“Must you be so gracious to every dowager, beldame, and debutante we pass?” Tertius Dundee, eleventh Duke of Dunfallon, kept his voice down. A peer did not shout on a public walkway, particularly when he was determined to elude the notice of the ladies.
“Yes, I must,” Nicholas Haddonfield, Earl of Bellefonte, replied. “My governess pounded gentlemanly deportment into my hard little head before I graced the schoolroom, and the ladies enjoy my overtures. Besides, Yuletide approaches, and the season enhances my already-abundant good cheer.”
“You can afford good cheer,” Dunfallon retorted. “You’re married.”
“And happily so, thank the Deity and my darling countess.” Bellefonte tipped his hat again and beamed his signature smile at a pair of widows swaddled in fur muffs and wool scarves. Because his lordship stood over six and a half feet tall and sported a head of shining blond curls, his gallantry was like a beacon across Mayfair, summoning the admiring glances of any female with eyes to behold him.
“Remind me,” Dunfallon said, “that the next time we meet for breakfast at the club, we arrive separately.”
“Nonsense. A brisk stroll works up the appetite.”
“Blast ye, Bellefonte, don’t ye dare even think—”
This time, the earl made a sweeping gesture out of removing his hat before a roving band of well-dressed young ladies.
“Enjoy your shopping!” he called. “Remember that I have been a very good boy this year!”
A chorus of tittering and simpering followed from the young women, their chaperones, and the maids trailing after them. Across the street, a petite female attired in a white velvet cloak gawked at the spectacle Bellefonte created. Her older companion, sensibly attired in blue, smiled indulgently.
“What sort of fool wears a white cloak in London?” Bellefonte asked, settling his hat onto his head, then taking it off again and tipping it to the pair across the street. “The fabric will be gray before she’s bought her first pair of dancing slippers.”
The day was brisk but sunny. A shiver nonetheless passed over Dunfallon’s nape. “That wee princess is Miss Minerva Peasegill, accompanied by her mama. Miss Peasegill turned down three proposals during the Season and two during the Little Season, to hear her mama tell it. Stop lollygagging and get on wi’ ye.”
“She’s quite pretty,” Bellefonte said, budging not one inch, “if you like the delicate porcelain look. Still, white isn’t very practical. I like a practical woman. My countess, for example—”
“Move your lordly arse, Bellefonte, or s’help me, I’ll… God hae mercy, they’re coming this way.”
Dunfallon’s best hope lay in the fact that Bellefonte, being as tall as a lighthouse, would hold the ladies’ attention. Dunfallon himself could steal away unseen if he moved with the purpose and stealth of a border reiver beneath a quarter moon.
The chronic congestion of London’s fashionable streets prevented Miss Peasegill and her mama from charging across the thoroughfare. Dunfallon took half a moment to assess the surrounds. If he ducked into a shop, the ladies might follow. If he simply loped off down the walkway, they would also give chase, hallooing and you-hooing like hounds on the scent.
Where was a gentlemen’s club when a duke needed safety from the matrimonial press-gang?
His gaze lit on a modest two-story building tucked between a coffee shop and a milliner’s. The windows displayed neither gloves, nor boots, nor fans. No porters loitered outside prepared to bear purchases home for any shoppers.
A solicitor’s establishment, perhaps, or… The sign on the lamppost swung in the chilly breeze: W. Bart. St. Lending Library. All are welcome.
“Excuse me,” Dunfallon said. “Find another companion for breakfast, Bellefonte. Please delay the ladies as long as you can.”
Bellefonte’s smile became less genial and more piratical. “They’ll ambush you in the churchyard, at the house parties, and at the Yuletide open houses. Mistletoe was invented by spinsters, you know.”
“Or by clever bachelors, among whom I hope to number for a good many years.” Dunfallon moved off with the pedestrians thronging the walkway. By the time he’d reached the lending library, Miss Peasegill’s signature “Halloo! Halloo, my lord!” was ringing out behind him.
My lord, not Your Grace, meaning Dunfallon had avoided capture—this time.
The library, thank the blessed powers, was open. Dunfallon slipped inside with the same relief he’d felt when he’d dodged past French patrols and Spanish bandits. He remained by the doorway, a trickle of shame blending with his relief.
Miss Peasegill was merely a young lady in search of a tiara. She’d been raised with pursuit of that sole objective in mind, and now she had a handful of months left to achieve her goal. If she failed and ended up wedded to some cit’s spotty son, she would be forever classed among the unfortunates who did not take.
Dunfallon well knew how it felt to be judged inadequate. He considered returning to Bellefonte’s side, but the sheer abundance of books on display caught his eye. As the second ducal spare, he’d learned to appreciate the company of books. His old tutor, MacAlpin, believed that a boy who read widely was a boy well armed against life’s challenges.
Papa had reasoned that a boy absorbed with books was a boy who never gave his father any trouble, which for the first sixteen years of Dunfallon’s life had been his sole ambition.
Windows two stories tall filled the library with light, and the air was gently scented with leather and lemon oil. A double-sided hearth took up the center of the main room. A fat white cat lounged on the mantel, and a mezzanine level ringed the premises on three sides. Book shelves lined the walls and stood in rows on the opposite side of the hearth. The fourth side of the upper level looked to be some sort of enclosed office, or perhaps a room for literary rarities.
A second fireplace was set against the back wall, and a pair of older gents nodded in wing chairs before the blaze. One of them had a lapful of knitting. The other drowsed under the open pages of a newspaper.
The library had an air of peace and repose, precisely the sort of refuge Dunfallon sought. Not as dark and sniffy as a gentlemen’s club, not as elegant as the ducal town house. Just right for a bachelor seeking respite from marital doom.
A woman emerged from between two bookcases. She held a large bound tome and was attired from head to foot in gray, save for a sprig of prickly holly pinned to her lapel. No cap, dark hair tidily bunned at her nape, and only the slightest of welcoming smiles.
The very best sort of woman, one who looked to have no use for tiaras or dukes. Pretty green eyes, though, and a direct gaze.
“Good morning. I am Miss Emerald Armstrong. Welcome to West Bartholomew Street Lending Library.”
“Miss Armstrong.” Dunfallon’s bow would have been the envy of Bellefonte’s adoring throng. “A pleasant day to ye.”
“Are you Mrs. MacInnes’s nephew? If so, Mr. Dunn, you are somewhat overdressed for the occasion. You can start on the sweeping and make up in vigor what you lack in punctuality. The children will be here at nine of the clock, and you’ll want to haul up several buckets of coal before they arrive. They offer to help, you see, and then the job takes four times as long because a deal of handwashing becomes necessary. Dirty hands and library books are a bad combination.”
Her voice was precise and laced with a brisk hint of humor. She apparently looked forward to the arrival of the children, and for that alone, Dunfallon decided to do a bit of sweeping. That and the certain knowledge that Miss Peasegill would tarry on the walkway with Lord Bellefonte until spring, given half a chance.
“And where would the broom be, Miss Armstrong?”
“Come,” she said, setting the book on a table. “I’ll show you around, and if you have questions, you must ask. A library is a temple to the curious mind, according to my late father, and we cannot find answers if we don’t ask questions.”
She might have been quoting old MacAlpin. Dunfallon hung his cloak on a peg and followed the lady down a curving set of steps into a whitewashed half basement serving as a sort of parlor. The hearth along the back wall crackled with a merry blaze, and sunken windows added more light.
“The cleaning supplies are kept here,” she said, opening a tall cupboard. “The coal chute is through that door. Mind you wipe your feet before you go upstairs. We send over to the chop shop for a nooning, and I told your aunt that we can provide you a meal in return for your labors. Nothing fancy, but one does not work at one’s best without sustenance. You are free to leave after the midday meal, or you may use West Bart’s as your study. I cannot promise quiet, but we do keep the place warm, and we have a Welsh Bible you can consult.”
“A Welsh Bible?” Who was this Mr. Dunn, and why would he need a Welsh Bible? “Miss Armstrong, I’m afraid there’s been a slight misunderstanding.”
She bustled up the curving steps. “No misunderstanding. Your aunt has arranged a curate’s post in Swansea for you, but you don’t speak the language. If you work here on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, you may use our Welsh primers and Bible to learn something of Welsh in the afternoons. Come spring, I will not have spent the coldest months hauling coal and sweeping mud, for a pleasant change, and you will be somewhat better prepared for your first post.”
“First impressions do matter,” Dunfallon said, “but there really has—”
The front door swung open. “Miss Emmie! I’m here!” A dirty little boy beamed great good cheer at the librarian while letting in a gust of frigid air.
“And I’m that glad to see you, Caspar,” Miss Armstrong replied. “Please do close the door and moderate your volume. You are the first to arrive, so you will choose our story.”
“Who’s that?” Caspar turned a hostile perusal on Dunfallon. “Ain’t seen him afore. Did he remember to wipe ’em great big feet a’ his?”
“Dunn—Mr. Dunn, at your service.” Did one bow to a cheeky boy? Dunfallon supposed not, because nobody had bowed to him when he’d been a cheeky boy. “I’m to assist Miss Armstrong with general duties as assigned, and yes, I did most conscientiously wipe my feet.”
“Ye’re a dogsbody for Miss?” Caspar asked as Miss Armstrong took the boy’s cap from his head. “Lucky bloke. I’ll show you how to sweep the hearth if you like. I know what story I want.”
Miss Armstrong slapped the cap against the nearest bookcase, sending a cloud of dust wafting across the morning sunbeams.
“You’ll want one of Mr. Dingle’s tales,” she said. “Winter is bearing down hard, so I suspect you want the one about the hot soup and the icy bridge.”
“That story makes me hungry,” Caspar said, “but ’em’s clever kittens, Miss Armstrong. I always like to hear the stories about the clever kittens. They’re my favorites.”
More children arrived, and Tertius Dane MacManus MacTavish Dundee, eleventh Duke of Dunfallon, ducked down the steps and busied himself hauling up eight buckets of coal—as much as the coal bins would hold. He then swept the library from top to bottom under Caspar’s careful supervision.
Caspar abandoned him for the dusting portion of the program—thank the celestial intercessors—because the time had come for Miss Armstrong to read The Tale of the Icy Bridge. A dozen ill-clothed and malodorous urchins listened raptly to her rendering of the story, as did the fat white cat dozing on her lap.
As did one reluctantly fascinated duke.
“I’da skated across the creek,” Mary Smith said when Emmie finished reading the story. “Found me some skates and shot across the ice afore it could break.”
“I’da watched you fall in and get trapped until you drowned,” Ralphie Patterson retorted. “And I woun’ta fished you out because I know better ’n to try to cross new ice.”
Mary shoved him with her elbow. “You don’t know nuffink, Rotten Ralph.” She was small but scrappy, and her comment served to start a discussion—not an argument—of why the author had made the choices he had.
Emmie tried to gently hint at themes such as mitigating risk when risks were unavoidable, sticking together in hard times, and using ingenuity to solve problems. The clever kittens had poured hot soup from their flasks onto the rickety, icy bridge, melting patches of ice step by step and making a safe path home.
First, they had considered the riskier courses—hopping from one piece of ice to the next, spending the night in the open far from home while hoping the ice would be frozen in the morning, asking passing strangers for aid—but then they’d lit on the scheme with the hot soup and found their way back to their loving mama.
For the duration of the story, Mr. Dunn had silently wielded his broom and then a feather duster amid the shelving on the main floor. He moved quietly for such a big man, and he worked steadily. His attire would have been more appropriate for lounging away the morning at some elegant club, but his work ethic was that of an ambitious under-footman.
The children begged for a second story, and Emmie, of course, refused. She made them wait for their daily story, made them read, practice penmanship, and study simple sums. If she yielded to their clamoring for another story, the whole day would turn into an endless story hour.
Can’t have that.
“You mustn’t blame them for trying,” Mr. Dunn said when Emmie reshelved the book. “You have a way with a tale.”
“Mr. Dingle has the way with a tale,” she said. “The children love his kittens, and what they love, they can learn from. Do you enjoy fiction, Mr. Dunn?”
He paused in his dusting. “As a lad, I did.”
“But you’re for the church now,” Emmie said, bracing herself for the usual excuses. “Fiction puts fanciful notions into heads that should be filled with only pious or patriotic thoughts. Fiction is a waste of money the public can ill afford to spend on books. Fiction is the first step on the road to idleness and sloth.”
“As bad as all that?” he asked. “You make a rousing yarn sound like the literary version of blue ruin.”
Mr. Dunn was tall, broad-shouldered, and spoke with a soft burr that had been more in evidence when he’d first arrived. His face was not precisely handsome, but it was attractive in a rugged, blue-eyed way, as was his slightly unruly chestnut hair. His physiognomy was fierce, for all his dapper attire. Fierce and, at the moment, lit with humor.
“The situation is worse than that,” Emmie said. “Writing fiction provides a few women a means of earning their own coin without scrubbing floors or having babies. When men publish, they are authors. When women publish, they are scribblers.” She held up a hand, lest Dunn launch into a sermon about Eve’s fall. “I blaspheme, I know, but midday approaches, and one wants to stay on schedule. Idleness, sloth, and gluttony are on the program for the afternoon.”
He gestured at her with the duster. “You write stories, I’m guessing.”
Drat and damnation. For one instant, Emmie was tempted to confide in him, but no. Her ambitions were her own, and they were private. Just because a fellow was capable of doing some cleaning didn’t mean he could be trusted.
“I publish an advice column, another literary frolic permitted to the ladies. I do believe you have dusted West Bart’s Lending to within an inch of its life. Might you pop out to the chop shop? I grow a bit peckish.”
She wanted him off the premises, even temporarily. She’d expected Mrs. MacInnes’s nephew to be an anemic scholar better suited to reorganizing biographies than hauling coal. One look at the specimen before her, and Emmie’s heart had rejoiced.
This man could work, and work hard. A fine quality in any fellow, but he was also a noticing sort of person—as little Caspar could be noticing—and that was not as laudable a gift.
“Will your order at the chop shop be waiting?” he asked, brushing past Emmie and continuing to the front door.
“Soup and sandwiches,” she said, following him, “and hot cider. That is the usual midday fare here. If you need something more substantial, then the pub at the corner serves a good meat pie. We have an account at both places.”
How did an aspiring curate come by that lovely, piney scent? How did he afford such a fine wool coat? Perhaps Mrs. MacInnes doted on this particular nephew, though she had an army of them. Perhaps Mr. Dunn was the family black sheep, and he faced banishment to Wales for having overstepped the bounds of propriety once too often.
“Sweeping and dusting are more taxing than they look,” he said, swirling a beautiful merino cloak over his shoulders, “but I will make do with the usual. What about the children?”
“They have their bread and butter, Mr. Dunn, courtesy of Lady Bellefonte’s generosity. The library directors begrudge them even that. Some of the children will stay for most of the day simply because it’s warm here. Others will embark on honest scholarship to pass the time. The older boys will be about their begging, lest they get a beating when they go home.”
“They beg?” Clearly, Mr. Dunn disapproved of begging.
“Yuletide approaches. Folk are more generous. Caspar and his friends would be fools to pass up such an opportunity. For most of them, the options are beg, steal, or starve.”
Mr. Dunn set a fine beaver hat onto his head and stood by the front door, looking as if he wanted to offer a disagreeable comment.
“Off you go,” Emmie said, waving her hand. “The shop is on the corner, and they will be very busy if you wait much longer.”
He withdrew a supple pair of gloves from a pocket. “I want to know about those stories you write.”
“I do not write stories.”
“You are spinning a fiction at this very moment, Miss Armstrong. I’m away to the North Pole.”
He had his hand on the door latch, the picture of a gentlemanly pulchritude. Emmie was relieved to see him on his way—truly, she was—when he turned back to her.
“Have you been a good girl this year, Miss Armstrong?”
“A saint,” she said, though what sort of question was that?
“A saint who fibs,” Mr. Dunn muttered. “Perhaps there’s hope for me.”
With that, he was gone, leaving a soft, cedary aroma lingering in the air.