Cornelius Kingston had been a widower for nearly a decade, his wife and Catherine’s mother having died of a fever the year Catherine returned from completing her terms at a Swiss finishing school near Geneva. If her father was in search of a new wife, he hadn’t made his intentions known to her, but she didn’t wish for Eliza to give up hope.
There were worse situations than having a friend as a stepmother.
Benjamin Silverton, her father’s secretary, greeted them with his usual smile despite the chaos surrounding his messy desk. A young caddy—Catherine was fairly sure his name was Brian—wheeled a cart filled with crates of books past them, and she snagged one in a gloved hand. She opened the chipboard cover and arched a brow before turning the book over to discover the binding had been applied upside down. “Oh, dear,” she murmured.
“The bookbinder made an error—”
“Ivy Lane?” Catherine guessed, knowing her father tended to the use the one closest to his business.
“In Ivy Lane, yes,” Benjamin said on a sigh. “They have already been made aware of the problem.”
Catherine scoffed as she shook her head. “If only they would employ people who knew how toread,” she said, “this wouldn’t happen.”
“Brian is taking them back now to have them redone,” Benjamin explained. “Should I tell Mr. Kingston you’re here, or—”
“I already know,” Cornelius announced from where he leaned against the door jamb of his office.
Catherine turned her attention to him and allowed a prim grin. His dark hair, shot with streaks of gray, was furrowed from where he had run his hand through it, probably in frustration. Otherwise his appearance was impeccable.
Clean shaven with an oval face and wide-set eyes, he bore a nose with the slightest of hooks at the end. In harsh light, his cheekbones appeared as if they had been carved. His topcoat, made from superfine, was navy blue, as were his breeches and stockings. A yellow embroidered waistcoat and a white silk cravat completed his attire.
Although most men in his business would have forbade a woman from entering it, he didn’t seem to mind the interruption.
“Mrs. Buxton, so good to see you again,” Cornelius said, bowing to Eliza. He took her gloved hand to his lips and brushed them over the back of her knuckles. He held her hand longer than was necessary, which had Eliza displaying a pink blush. Turning to Catherine, he said, “Ah, my daughter and favorite librarian!”
“How do you do, Papa?” She stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek, a move she knew would surprise him.
Apparently nonplussed, he asked, “How was today’s literary society meeting?”
Having watched his rare display of formality with her best friend, Catherine arched a curious brow. Perhaps her father was finally considering courtship. “A bit more gossip than talk of books, I fear,” she replied. “But that tends to be the situation when Mrs. Peabody hosts us.”
“Any gossip you wish to share?” he asked, hope in his voice.
Catherine tittered. “Men are the worst when it comes to gossip,” she complained. “You’ve already read about it in that rag you have delivered every week.”
Chuckling, he crossed his arms. “What brings you to the office today?”
“As usual, I am after a position, Father. I wondered if you might have an opening for me,” she said.
She had made similar requests over the past decade, sure that if she nagged enough, her father would assign hersomethingto do at the publishing company. She had developed skills as a librarian by organizing the libraries of friends and, when their owners weren’t looking, reorganizing the shelves of bookshops.
Although most women her age were married with children, she had been away at school in Switzerland until she was nearly one-and-twenty. Once she was back in London, the thought of a come-out ball had seemed wrong with her mother so sick. By the time her mourning period had ended, she had become her father’s hostess for business dinners.
Courting for the purpose of marriage held little appeal when the world of books beckoned. Reading everything her father published as well as what she could find in his library at Kingston House meant she would never be satisfied merely running a household.
She was also quite happy to attend literary society meetings, where the discussions sometimes veered from books to politics and world events.
Cornelius shook his head. “What aboutmylibrary at home? You were going to organize it.”
“I finished it, Father. Grouped by subject matter, and then alphabetized based on the author’s last name,” she replied. “I would have thought you noticed there were no longer any books stacked on the floor in the library.”
That particular project had taken far longer than she thought, given her father had over ten thousand volumes—some stored in crates—and she’d had to wait for construction to be complete before she could begin her work. The result was well worth it, though, for now anyone would be able to find any book on any topic in a matter of seconds.
Cornelius gave a start before he stepped behind his desk, the surface stacked with manuscripts and contracts, a stained blotter, and several ink pots and pens. “I probably would have noticed if I had beeninthere recently,” he said. “I’ll take a look tonight. I appreciate you seeing to it.” He waved to the two chairs in front of his desk and waited until the women were seated before taking his chair.
“I didn’t mind doing it a bit,” Catherine claimed, watching as Eliza settled into the chair next to hers. Her friend still displayed high color, and a quick glance at her father had her realizing he was openly admiring the woman. “I could do it for you here, too, if you’d like.”
Cornelius leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Silverton has already seen to it, my dear.”
