The Wild Marquis (5 page)

An hour later, when she heard nothing further, she convinced herself she’d imagined the noise. But sleep eluded her almost until dawn, and she awoke unrefreshed, with a sense of foreboding. Steeling herself for disaster, she descended the narrow wooden stairs and entered the shop through the door from the passage. The door was locked, as it should be, and she could tell at a glance that nothing had been disturbed. The same appeared true in the back office. Her money was still in place, and she was sure no one had disturbed the papers on the desk. She stared hard at the corner where the Combe collection was lodged. It looked different. But she’d moved some of the volumes the previous day and couldn’t recall how she’d replaced them.

Obviously she’d been imagining things. Just looking at the books had no doubt brought back thoughts of Joseph’s murder and her own fears.

She was late opening, not that the bell had rung. With most of London’s bookmen attending the first day of the Tarleton sale, she expected an even quieter day than usual. How she wished she was there too. She tried not to feel sorry for herself.

She returned to the front room to unbolt the street
door and immediately it opened, almost knocking her off her feet.

Lord Chase seized her arm. Recalling her midnight fantasies she blushed deeply.

“Just opening?” he said. “I’d have thought a hardworking merchant like you would have been up and busy for hours.”

She was ridiculously pleased to see him. He really meant to be a serious customer. Her pleasure certainly had nothing to do with the way he seemed to bring light and excitement into her drab premises, with his air of careless elegance and the mischief in his blue eyes. She stared at him stupidly and smiled, eliciting a responsive curve of his sensuous lips.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked.

“Go?”

“To the auction.”

“You want to go to the auction?”

“Of course. I’m going to buy some books.”

“But it’s the first day.”

“So?”

Juliana gave her head a little shake to restore her brain to a sensible level of performance.

“There isn’t anything good being sold today. Just minor works and books in poor condition.”

“I don’t care. Surely you want to see the action?”

She did, indeed she did. How strange that a neophyte like Lord Chase could understand the appeal of seeing even the dross from a fine collection go under the hammer.

“Of course you do,” he coaxed. “Let’s go.”

“I shouldn’t leave my shop unattended for the third
day in a row.” As though she’d be losing money by her absence. If only it were true! But she didn’t want Chase to think she was ready to accede to his every wish.

She peered past him at his waiting carriage, shining scarlet in the gloomy drizzle. A footman held the door open. The interior looked warm and inviting. And she’d love to know if the seats really were upholstered in velvet.

“I suppose I can spare you an hour or two,” she said. “Let me fetch my bonnet.”

At first Cain found Mrs. Merton’s response as entertaining as the auction itself. She seemed fascinated by the dynamics of the sale, giving little jogs of excitement when something significant happened. She maintained a sotto voce commentary about the various players in the room, imbuing apparently dull men with character and creating drama out of the monotonous progress of the lots, punctuated by the rhythmic cadence of the auctioneer calling the bids.

Most of all she was astonished by the prices. On the face of it they seemed low enough, most books selling for a few shillings, some for a pound or two. She bid on a few items herself but never won any.

“The prices are outrageous,” she complained after losing a very dull-sounding volume to another dealer. “It’s one thing to see great copies and exceptional rarities go high, but these are very ordinary books.”

“Why did you bid on that one?” he asked.

“I have a customer who will buy it from me, but not for a ridiculous price. I warn you, my lord. If you intend to buy at this sale, expect to pay a lot.”

“I’ve been duly warned. In fact I think I’d like to buy this book.”

He pointed to an item in the catalogue, two lots ahead. He had the urge to enter the lists.

“It’s rare,” she said with a frown, “but it must be in terrible condition, and very likely incomplete, to be sold today.”

“I don’t care. I want to read it. I like Herrick’s poetry.” The title appealed to him too:
Hesperides, or The Works Both Humane and Divine
. He didn’t know about the divine side of things, but recalled that the poet had quite a fondness for women.

“I’ve spoken to you before about reading these books.” Her admonishment was without bite. In fact, he suspected that she teased him after his own manner. He could tell she was as anxious as he to get into the fray.

“I won’t go too high,” she said firmly.

“You’ll bid until I tell you to stop, or I’ll do it myself and Mr. Sotheby’s ceiling will collapse with shock.”

A porter held up the Herrick and he could see, even from his seat halfway down the room, that it wasn’t a pretty sight. The volume was knocked down to him at five pounds against two determined gentlemen, Mrs. Merton grumbling with every bid that he was paying too much.

Since coming into his inheritance, Cain had been able to buy anything he wanted, hence his color-coordinated carriages and liveries, his wardrobe, and the lavish style in which he maintained a succession of mistresses. He couldn’t remember an acquisition giving him such a rush of pleasure as a shabby edi
tion of poetry by a country parson. This book-buying thing could become a habit. He began to scan the catalogue in earnest.

“That’s a good book, and damn rare.” Tarquin Compton came up as he waited for Mrs. Merton to collect the Herrick at the end of a long day. Compton had been sitting in the back of the room with Lord Hugo and Sebastian Iverley.

“You didn’t bid on it yourself.”

“I already own a copy. A beautiful one in contemporary polished calf.”

“Mine looks as though it were bound in ancient distressed weasel.”

Compton laughed. “You can have it rebound. But it’s complete. I collated it myself. The auctioneers made a mistake selling it today with the rubbish.”

How about that?
He couldn’t wait to tell Mrs. Merton.

“Would you like to dine with Iverley and myself next week?” Compton asked. It was the first time Cain could recall a male member of the
ton
seeking his company that didn’t involve a visit to a den of vice. This was Tarquin Compton of all people, addressing him with a degree of respect.

Just because he’d bought a rare book.

L
ord Chase offered to take Juliana home. Since it was raining hard it didn’t take much persuasion before she succumbed to the allure of the carriage, with its heated bricks kept in a compartment in the floor.

“You must be hungry,” he said. “Do you have someone to serve you a meal?”

“I cook for myself.”

“You’ve been working all day. It isn’t right.”

“That’s why people have wives,” she remarked wryly.

“No, that’s why people have cooks.”

Juliana climbed the stairs wearily to her tiny rooms over the shop, sorry to leave the luxurious velvet upholstery and delicious warmth. It had been a long day. Collapsing in a chair, she swathed herself in a heavy wool shawl and contemplated the state of her larder. Some bread and cheese was all it contained, stale and staler.

She also felt apprehensive. The memory of that noise in the night, forgotten in the excitement of the auction, returned in a rush and made her jittery. For
the first time in months she missed Joseph. He had never been the most scintillating company, and she hated cooking dinner, but she would have enjoyed thrashing out the events of the day with him.

Surprisingly, she would also have enjoyed discussing them with Chase. His ribald comments had added an extra element to the personalities of the auction room.

During one heated exchange of bids between two collectors, she’d whispered that one of them liked to run up the prices against his longtime rival, who was unable to resist the challenge. The baited gentleman often found himself hanging out to dry in possession of an inferior book at an inflated price.

“Not the only thing Featherstone has had hanging out. The poor fellow was once compelled to depart the home of the lovely Lola Garcia through the window with his breeches unbuttoned.”

Juliana looked at the stout baronet and snorted into her catalogue. “Ssh,” she hissed. Then after a pause, “Why?”

“Her, uh, official protector unexpectedly appeared and would have been most displeased to discover that Lola was augmenting her income.”

Chase might not be well versed in the family relationships of the
ton
, but he certainly knew all about their unsanctified activities. She couldn’t recall when, if ever, she’d been so diverted.

She was still sedentary, trying to summon the energy to eat, when a knock at the door had her plodding downstairs.

“Who’s there?” she asked nervously.

“Chase.”

She opened the door to admit the most delicious aroma, followed by two liveried footmen staggering under the weight of covered trays. The marquis brought up the rear bearing a wine bottle and a winning smile.

“Dinner,” he said.

Juliana’s rumbling stomach and quivering nose quelled the instinct to protest.

“Upstairs?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Upstairs,” he directed the footmen.

“Right yer are, guv,” replied one, who looked about fifteen years old. The other, even younger, had his coat misbuttoned and his wig slightly askew. In fact both lacked the orderly appearance usual in such retainers.

Chase indicated with a nimble bow that she should precede him in their wake.

“Why?” was all she could say.

“I’m accustomed to feeding working women at the end of a long day. Admittedly most of my friends are actresses, but I don’t suppose booksellers are very different.”

Juliana could just imagine what usually happened
after
he provided a meal. She repressed her misgivings, ignored an involuntary tremor of anticipation, and followed the smell of food.

Cain fully expected Mrs. Merton to protest with some nonsense about her reputation. He was ready to tempt her with delicious dishes from his cook but
his best wheedling wasn’t called for. She cleared some books off the table in a room that he guessed was more than half the total size of the flat. After looking around for a clean surface, she heaped them on the seat of the only comfortable chair. While Tom unloaded the dishes of food, she led Peter into another room to fetch plates and cutlery.

They were willing boys, his footmen, if on the unrefined side. He wondered what she’d think if he told her they were the sons of a whore from Mrs. Rafferty’s. Their mother, Bet, along with Mel, had rescued him after he’d been robbed and beaten his second day in London. She’d been his first woman. That was in the old innocent days when the brothel had seemed like heaven on earth to a randy youth, and all its inhabitants angels of the most deliciously fallen variety. Later he’d discovered the dismal and dangerous reality of bordello life. Bet was dead, of the pox, and he mourned her still. When his fortunes changed he’d given her boys a home. Mel had cared for them until they became old enough to work.

The apartment was shabby and redolent of that same dusty leather odor that he now associated with old books. Not surprising, since the room was full of them, far more than could be shelved in the bookcase that occupied one full wall. A small gateleg table, two plain wooden chairs, a console table, and a desk with a glass-fronted cupboard above completed the furnishings. He noted that beneath the teetering towers of volumes the furniture was of decent quality, as were the china and glasses Peter carried in from the other
room. The only decorative object was a watercolor portrait of a young woman with dark hair arranged in the style of the last century.

“It’s chilly,” he called out. “Shall I have one of my servants start a fire?”

Mrs. Merton came back into the room carrying knives and forks. “Please,” she said. “I couldn’t summon the strength to do it myself. But since I am to be treated to a meal we might as well enjoy it in comfort. You do intend to remain and share it, my lord?”

“Of course. Book collectors get hungry too.”

“I’m glad to hear you call yourself a book collector.”

“I’d like to talk about buying some more, but first sit down and eat. Let me pour you some wine.”

“I rarely drink, my lord,” she said, taking her place at the table and eyeing the chicken fricassee, York ham, buttered cauliflower, and stewed mushrooms the boys had uncovered.

He pulled a chair up across from her and filled both glasses. “Since we’re breaking bread together I think we should drop the formalities. My friends call me Cain.”

“An unusual name.”

“As a matter of fact, fratricide is one sin I’ve never committed.”

Her lips pursed into the little smile that made her look young and enchantingly pretty, despite the ugly cap. “Do you even have a brother?”

“Not that I know of. Cain isn’t my Christian name. Before I inherited the marquisate I was known as the Earl of Cainfield.”

“Does no one use your Christian name?”

“Never.”

“What about your father and mother?”

“My mother called me Cainfield. My father called me Amnon.” Now why the hell had he said that? In a room full of actresses it wouldn’t matter, but Mrs. Merton was a woman of education.

Apparently she didn’t pick up the reference. Her face showed nothing but polite interest melting into sympathy. “And both your parents have died, my lord? I am sorry.”

“Cain,” he insisted, ignoring the question. He never talked about his family. “What about you? Any embarrassing childhood names I can use?”

“My name is Juliana.”

“Juliana as in J. C. Merton?”

“It so happened that my husband and I had the same initials. He was Joseph Charles.”

So her middle name began with C. Was it Cassandra? The mystery he had sensed connected with the owner of Tarleton’s
Romeo and Juliet
popped into his mind.

The coals in the tiny fireplace began to warm the room. Juliana let her voluminous shawl slide from her shoulders, and some of her fatigue seemed to go with it. A gulp of wine diminished the exhausted pallor of her face.

Unfortunately the gown beneath the shawl remained as hideous and unflattering as ever. But assessing her appearance was no more than Cain’s reflexive reaction to a woman. Seduction was not what he had in mind for the evening.

He had come here to learn everything she knew about Sir Thomas Tarleton. Then, purely for his own amusement, he’d discover where Cassandra Fitterbourne came into the picture. There was no rush. He liked Juliana Merton, and making her comfortable gave him pleasure. He looked forward to an evening of companionship and conversation.

The footmen kept bumping into each other in the cramped quarters. “Wait for me downstairs, lads,” Cain said. “We can look after ourselves.”

Even without those improbable servants, the room seemed very small, Juliana thought, smaller than usual when filled with Chase’s potent presence. Agreeing to dine
à deux
in her own home with a gazetted rake was hardly wise, but Juliana hadn’t been able to refuse. She’d been so pleased to see him, as though she’d opened her workaday door to admit exotic splendor into her dreary surroundings.

And the food! Not since her guardian’s death had anyone served her a meal in her own home, and Chase’s cook far surpassed the one at Fernley Court. She followed a mouthful of tender ham with a second gulp of claret and allowed herself to relax into a delicious sense of warmth and well-being.

“Tell me, Juliana, how do those bookseller’s codes work?”

Her companion sat across the table, with his engagingly open grin. Her stomach gave a little flip. But since, for once, his voice and manner bore no hint of the flirtatious, she allowed herself to simply enjoy looking at him.

“It’s quite simple. You choose a ten-letter word with
no repeated letters and assign a digit to each. Or some people use a nine-letter word and X for the naught.”

“Do you use a code? What word?”

“I do, my lord”—he raised an admonitory eyebrow—“Cain, but I am certainly not going to tell you what it is.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t choose to let you know how much I’ve paid for the books in my shop.”

“Are your profits so shocking?”

“I sell books for what they are worth, regardless of their cost to me. And I don’t believe a man who spends five pounds on a poor copy of Herrick would care what I charge.”

“Tarquin Compton said I got a bargain because the book is complete, and in good condition aside from the binding.”

Juliana was impressed. “I congratulate you.”

“Beginner’s luck, no doubt.”

“Perhaps you will be a lucky collector. Some are like that. The best books somehow magically land in their hands.”

“Was Tarleton lucky?”

“He didn’t leave things to fortune. He made his own luck.”

“What do you mean?” Cain asked.

“He wasn’t always scrupulous in his dealings.”

“You intrigue me. You said something the other day about the Shakespeare folios.”

“He stole those folios,” she said darkly. “Not literally but morally. A certain collector had tracked them down, and the owner agreed to sell to him. They
would have been the crown jewels of his collection. But Tarleton was on the same trail. He persuaded the seller to break his word.”

“Persuaded? Did he offer a better price?”

“I don’t believe that was the case. Not in the opinion of the disappointed collector. He believed Tarleton threatened the seller with disclosure of something embarrassing or scandalous.”

“Blackmail!”

“Yes. And that’s not the only such story I’ve heard.” It felt good to tell the truth about Tarleton to an appreciative audience.

“You say the folios were ‘tracked down.’ How would one do that?” Cain asked.

“Most important books are recorded at some point in their history. So you find the last known owner and follow the trail.”

“I understand the Burgundy manuscript was lost for centuries. Do you have any idea how Tarleton would have found it?”

“I’ve never researched its history. But I can do so if you wish.”

“Thank you. If I’m to buy it I suppose I should know everything about it.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, why do you want it?”

Cain shrugged. “Just a whim. And it’s beautiful. Let’s talk about some other books I’d like to buy.”

Juliana was delighted, though anxious to divert him from thoughts of Shakespeare. “What did you think of the Aretino?” To her irritation she couldn’t manage the question without blushing.

“You know, Juliana, I’m not really interested in erotic literature.”

“I’m sorry…”

The reappearance of his grin cut off her apology. “I prefer the real thing.”

Her blush deepened. To disguise her embarrassment she picked up her glass.

“I have decided to collect plays,” he said.

She drained her wine and tried to sound businesslike. “Any titles in particular?”
Please, not the quartos
.

He put down his knife and fork and refilled both their glasses. Then he reached back to the side table for the Tarleton catalogue.

“I noted some that sound better than the usual fare at Drury Lane,” he said, flipping through the volume. “
She Ventures and She Wins
. Good for her.
The Nice Wanton
. What other kind is there?”

His farcical list, and the quizzical play of his mobile face, had her giggling.

“
Win Her and Take Her
. Thank you, I will.
The Town Fop
? Perhaps not. But
The Woman Turn’d Bully
I simply must have.”

Juliana had read every word of the Tarleton catalogue without the absurdity of the titles striking her. Generally more interested in the rarity of books than their content, she wondered what these plays were about.

“I suppose you intend to
read
what you buy,” she groused.

“Certainly I do.” He turned another page. “Here’s a good one.
The Rampant Alderman
. How could I resist?
It arouses certain ideas that the Lord Chamberlain might object to seeing portrayed on stage.”

He threw her a wayward look, as though expecting her to faint at the vision he conjured. But wine had made her bold.

“May I ask you a question, Cain?” she asked, her laughter subsiding as she examined his face intently.

“Why not?

“Why are you so anxious to shock people?”