“Lord Clarence,” he returned with a brief nod. He started to shoulder past him, but Lord Clarence stepped in front of him.
“Tell me, Ridgewood. Are you still chasing lost cities and non-existent civilizations?”
Nothing would give Ridge more pleasure than wiping the smug laughter from Lord Clarence’s oily face, but he smiled instead, knowing it would annoy the irritating insect. “And you, Lord Clarence, are you still dreaming up ways to do away with your older brother so you can inherit the dukedom when your father dies?”
A dull flush worked its way up Lord Clarence’s neck and over his face. Not many people would dare to address Lord Clarence’s past indiscretions, but Ridge had no such compunction.
“Your carriage awaits you, my lord,” the footman said to Ridge from his post at the door.
“If you will excuse me,” Ridge said with a grin. “I’ve a most pressing engagement.” He sidestepped Lord Clarence and walked out into the cool spring air.
It was a refreshing change from the darkened, smoky interior of the club. Not being one to smoke a pipe, he had little tolerance for the pungent, sweet odor.
He paused a moment at the open door of his town coach and allowed the slight breeze to wash over him. A smile curved his lips, and he resisted the urge to throw his fist into the air.
As he climbed in, he gave his driver the direction of the small bookshop on St. Martin’s Lane and sat back as the carriage started forward.
Thirty minutes later, he alighted from the coach and hurried into the tiny shop. He glanced around for the proprietor, his impatience growing by the minute. Finally, a short, older man shuffled toward him from a back room.
The man’s expression brightened when he set eyes on Ridge. “You came quickly, your lordship.”
“Indeed I did. I am most anxious to see the journal. If it is truly what you say it is, I have no doubt we will reach an agreement that is mutually beneficial.”
The proprietor’s eyes brightened, and Ridge could see him mentally counting the money. And if the journal did prove to be authentic, the pound notes would be plentiful.
The shop owner hastened to the back room once more and returned in a few moments with a cloth-bound object. They walked to a nearby table, and the man slowly unwrapped the aged journal.
Unable to contain his excitement, Ridge took the book, his hands sliding reverently over the wrinkled cover. Holding his breath, he opened it to the first page. Printed in faded ink wasSir Castleton 1802. Fifteen years before his death and the exact year he began his travels.
Ridge swallowed his mounting euphoria and leveled a calm stare at the shop owner. “How did you come by this?”
“I purchased it from Mrs. Alicia Unster, Sir Roderick’s only sister. She received it in a box of his personal belongings after his death. She contacted me to ask if I was interested in purchasing the items, and since I knew you would be interested in the journal, I was swift to buy it.”
“This is a remarkable find as I am sure you are well aware,” Ridge said slowly. “You have my thanks for contacting me first.”
“You’ve been more than fair in the past, my lord.”
Ridge tucked the book into his coat. “Shall we agree on a price then?”
###
India Ashton rubbed her tired eyes and attempted to focus on the mess of papers before her. A quick glance at the window revealed the first pale shades of dawn. She sighed in relief and shoved aside her father’s notes. Her hand brushed against the latest issue of theHistorical Society Newsand anger surged within her all over again.
“Pompous, arrogant dolts,” she hissed. She still shook with rage at the manner in which her father had been skewered in the latest issue.
She shook her head, attempting to dispel the burning irritation that simmered within her. She was tired. Too tired to dwell on her father’s critics. Yawning broadly, she pushed back her chair and rose. She’d made it through another night.
She trudged out of the well-lit study toward the stairs. As she mounted the first step, her housekeeper called out to her.
“Miss India, would you like me to bring up a tray before you retire?”
India smiled at the kindly woman. “That won’t be necessary, Mary.”
“Not even some tea to help you sleep?”
“I don’t think I’ll be needing it this morning,” she said suppressing another yawn.
“I’ll be cooking your favorite for dinner. Shall I wake you in time?”
