Page 148 of Courting the Wrong Duke

“You might begin by being quiet.”

The footman returned with the requested candles, and they headed upstairs without further delay.

Algernon’s study was empty.

William had expected it to be. His brother had gone out earlier, though William had neither asked where nor particularly cared at the time. Now, as he stepped into the familiar room, he found himself wondering whether Algernon’s absence was merely convenient or something else he ought to question.

He hated that every ordinary thing had begun to feel suspicious.

Gabriel closed the door only far enough to keep the draft from extinguishing their candles. “Where are the books?”

William gestured toward the shelves covering the far wall. “Everywhere.”

Gabriel surveyed them. “Of course they are.”

Byron occupied nearly three shelves.

William had known his brother possessed an extensive collection, but he had never appreciated quite how extensive until he and Gabriel began pulling volumes down one after another.

Some were beautifully bound editions Algernon had purchased in recent years. Others were older, their spines cracked from use and their pages crowded with notes.

Those were the ones William concentrated upon.

For the first hour, every mark seemed important. Algernon had underlined passages, circled words, folded corners, and filled margins with observations William could barely decipher.

They found the quotation from Lord Eastmere’s letter easily enough.

And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.

Algernon had marked the passage years ago, which might have felt significant if he had not marked half the book with equal enthusiasm.

William stared at the crowded pages. “Does my brother possess an unmarked copy of Byron?”

Gabriel glanced up from another volume. “Perhaps he considers untouched margins a personal insult.”

Unfortunately, the next book proved no more useful than the first.

They searched for another two hours while the candles burned low and the household gradually quieted around them.

William followed every annotation that seemed unusual, compared passages between volumes, and read enough melancholy poetry to develop a profound sympathy for anyone who had ever begged Byron to cheer up.

None of it brought them any closer to Lord Eastmere.

Eventually, Gabriel closed another volume and pushed it away. “I am beginning to suspect poetry was a mistake.”

“Do not let Isabella hear you say that.”

Gabriel frowned. “Why?”

“I have no idea. I merely enjoy watching you panic whenever her name is mentioned.”

“I do not panic.”

“You have spent the day reading Christine de Pizan.”

“That is preparation.”

“That is terror.”