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  “Isn’t she? I’m glad you agree. I was afraid after you turned your back on her this evening that you had taken her into dislike already. But she was much too good-natured to comment on your rudeness.”

  Remembering what he almost certainly thought was a snicker from the young lady in question, Reginald also had the courtesy not to comment. He rather suspected the lady might be a mischief-maker in addition to all her other faults. While Bow Street worked on her background, he might do some investigating of his own. It was possible the lady could be diverted from her course with the proper in­ducements.

  “I had not realized she was anyone of importance,” Regi­nald replied carelessly. “I shall take better note next time.”

  “If I must marry, she is all that I could wish,” Darley said eagerly. “I could talk to her for hours. You know how my tongue gets all tied up around women, but she is not like that at all. She even shares my interest in horses and has made some very interesting suggestions. We get along fa­mously. And she does not have an encroaching family who would be forever dangling on my coattails. All she has is a mother and sister who are very shy and circumspect. No daunting fathers or rakehell brothers to be fished out of the River Tick.”

  Reginald groaned inwardly as he rose from the table. This was much worse than he had suspected. He should never have stayed so long in Somerset. If Darley weren’t his closest friend, he would wash his hands of him now. But Darley was the only one of his companions who had gone through school with him and understood his position and accepted it. Darley’s friendship was very valuable to him. He wouldn’t see it destroyed by a scheming, conniv­ing female.

  “What about the current marquess? Will he not have some say in the matter of a cousin’s marriage, if that is what you are contemplating?”

  Darley drained his glass and accompanied his friend as he left the club. “As I understand it, Effingham is an old curmudgeon who never comes out of the woodwork. Lady Marian and her family never say anything against him, but it is apparent he has never taken any interest in their wel­fare. They appear to be living on very limited means. If they will let me, I intend to correct that situation.”

  They strolled down the gaslit street in the direction of the park near which Reginald had only recently purchased a small lodging. Even at this hour the streets were active. Gentlemen strolled to and from their clubs. Carriages rat­tled by filled with elegantly dressed fashionables going from one entertainment to another. Street urchins lurked on every corner, eager to hold a horse’s head for a penny or sweep the street of droppings so their betters might cross without endangering their polished boots. A watchman snoozed in his box, unaware of the young bloods drunkenly eyeing his weight and wagering on who could tip him first.

  Reginald and Darley ignored the night life around them. Wandering from the gaslit street into the darker environs of the park, they continued their desultory conversation.

  “You have all the time in the world, Geoff. Do not waltz hastily into something so permanent as marriage. You re­member that mare you had to have because her bloodlines were so aristocratic and her price was so low? She turned out to be a nasty, mean-tempered sort and never bred true. Had you made a few inquiries, you would have saved your­self some trouble.”

  Filled with the generosity of spirit that comes with hap­piness, Darley laughed at the comparison. “I shall interview the lady’s servants to see if she is biddable, but I don’t be­lieve I can inquire into her abilities to breed.”

  Reginald allowed himself a smile of amusement at the thought. At least Darley was not too far gone as to have lost his sense of humor. “I had not thought that before, but there’s the advantage to marrying a widow. If breeding is what you seek, you would do better to marry a woman who has proven her ability by producing a son or two already.”

  Darley snorted with laughter, then without changing his pace or his tone of voice, he said softly, “Don’t look now, but we are being followed.”

  Reginald carelessly swung his walking stick. “I know. Not very good at the game, is he?”

  “Young, I’d say. Perhaps he’s not been about long. P’raps we ought to break him of bad habits before they start.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Let me offer you a sip from my flask when we stop under this next tree.”

  With apparent drunken carelessness, they halted their progress in the thick darkness of shrubbery and trees at the far edge of the park. The quiet residential street corner not far from this spot offered little in the way of observers. Regi­nald slipped a flask from his pocket and handed it to Darley.

  The slight figure following them was better at his busi­ness than they had anticipated. He wheeled out of the dark­ness, bumped lightly against Darley, mumbled a drunken apology, and had begun to stagger off again when Reginald reached out and grabbed him by the coat collar.

  Jerking the thief up to his toes, Reginald said patiently, “The purse, sir. I believe you have misappropriated the gentleman’s purse.”

  Dangling by his coat collar, the young man kicked his feet in an anxious attempt to reach the pavement. He man­aged a drunken whimper. “In my cups, sirs. ‘Pologize.”

  It was too dark to discern much about him other than that he was slightly made, wore the remnants of a gentleman’s clothing, and smelled badly. Since there were any number of people in the fashionable world who disdained bathing, the odor was nothing new. The fact that he spoke without the uneducated dialect of the slums did indicate an oddity, however.

  Reginald deprived himself of the pleasure of shaking the young rascal until he dropped the purse. Instead, he or­dered, “Darley, search him.”

  The young man struggled again. There was the vague sound of something brushing against the bushes, then he held his hands up in protest. His educated speech slipped slightly to the vernacular. “I didn’t do anything, guv’nor. I’m just a poor man down on his luck. Search me, if you like. I been drinking, and I know that’s wrong, but I’ve not done anything else.”

  Sighing, Reginald lowered the culprit to his feet but kept a firm hold on his collar. “Search the bushes, Darley. We should have just called the watch and allowed them to han­dle the rogue.”

  Darley cursed as the bushes tore at his elegant cuffs, but he finally located the small purse that had shortly before been in his coat pocket. He lofted it in his hand to show Reginald he’d found it, then returned it to his pocket. “Shall we wake the Charlie back there?”

  The thief quivered. “I didn’t do anything! I been lookin’ for employment, I have. I haven’t got anything to pay the nippers at Newgate. They’ll throw me to the hounds. If they steal my clothes, I’ll not be able to find employment anyways.”

  If he didn’t have coins to pay the jailers at Newgate, he would undoubtedly lose his fine jacket and more. Reginald hesitated. He had no desire to allow a pickpocket back on the streets, but he didn’t wish to see a young lad destroyed over a few coins Darley could easily afford. He hesitated long enough for the thief to look hopeful.

  “I’m a good valet, I am. My father worked for the late Marquess of Effingham, and he taught me all he knew. The new one ain’t got no use for valets or much else. I thought I’d make my way in London, but I can’t get references from a dead man, and nobody’ll look at me elsewise.”

  Reginald exchanged glances with Darley. They didn’t have to speak. They both knew Darley had an old and trusted valet, a family retainer, but Reginald had never hired a man before. They had even discussed the possibility of his hiring someone besides the ubiquitous Jasper, who was more secretary and butler than valet. It seemed the time had come.

  “If I let loose of your collar and you run, I’m calling the watch. If you don’t run, I’ll give you a place to stay this evening and consider your petition for em­ployment in the morning. I don’t hire pickpockets in the general run of things, but I am feeling generous tonight. We’ll see if I feel the same in the morning.”

  He loosed the culprit’s collar.

&n
bsp; The man looked around nervously, rocked on the balls of his feet, then evidently deciding he had nothing to lose if he stayed instead of running, he remained where he was. “Name’s Michael O’Toole, guv’nor. I’ll have your clothes looking a treat ’afore morning if you take me in.”

  Reginald scowled. “I’m more likely to lock you in a broom closet than I am to allow you access to my wardrobe. Come on, let’s go. I’ve had enough of this evening.”

  The three of them traveled down the street in the direc­tion of the silent houses ahead. The young thief’s head nearly turned in circles as he took in the massive limestone buildings, ornate entrances, and spotless steps of his new surroundings. Breathing a sigh of deep pleasure, he awaited his fate.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  “We have invitations to Devonshire House.” Lady Grace Oglethorp held them in her hand as if they were the Holy Grail, using the same note of wonder one would use at such an occurrence. “The young Duke cannot know me. How is this possible?”

  It did seem distinctly odd, but Marian said nothing unto­ward as she took the invitations from her mother’s hands. There were three of them, all very distinctly engraved in each name. There could be no mistake. “Perhaps he has a secretary who has acquired the guest lists of all recent en­tertainments, and he is sending invitations to everyone on those lists. Dukes are peculiar people. Perhaps they don’t care if they know their guests.”

  Grace’s eyes were alight with hope. “He is not yet mar­ried. Perhaps he has decided to choose a wife and is invit­ing all eligible parties.”

  Marian rather doubted that. She frowned, but she could think of no other likely reason for this unexpected good for­tune. She did not generally believe in Cinderella stories.

  Jessica stared in awe at the heavy vellum. “What does one wear to a ducal ball?” she inquired hesitantly.

  A terrible silence fell at this question. One did not wear gowns made over from ten years before. One did not wear gowns made by one’s lady’s maid, however cleverly stitched. One went to a modiste and ordered the most ex­quisitely made gowns suitable to one’s fortune and figure for a ducal ball. Their fortunes, however, could afford them a lace stocking apiece.

  “I will find some way,” Marian announced decisively. She was the family keeper of finances. She knew the value of tallow and wax and dealt out the candles accordingly. She had bargained Squire Oglethorp’s remaining horses into this trip to London. She would have to be the one to find the funds for ball gowns.

  “Not the ruby,” Jessica whispered as her sister started to­ward the study.

  Not the ruby. It was becoming a symbol of last resort. She needed to bring Lord Darley up to snuff before the ruby must be hocked.

  She had no dreams of acquiring a duke for husband. Every ambitious mama in London had their caps set for the dashing Duke of Devonshire. The competition was far too stiff and out of Marian’s means. But to be invited to a ducal ball gave a certain cachet that would see them in good stead in the future. She might only aspire to a viscount, but Jes­sica was lovely enough to look where she might, even if she was only an Oglethorp. Her appearance at Devonshire House would make that apparent to all the ton.

  Retreating to the study, Marian opened the trunk that had been transported there at her request from their house in Wiltshire. Since Marian had always possessed a literary bent, no one had questioned her need for a trunkful of books despite the extra trouble it caused in transportation. Neither her mother or Jessica understood that this trunk held the remains of their fortune. Squire Oglethorp had in­herited an extremely valuable library from a more literary ancestor.

  She hated parting with any of them. Her fingers caressed the leather volumes of an earlier century. She had read all but the Greek and Latin ones. Her education had never been broad enough to include languages, living or dead. She would more readily part with those she could not read, but she suspected they were not nearly so valuable as some of the others. Her fingers found the ancient volumes at the bottom of the trunk.

  She knew there was a good market in Medieval illumi­nated manuscripts. She had already sold several. It broke her heart to give up these last, because they were the most magnificent of all. The jewel tones of the illustrations cried out for admiration. The lettering lovingly penned in perfect script spoke of years of hallowed work.

  To part with such love and respect in exchange for the coins for ball dresses seemed sacrilege, but she must consider the living before the dead. Her mother and Jessica needed to go to the ball. They had no care at all for these old tomes packed away in a trunk. Marian would be the only one to suffer when the books were gone.

  She had already made inquiries against the day this would be necessary. She had the names and directions of several respectable dealers in books and antiquities. All she must do was force herself to decide which of her lambs to sacrifice, and she could be on her way.

  She chose several rare volumes from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries for which she had already been given quotes. She knew they would not be enough for three gowns from a modiste. Sadly, she added a smaller manu­script, the one in old English, with the carefully drawn flowers and herbs in the borders. Not only were the draw­ings exquisite, but the descriptions and uses of the various plants were of immense interest once she learned to read the highly ornate writing and odd language.

  She could imagine some monk making careful observations over a lifetime and having it faithfully recorded by some younger assistant eager to learn all he had to tell. The book cried out of history and love and patience. But it was worth far more than all the other modern volumes in her care.

  She could not be so selfish as to keep this treasure when it might provide a future for her family. Wrapping it care­fully in cloth, she included it in the satchel she would take to the booksellers’. She would obtain various appraisals until she knew which seller was the most knowledgeable and honest. It would be nice if she could find one who would appreciate the books as much as she did, but she had little hope of that. Men tended to be rather mercenary when it came to antiquities.

  Calling for the carriage and her maid, Marian donned a bonnet and spencer and prepared herself for the expedition. Lord Darley had other appointments today, so she could not expect him to call or come by and ask her to go driving with him again. She would not be missed when her mother and Jessica went to make their calls. She could have the whole day to herself if she desired. She just wished the day could be spent on more uplifting activities.

  By the time she had traversed the streets of London and haggled with three booksellers, she wished she could be anywhere else in the world but here. These men were avari­cious monsters. They had no respect, no sensitivity, no con­cept of the preciousness of the volumes she had to sell. They gave her unfashionable gown a sniff, glanced through the leather volumes to check their condition, riffled the manuscript pages with raised eyebrows, and quoted figures as low as the ones she had obtained in Wiltshire. She had thought surely they would bring more in the enlightened population of the city.

  The quotes were so universally similar that she had the horrible notion that there was some small imp running from stall to stall warning all the sellers that she was coming. The fact that these same vendors had been recommended by the vendors in Wiltshire added to her suspicions. It did not seem quite possible that they could all know each other and price all books the same, but it appeared that way.

  Struck with the notion, Marian set her jaw and stopped the driver at the next sign of a dealer in books and antiqui­ties. This one was not on her list, but it was in a very re­spectable section. She had seen a lady in fashionable muslin just leaving carrying a neatly wrapped package, and there were several elegant people admiring a display of jewelry in the window. She was quite certain this seller had the respect of the ton. She would see what he had to say about her books.

  Lily exclaimed in weariness at having to stop at still an­other musty store, and Marian took pity on h
er. Lily was more family than servant. She worked for terrible wages and with a quiet steadfastness that endeared her to one and all. She stayed up late to help her ladies undress and rose early to mend and sew and press their gowns. She deserved a little rest now.

  “I will be just a minute. Lily. Why don’t you wait here and admire the ladies’ hats while I run in and see if the store owner is in?”

  “I couldn’t, miss. You oughtn’t to be about without me. ‘Tis not proper.”

  Marian climbed down from the carriage with the help of their driver. She turned to prevent Lily from following her. “I just saw a friend of mine enter. Surely that will be com­pany enough?”

  It was a lie, but she wasn’t above telling lies to make people happy. She had worked through the old de­bate about whether the means or the end were more impor­tant and came to the conclusion that it depended on the means and the end. In this case, the means were negligible and the end was by far more beneficial than a lie was hurt­ful.

  Lily sat back and smiled happily, and Marian hurriedly carried the heavy satchel through the respectable portals of Aristotle’s Antiquities Emporium.

  She ought to have a footman, she realized, as she stepped onto a floor covered in thick Turkish carpet. Crystal glitter­ing in glass cases made her think of the expensive reception areas of the grand houses she had been in these last weeks. Magnificent oil paintings adorning the walls reminded her of the museums she had visited at every chance.

  One did not attend these places without maids or footmen, clothed in one’s oldest gown, carrying a battered satchel. This place was obviously not the vendors’ stalls she had been frequenting.

  She was terrified of being stared at and criticized, and started to turn and make her escape before anyone could possibly recognize her. Perhaps she could come back wear­ing one of her better gowns, and she could borrow a foot­man somewhere to help her carry the satchel. That would gain her a good deal more respect before she made her in­quiries. Perhaps a place like this did not even deal with people like her. Perhaps they only dealt with kings and queens. Stomach tightening in anxiety, she started out, when a familiar voice taunted her from the interior.