“I have more of those, my lord,” Mrs. Schnell said into the tense silence.
He continued to hold onto it, staring at the top sheet, so Adelia released it. He lifted the page, held it up, and turned toward the front windows of the shop.
Adelia could plainly see the crown and the initials of the paper manufacturer.
“Is this very common paper?” he demanded, his back to both Adelia and the shopkeeper.
They exchanged questioning glances before Mrs. Schnell responded.
“It is popular, my lord. Produced by John Dickinson, out of their Apsley paper mill. Would you like to buy a tablet? I can also have it monogrammed if you wish.”
He turned around and stared hard at Adelia, making her insides quell uncomfortably. Next, he looked at Mrs. Schnell.
“Do you keep a list of people who purchase this particular paper?”
“You mean anyone who buys Dickinson?”
“Yes. Precisely,” his tone was sharp. “Any paper with this watermark.”
“I keep account books in which I write down whatever is purchased.”
Adelia glanced at the one open on the counter, and under “Smythe, Ly. Adelia,” she could see a long list of supplies purchased, including the words “tablet, J.D.” on many occasions.
“But I am not the only shop in London that sells it, my lord,” Mrs. Schnell added.
He sighed, sounding extraordinarily weary, and his face looked momentarily far older than his years, which Adelia guessed to be less than thirty.
Finally, he handed the tablet back to Adelia, who tucked it under her arm.
“Nonetheless,” he said to the shopkeeper, “I must learn the names of everyone who uses this paper.” His hands clenched on the counter. “If you would compile a list of all your customers who’ve bought it in the past six months, I shall pay whatever you ask.”
Mrs. Schnell’s face whitened. After a few seconds of consideration, she said, “I shall charge you for two hours of work as if I were preparing something for the printer.”
He nodded.
“Are you going to do the same at every stationery shop hereabouts?”
At first, Adelia thought he wasn’t going to answer Mrs. Schnell’s brazen inquiry.
“Yes,” he said after a brief pause.
Adelia was dying to know why. It was extraordinarily eccentric. First, the altercation about handkerchiefs and now this! If she’d been any other female, she would let her curiosity overrule her courtesy and boldly ask about both his odd quests. Yet, she could not.
Nodding her thanks to the shopkeeper and with another nod to his lordship, she started past him.
“You seem to write a lot of letters,” Lord Burnley said, making the incorrect assumption for once again.
Adelia would not have responded if he hadn’t further asked, “Are there others in your home who write a lot? Your brother, perhaps?”
She halted at the door and turned back.Stranger and stranger.
“No. Lord Smythe is not one for letter-writing.”
Lord Burnley said nothing more, although his eyes narrowed menacingly.
She hoped they were finished, but his gaze flicked over her, head to toe, and her cheeks warmed at his perusal.How mortifying!That she should blush over a man’s cursory glance as if she were a debutante.
Having long since given up hope she would outgrow or overcome her shyness, Adelia wished she could disappear through the floorboards entirely. Given that impossibility, she turned on her heel and left. Her usually enjoyable outing had been all but ruined.
