stuck in this room together. Why could you not have been my sister as we were at the Duke's Arms last night?"

"But you are mistaken, Airy. I wasn't actually your sister at Duke's Arms."

"You know what I mean." He gave her an I'd-like-to-gag-your-mouth-with-a-used-handkerchief look.

She attempted to out stare him.

Mumbling something incoherent beneath his breath, he looked away, his gaze fanning over the unexpectedly plush room. Broadloom carpet in pale gold covered the floor. A fire blazed in the Carerra marble fireplace over which a gilt mirror hung. The chamber's two tall windows were draped with gold silk. Her gaze then followed his to the bed, where more silken draperies hung from the big four-poster.

Oh, dear.

"Of course, I shall sleep on the floor," he said.

"Of course." She shrugged. "It does look softer than most floors. And I shall insist you take the counterpane to fold into a little mattress."

"Will you be warm enough without it?"

"Oh, yes. I shall have the bed curtains closed to hold in the warmth."

"I suppose they shall also give you privacy."

"True. I shouldn't like you to see me sleeping. I mean, what if my mouth gapes open like a moron—meaning no disparagement to those poor afflicted souls."

"I cannot imagine you ever looking anything but ladylike."

"Oh, Airy, that is so kind of you." That he was incapable of staying angry with her, endeared him to her. The girl who would one day capture his heart would be very fortunate. Very fortunate, indeed.