“See to it I don’t,” he replied.
She dipped a curtsy and took her leave of the shop.
Chapter Seven
One Eavesdropper, Four Books
Meanwhile, outside the Temple of the Muses
Pulling his pursefrom his waistcoat pocket, Matthew checked the number of coins stuffed inside and silently thanked his late mother for thinking to hide money from his father.
Chessings had known of her propensity to squirrel away the coins whenever she was in possession of them, choosing the bottom of vases, hat boxes, the back of drawers—wherever she thought her husband of thirty years wouldn’t look for blunt. The butler had kept her secret, though, never telling his master where he might find “a sovereign or a few shillings” to use for his frequent games of hazard.
Matthew considered it a blessing that Chessings had shared what he knew about the coins with him, although he was fairly sure he would eventually have discovered them on his own.
After Lady Caroline Wingfield’s death, Matthew had spent hours in her bedchamber at Wingfield Manor, examining her belongings, mourning her, and fondly remembering his youth with her as his champion.
Mark Higby had barely acknowledged his existence. At least, not until Matthew had returned from university and asked if he might learn the business of the earldom. Although his father had denied him upon his first request, he was soon seeking his assistance when his man of business quit his employ.
It wasn’t until reviewing the ledgers that Matthew learned why—there was no money to pay the man. Gambling had taken all the funds and most of the unentailed properties, including Whispering Willows. He had always thought his mother had died because she couldn’t abide the loss of her childhood home—a part of her dowry intended for her to live in when she was a widow.
Well, thanks to her, Matthew had enough to buy a few books, and he intended to spend as much time at the Temple of the Muses as possible—until they closed at ten o’clock—if they didn’t ask him to leave any earlier.
Upon entering, he glanced about to discover nothing much had changed on the ground floor of the bookseller. The marble busts of Roman emperors were a reminder he had never been afforded a Grand Tour, the paintings reminiscent of those that had at one time graced the walls of the parlor in Wingfield Manor. Those had been sold to pay down debt.
He might have immediately made his way to the second floor but for the conversation he noticed taking placed between one of the bookshop’s managers and a well-dressed woman. Al-though he couldn’t make out their words, he could tell some sort of negotiation was taking place.
His curiosity piqued, he pretended an interest in a leather-bound book before he glanced at the pair again.
He couldn’t help but grin when the manager’s face displayed a hint of anger, although whatever the lady was saying seemed to have him capitulating. Feeling almost sorry for the man, Matthew finally strolled to the displays featuring the newest arrivals.
“May I be of assistance, sir?”
Matthew turned to discover one of the shop clerks from the circular desk standing next to him. “I wish to peruse the new arrivals before heading upstairs,” he replied, glancing back atthe manager. The man was still engaged in conversation with the woman, although their manner seemed more relaxed than before. He nodded his head in their direction, but the clerk merely shook his head. “She is here every week.”
“Who is she?” From his new vantage, he could see more of her features—an oval face framed with red curls, expressive eyes, and bow lips over a chin that was not the least bit pointy. She might have been twenty or thirty years of age, but from the way she spoke to the manager, she had the confidence of a woman well past her childbearing years.
The clerk lifted a shoulder. “Some publisher’s daughter, I think,” he replied in a whisper. “We carry their books, of course.”
“Of course,” Matthew repeated. “Might you know the name of said publisher?”
“King… King something,” the younger man replied, lifting a shoulder dismissively. “Here in London.”
“Kingston Publishing?” Matthew guessed, keeping his voice to a near whisper.
“Yes, that’s it, sir.”
“Very good.” He nodded. “I’ll let you know if I need assistance,” Matthew said, before making his way to a shelf of newer arrivals.
Although he tried to concentrate on the titles he found stacked up on a series of caryatids, his continued curiosity had him attempting to overhear the conversation taking place behind him. All he could make out was “nine o’clock” and “fortnight.” When he turned to pretend an interest in a different stack of books, he noted how the woman offered her hand and that the manger shook it.
A few seconds later, and she was taking her leave of the shop.
For a moment, Matthew thought to chase her down and beg to have her tell him what had happened.What was going to occur at nine o’clock? In a fortnight?These were the sorts oftidbits included in gothic novels. He felt like the protagonist in a mystery where he was given only very smallest bit of information and was expected to solve a murder. Of course the lady wouldn’t be involved in such an endeavor.
Or would she?
He noticed the manager and realized he might gain the information directly from him.
