“Which book?” Patience asked, sparing a meaningful glance at the full bookshelves surrounding them.
“There was a copy of, um, Childe Harold on my satchel.”
“That was packed with Lady Beckham’s order,” Prudence contributed, even as she strode past them with an armload of books to return to the shelves. “She had requested it, so she said, but it was not in her order.”
Catherine felt herself pale. Lady Beckham was a great patroness of the shop but also an opinionated dowager of conservative views. She had a rakehell of a son and a much younger daughter whose sweetness Catherine did not wish to be responsible for despoiling.
As if the gods meant to mock her, Prudence pivoted to smile at her, pushing up her glasses as she did so. “She said it was for Amelia.”
Catherine gripped the counter. “But that was my book.”
Prudence laughed. “That cannot be. You have never liked Byron’s poems. It just ended up on your satchel instead of in the order. Fear not—I set all to rights.”
“You set all awry,” Catherine said, knowing she sounded stern. “The book must be retrieved at once.”
“What difference?” Patricia asked. “We have several copies of Childe Harold in circulation and one is much like the other.”
“This one is different,” Catherine insisted.
“Because it was yours?” Patricia asked archly. “Take another, Catherine, and cease to make such a fuss.”
“That book must be retrieved with all haste,” Catherine said, seeing her return to Trevelaine House delayed.
“If you insist upon it,” Patricia said with forbearance. “I will send word to Lady Beckham, explain the confusion and request the return of the book.”
“No, someone must go there and see the book exchanged immediately.”
“Do you have love notes in the margin?” Prudence asked with delight. “Shall I tell Papa that you now write in books like a wretched heathen?” She did a reasonable mimicry of their father, who called all those who abused books ‘wretched heathens’. Prudence frowned. “Why does he say that? There is nothing particularly Christian about taking care of one’s books. Why, I’ve heard that…”
“The book,” Catherine said with force, interrupting her sister. “It must be retrieved immediately.” She eyed Prudence. “You put it in the wrong package so you should see the matter repaired.”
“There is nothing of import that cannot wait until the morning,” Prudence said with a confidence Catherine did not share. “Oh, do not scowl! Amelia is unlikely to race to read that volume tonight. I wager it might even be returned unread. I will send word in the morning, and all will be well.”
“You should return home to your lord husband,” Patience advised. “You would not wish for dinner to be delayed at Trevelaine House on your account.”
Catherine looked between the two of them, then at her father’s stern countenance as he chastised a new worker beside the printing presses. It had been a long day, and somehow she would ensure the book was collected in the morning.
* * *
But it became clear the following day that Esmeralda’s volume, hidden within the case of Lord Byron’s book, would not be retrieved soon. Lady Beckham, her son and daughter, had left England for sunny Italy and their return was not anticipated for three months.
There was far worse news than that, however. By midday, Catherine learned that Miss Esmeralda Ballantyne had been imprisoned for the theft of a ruby necklace, one with gems carved in the shape of fruit.
Everything had gone awry and Catherine had no notion of where to begin to repair the situation.
Chapter 1
London, England - March 12, 1817
Mrs. Eliza North was vexed.
She had told one lie in all her life and that single falsehood had returned to haunt her with vigor, precisely as she had been warned by her childhood governess. In fact, the untruth plagued Eliza in such inconvenient fashion that Mrs. Whittemore might well have ensured as much from beyond the grave, simply to prove herself right.
It was most annoying.
It had been precisely ten years since Nicholas Emerson—the love of Eliza’s life and closest friend of her older brother Damien—had bought a commission and left for Europe without a single word of farewell. It had been almost ten years—one day less, in fact—since she had accepted the persistent suit of Reverend Frederick North, a decision wrought of despair. It had also been ten-years-less-a-day since Eliza had lied to her father and insisted that she loved Frederick beyond all men, in order that her father would permit her to wed a country parson some twenty years older than herself.
It had seemed to be a solid choice at the time, when she had wanted nothing other than to be far beyond any place Captain Nicholas Emerson might ever show his handsome visage.
