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No. A few shelves further along...
The Roman Republic.
"Definitely not," she muttered to herself.
She tilted her head to read another.
Military Logistics. She considered it for a moment.
"...Probably not."
She wandered on, stopping every few feet to inspect another spine.
On the Breeding of Cattle. An Essay on Drainage. Naval Strategy.
"Oh, goodness..." She let out a small laugh to herself.
"This may take rather longer than I anticipated."
Still, she had nowhere else to be. Drawing a steady breath, she continued her search with renewed determination.
Chapter 17
The study was unusually quiet, broken only by the soft whistle of a waning fire.
Arthur sat behind his desk, a fresh sheet of paper before him, the nib of his quill suspended above the page. Beside the window, Laurence stood with one hand clasped behind his back, the other absently holding the latest dispatches from the Continent. Every column carried another rumour. Napoleon had crossed here. The Prussians were assembling. The French had been sighted. None of it could yet be confirmed.
Arthur set the pen down. He was tired. He had a great deal on his mind, and the latest developments in foreign affairs suggested he would soon be required in London. The very thought filled him with dread.
"I've written all that can be written," Arthur said.
"Aye." Laurence glanced over his shoulder as he replied. He himself had given up two days ago.
The pair had spent the last two weeks discussing policy, artillery supply, and public opinion. Now those concerns felt suddenly distant. The campaign had begun, and whatever happened next would be decided not by speeches or newspapers, but by men standing shoulder to shoulder beneath smoke and cannon fire.
They had spent hours in his study, day after day for the last fortnight, writing opinion pieces and gathering intelligence, all to the faint strains of an orchestra drifting up from the drawing room.
Arthur was beginning to marvel that he and his oldest friend had not yet come to blows after spending so long in a single room, though the day was still young. Laurence had suggested they go shooting to clear their heads, as they had not felt morning air in two weeks. In fact, the last time Arthur had left the house had been the day the Duchess had fallen from his stallion.
Arthur had obliged and was ready to begin preparations for the hunt when a faint knock sounded at the study door.
Laurence did not even glance towards it. The knock had been so quiet it was almost imperceptible; Arthur knew who it was before the second knock came.
"Enter," he commanded.
Eliza stepped inside slowly. Her thick, dark curls had been arranged intricately atop her head, though, as always, several rebellious tendrils had escaped to frame her face. She wore her usual polite expression, but today her eyes held a quiet spark that he could not quite decipher.
Arthur bowed his head.
"Duchess."
Laurence spun around at once and bowed deeply.
"Your Grace. How nice it is to see you." Laurence said, and as she often did, she rewarded him with a warm smile.
Eliza had not changed greatly in the two weeks she had been at Winworth, aside from the faint shadows that had begun to gather beneath her eyes.
She still smiled often and laughed with ease. More than once he had remained in his study long after dark, writing by candlelight while her laughter drifted faintly through the house. She was usually accompanied by her lady's maid, the two of them as thick as thieves. Strictly speaking, such familiarity between Duchess and staff was inappropriate, but he could not begrudge his wife the companion.
