As before, Titan appeared from the front door and offered his greetings. “Good afternoon, my lord. She’s expecting you.”
Matthew fell into to step next to the escort. “Do you have any idea what book she’s talking about in this note?” he asked, holding up the three-line missive.
Titan glanced at the paper but shook his head. “I think it’s only meant as a means to help initiate a meeting betwixt you andthe lady she has found for you,” he explained, as the two climbed the stairs. “To help her identify you.”
Scoffing softly, Matthew said, “But lots of people walk around carrying books.”
Chuckling, Titan said, “Not this one.” He stopped before the door to Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office and tapped with the back of a crooked knuckle.
Matthew noticed the heir to an earldom wasn’t wearing his gloves, and from the white raised scars evident on his left hand, Matthew understood why Titan fisted and flexed the hand before lowering it to the door handle when the widow called out, “Come!” from the other side.
He empathetically flexed his own gloved hand, wincing at the thought of how much pain the war wound must have caused Titan.
“I delivered tea only a moment ago, but should you require anything else, you only need ask,” Titan offered.
“Ah, Lord Wingfield. So glad you could pay a call so quickly,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said from where she sat behind her desk. She was once again wearing a black hat, although this one featured a smaller brim than the one she had been wearing the first time he had met her. The netting in front still hid most of her face from view, though. “I believe I have found your librarian. A red-haired librarian.” She seemed especially proud of herself as she waved to the chair in front of her desk and slid a saucer bearing a cup of tea in his direction. Another cup was near her right hand, steam curling above the rim.
Matthew took the proffered chair and took a sip of the tea, surprised to discover it had already been prepared to his liking. “Thank you,” he said. “I understand there’s a book?”
She brightened and lifted a red leather-bound volume from the end of her desk and handed it to him. “I bought it for the bright-red color, not for the content,” she claimed.
Despite the netting, Matthew knew the woman was grinning as he took the book from her. From the cracked spine and worn corners of the cover, he knew it was used. “Divine Comedy?” he said, opening the book to its title page.
“As I said, I didn’t buy it for the content, but you must admit, the red cover will allow the lady to easily identify you upon your first meeting.”
“Which is?” he prompted.
“To be arranged,” she replied. “She is currently employed in a rather unusual position at a bookseller.”
“As a librarian?” he guessed.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon hesitated a moment before finally agreeing. “I suppose arranging books on shelves in some sort of organized manner is what they do,” she hedged.
Chuckling softly, Matthew said, “Well, it is a huge help to those of us who are searching for a specific book.”
“I prefer to browse,” she replied. “You never know what treasure you’re going to find amongst all the volumes.”
Matthew angled his head, first to the left and then to the right. “There is that,” he agreed.
“Now, given her schedule, it will be necessary for you two to meet after she has completed her work for the day. How would tomorrow night at seven o’clock work for you?”
Straightening in his chair, Matthew said, “I suppose that depends on where. It will be dark. Hardly appropriate for a young lady to be out.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon sighed dramatically. “She is eight-and-twenty and has her own equipage. I’ve no reason to think she’s a ruined woman, which means she is…” she waved a gloved hand, “a rather unusual client for me.”
“Unusual?” Matthew repeated.
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Most women come to me for help to clear their names. To secure a titled man to provideprotection,” she explained. “In this case, however,Ihad to go off and findher.”
“A task you were able to accomplish in only a couple of days,” he said, making sure to sound impressed.
“Yes, well, I do have my ways,” she replied. “I assure you, Miss Kingston hardly needs to clear her name, except when it comes to her reputation as a bluestocking.”
The name had Matthew giving a start. “Miss Kingston?” he repeated, remembering the woman he had asked about at the Temple of the Muses. The one who had been in what appeared to be a negotiation with the manager.
She’d had red hair, and she was rather comely, too.
“That’s her name, yes. Her father is a well-regarded publisher here in London—”
