CHAPTER1
London—September 1817
Miss Patience Carruthers liked to collect facts as much as she liked to collect books. She found pleasure in knowing things, the more things the better. In fact, it was her considered opinion that the vast majority of people did not know nearly enough—or read enough—to be relied upon to function well.
The rakehell Arthur Beckham was a good example. Despite his charm, his remarkable good looks, and his determination to win her approval, he was incapable of shaking her convictions. After all, the man’s reading habits were woefully inadequate. If he would just pause for breath, Patience would tell him so.
“Clearly, the book,” Arthur said with an engaging smile “is wrong.” He pushed a volume across the counter that he was returning along with the other volumes his mother had borrowed earlier in the year.
Patience bristled, confident that she was unaffected by that smile. “Books, sir, are not wrong simply because an individual does not care for their content. Books provide an infinite variety of entertainment value as well as a wealth of factual information. Those books that appeal to one person may not appeal to another, which explains the inventory of libraries and bookstores…”
She could have continued at some length in this vein, but the well-attired gentleman on the other side of the lending counter at Carruthers & Carruthers opened the book in question, presenting its contents to her. Patience had already noted that it was a leatherbound edition ofChilde Haroldeand surmised it was one of their lending copies, given that it was being returned with a number of other such volumes. But when the book fell open in Mr. Beckham’s gloved hands, she immediately saw that it had been savagely mutilated.
She gasped, as loudly as if he showed her a child with a fatal knife wound.
The block of pages had been rudely sliced from the inside of the case, the edges left so ragged that there were threads of linen binding visible. The endpapers were torn, as well, a travesty since they had been of fine marbled paper, perhaps from Florence. The volume that had been sloppily stitched into the case for the poem had a disreputable look about it. It was much smaller than the original block had been, which meant that the ravaged binding was exposed at the top and bottom of the spine. The paper was cheap and thin, and the pages were scuffed as well as discoloured around the edges. It was either a very well-thumbed volume or one that had been left in inappropriate circumstances for some extended period of time. The very prospect of a book being so abused was a shock to Patience and she gripped the lip of the counter, as well as falling into a horrified silence.
What had happened to the poem that had originally been inside this case?
Surely it had not been discarded?
Surely the man before her had not destroyed the original volume? If so, he was even more reprehensible than she had imagined.
Patience raised her horrified gaze to his and Mr. Beckham raised a hand, almost retreating a step. “I assure you that it was like this when we opened the package of books. I am not responsible for this book’s state, Miss Carruthers.” His dark gaze bored into hers with startling intensity. “I give you my word of honor.”
Patience had no notion of the merit of his word of honor, though he made the declaration with such vehemence that she could not remained unmoved. She was only slightly relieved, for the damage could not be repaired.
“The book remains wrong, however,” he said and held it a little closer to her.
Patience’s gaze slid over the text and she retreated a step, appalled when she understood the content. The words printed there formed no part of the poemChilde Haroldand were, in fact, lewd in the extreme.
But then Arthur Beckham was notorious in so many ways.
She glared at him, as he continued to watch her, eyes twinkling. (They were very, very dark and she dared not look into them for long, lest she tumble into those alluring shadows and forget herself utterly. Doubtless he relied heavily upon his very pleasing countenance to lead innocents astray. She would not join their ranks.) “Do you see my meaning, then?” he asked.
“That book does not belong in that case.”
“And yet, here it is.” Mr. Beckham closed the book and shook it at her. “I must say that I never expected to receive such a volume from Carruthers & Carruthers.”
“But…”
“My mother left an order of books to be borrowed for our trip to Venice,” he continued smoothly. “And this volume was included in the parcel, though its contents were not as expected. Fortunately, I discovered the truth before my mother or younger sister became aware of it.”
Patience had a sick feeling then, for she recalled an instance that she had dismissed at the time. Her older sister Catherine had been annoyed about a book disappearing in the spring, a book that she insisted did not belong to the bookshop. Had it not been a copy ofChilde Harold? Patience thought perhaps it had been.
She had packed Lady Beckham’s order. She remembered that well. Was she responsible for the inclusion of this volume? She had to be.
And Mr. Beckham appeared to have guessed as much.
“I will see the matter resolved, sir.” She reached for the book with an unsteady hand, examined it upon all sides, then checked the endpapers front and back. There was no stamp declaring that it belonged to the bookseller. In fact, what remained of the endpapers were marbled with a thread of gold, an expense her father only undertook for particularly important books and never for those to be lent.
Which meant that either Mr. Beckham played a jest upon her, having presented a book that had not originated in her father’s place of business—and that meant he might be lying about his role in the desecration—or this was Catherine’s missing book.
There was no logical cause for Mr. Beckham to tease her. Patience was certain they had never spoken before, though—of course—she knew who he was. And she, perhaps foolishly, trusted his word. He seemed very earnest in this moment and she was tempted to believe he told the truth as he knew it.
She stole a glance to find him watching her closely, as if he could not anticipate what she might do and was interested to find out. Patience’s heart fluttered, as it never did, for such action would be irrational—but then, she was not accustomed to having very handsome and eligible young men study her so avidly.
She was glad she had worn her better dress on this particular day, which made no sense at all.
