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Ford hastily stood. He’d follow that much etiquette, at least. “I really do have to—”
“Come along, Mr. Wright,” said Miss Mayberry, moving to stand next to him. “We require an expert opinion.”
Miss Beaton dragged Lady Beatrice, who appeared to still be adamantly against the idea of his joining the party, out of the room.
Miss Mayberry laid a hand on his arm and lowered her voice. “We’ve heard so much about you. But I’m watching you.” She fixed him with a stern look. “I won’t have you toying with Beatrice’s affections.”
“Pardon me?” What, exactly, had Lady Beatrice told her friends about him?
Miss Mayberry herded him toward the door. “I know your kind, Wright. You’re a rogue. But you’re also a builder, and we happen to be in need of one of those. Comealong.”
Ford watched as Lady Beatrice’s maid stuffed her hair into the most enormous brimmed bonnet he’d ever seen. It covered her face almost completely.
She gave him a sidelong glance, those hazel eyes beckoning him like a warm fire on a cold winter’s day.
More like the glow of a lighthouse, warning him away from dangerous reefs.
Ford had no choice but to follow. What else could he do?
He’d been outmaneuvered.
Press-ganged by a league of lady knitters.
Chapter Five
It was a gray, drizzly day, and Beatrice shivered despite the warm woolen spencer she wore.
The bookshop stood on the Strand, its entrance decorated with a leaded glass window in a webbed design and flanked on both sides by multipaned windows. The buildings bracketing the shop looked vacant, their facades darkened by soot and their windows coated with grime. A narrow lane to the right of the shop had cobblestone terraces leading downward, presumably to the Thames.
Rain dripped from a wooden sign hung from an iron framework. The wordsCastle’s Bookshop, Dealer in Secondhand Books and Antiquated Manuscripts, By Appointment Onlywere painted in courtly gold script over a picture of a fairy-tale castle with a blue pennant flying from its ramparts and a dark forest surrounding its walls.
There was a sign that readClosed for Businessin the window.
“How quaint,” said Viola, her dimples appearing as she examined the wooden sign.
“When I made an appointment to visit several years ago, I remember it had only one small showroom piled with books.” Beatrice peered in the glass; she couldn’t see anything inside.
Wright rapped on the building with his knuckles. He wore no gloves. “Stone facade,” he said. He craned his neck backward. “Slate roof. It’s a good thing it’s not a wooden facade like the shops on Holywell Street. Stone weathers better, and is much more attractive and solid.”
He could be describing himself, thought Beatrice. He was certainly attractive, and very solidly built. He looked different in London, even more imposing, as if one of the Cornish cliffs had suddenly risen on the cobblestone streets of London.
Rugged and out of place.
He had an expression on his face that said he was humoring them and would bolt at the earliest opportunity.
She hadn’t expected to ever see him again. Her gaze wanted to rest on the inviting contours of his face, the strong jawline and interesting shadows of his whiskers. He hadn’t shaved today. He probably didn’t even have a valet.
Of course he didn’t have a valet. Carpenters didn’t have valets. And why was she thinking about such things?
“Was that a movement in the upstairs window?” Isobel asked, pointing upward.
Beatrice glanced up. “The solicitor’s letter said that two family servants had been given annuities by my aunt with the stipulation that they would continue keeping up the premises for one year past her demise, or until the shop is sold, whichever comes first.”
Wright rang the bell. When no one answered, he tried the brass door handle. “It’s locked. Did the solicitor send a key?”
“No. How disappointing. I so wanted to go in and see the books.”
“And ascertain the condition of the building,” Isobel reminded her.
