On Wednesday afternoon, Annabel and Emily braved the threat of an April shower to ride in Hyde Park during the fashionable five o’clock promenade hour. The gray skies had kept all but the most dedicated equestrians away, which suited Annabel quite well. She liked having room to ride and not just amble along the way many ladies did, being decorative in their riding habits. Riding was the only acceptable form of exercise possible in London—no brisk walks across fields and down country lanes. No wonder Grandmother Shellingham had loathed it here.
“No word from Mr. Spruce, I assume?” Emily asked as they walked their horses side by side down the Ladies’ Mile after a refreshing canter. The lowering gray skies made the tender young green of the spring foliage in the park seem to glow with an inner light.
“No, but I don’t think we should despair yet. He might well either live at a distance from London and hasn’t received it yet, or perhaps lives not too far and just received it today.”
“Or lives right in town and won’t speak with us,” Emily added gloomily. “I’ll bet E.C. Spruce hates people and is a complete hermit. Why else all the need for privacy?”
“If E.C. Spruce hated people, I doubt he would be able to write such passionate books about them—oh, drat!” Annabel would have liked to use a much stronger word than that, for the Marquis of Quinceton was approaching on a large black hack, destroying the peace of the afternoon. Could she cast a shadow about her before he noticed? Of course, a seemingly riderless horse walking alongside Emily would look highly suspicious—
“Drat what?” Emily’s famously dreamy, come-hither eyes were also, regrettably, somewhat short-sighted.
“It’s Lord Quinceton, coming toward us—there, on your right.”
“Oh, good. Now I can see for myself this ‘hungry wolf’ business you were so emphatic about the other day.” She raised her voice. “Quin! Here! Do come and settle an argument for us!”
“Emily! Did you have to do that?” Annabel muttered. She hadn’t seen Lord Quinceton since that evening at Almack’s when he’d twitted her about Gus so outrageously and would have been quite happy to remain deprived of his company.
“Oh, hush.” Emily gave the marquis a broad welcoming smile as he trotted up, lifted his hat in greeting and turned his horse to join them. “Well, Quin, what do you think? I was just telling Annabel that I thought E.C. Spruce—you know, the author—must be an utter misanthrope because he won’t see anyone, but Annabel says he cannot be because no one who writes romantical books could hate people.”
Annabel waited for him to leap into agreement with Emily and use it as an excuse to tease her. But to her surprise he hesitated, then said, “As I may claim an acquaintance with him, I must agree with Fellbridge. E. C. Spruce may prefer his privacy, but he is not a misanthrope.”
“You know E.C. Spruce?” Emily said, thunderstruck. “Good God, Quin, why didn’t you say so?”
“I believe I just did,” he said, with a hint of his usual ironic smile.
Emily flapped an impatient hand at him, making her mare dance skittishly. “That’s not what I meant. We need to talk to him.”
“So I heard.”
“You did? From whom?”
“From Lady Frances, when I dined with Glenrick last night.” Lord Glenrick was Frances’ brother, and heir to the Carrick dukedom. “She waxed quite eloquent on the subject—something about his books disappearing and needing to consult Spruce on the issue. I could not decide whether to take her seriously or not. One never can, with her,” he added—rather callously, Annabel thought. Yes, Frances could be vague at times and silly at others, but there wasn’t a dearer person in London. How dare he speak disparagingly of her, even if she did dangle after him so obviously!
“It’s quite true, I assure you,” Emily said. “The third volume of Mr. Spruce’s The Fifty Shades of Udolpho has vanished from London—yes, completely vanished! And I am not hoaxing you,” she exclaimed as he lifted an eyebrow. “We intend to do something about it, but we need a copy of the book to do so and hoped Mr. Spruce might still have one.”
“Have you spoken with the printer?” He looked highly amused.
“Yes, we saw him on Monday. He didn’t have any copies either and wouldn’t give us Mr. Spruce’s direction. Annabel wrote a note that he said he would forward to Mr. Spruce, but we’re not sure we trust him to do so.”
Annabel felt—positively felt—Lord Quinceton’s gaze come to rest on her. “Another investigation, Fellbridge?” he asked. “You do endeavor to be kept busy, don’t you?”
When would the man stop calling her that? She swallowed back a sharp retort. “It is not an investigation, my lord. We are merely…curious. And I should think that Mr. Spruce must be concerned about the disappearance of his books.”
“If he even knows. As you have learned, he guards his privacy closely.”
“Yes, but this could hurt his reputation,” she said, resolutely forgetting Mr. Warburton’s strange delight at the situation on Monday. “We would be distressed to see any harm accrue to so well-regarded an author.”
“Hmm.” He rode beside them in silence for a few minutes. Emily caught Annabel’s eye and raised her brows hopefully. Annabel nodded. If Lord Quinceton could arrange a meeting for them with Mr. Spruce, or at least write them a letter of introduction—
“Very well. I have no pressing engagements tomorrow,” he said abruptly. “Would that suit you?”
Emily gawked at him. “What?”
“You wish to speak to Mr. Spruce. I can accompany you to his house tomorrow and present you,” he said, in the manner of one speaking to a small child. “Is that not what you wanted?”
“Oh! Yes, of course it is. It was just a little unexpected. Thank you, Quin! Only—” Emily bit her lip and cast a sideways look at Annabel. “Only, I simply can’t tomorrow—I have several engagements myself. Annabel will have to go.”
“What?” Annabel’s first impulse was to shove Emily off her horse. How could she? Emily knew full well how she felt about the marquis—
“Fellbridge? Will that do?” Lord Quinceton’s voice was definitely mocking, but there was a curious glint in his eye. “I will come for you at noon.”
It took all her willpower not to wither him with a glance and a coolly uttered Not if you held a gun to my head. “Thank you, my lord, that will suit me.” She hesitated, then couldn’t resist adding, “Though I do admit, sir, to some surprise that you should be acquainted with a figure of literary merit.”
“Annabel,” Emily muttered warningly.
“Are you fond of his books, Fellbridge?”
“I would hardly be concerning myself with this matter and going with you to call on him if I weren’t.”
“I see. Although I confess to not having read his books, I assure you that I am his friend.” He paused. “Though from what I understand of his work, I would scarce call it literary. Still, some people seem to enjoy that sort of thing.”
Annabel felt hot color flood her cheeks.
Emily snickered. “Oh, Annabel, you asked for that one.”
Lord Quinceton was grinning openly. “Yes, she did. My apologies, Fellbridge. But you do have an unerring tendency to bring out the worst in me.”
“Restraint is a Christian virtue, my lord,” she said through gritted teeth.
“And one I’ve never been particularly well-acquainted with. Noon, then?”
She didn’t trust herself to speak, but nodded.
He smiled and lifted his hat to them, then nudged the bay into a canter and was gone.
“Emily, I’m going to murder you!” Annabel said when he was out of earshot. “How could you do that to me?”
“Why, what did I do?” Emily said, her voice high and innocent.
“You suddenly found yourself extremely busy tomorrow and left me to go with him. You know I can’t abide the man! I’ll wager a guinea he doesn’t know Mr. Spruce in the least and is just making a game of us.”
“Annabel.” Emily dropped her teasing tone. “Now you’re being silly. Quin was being perfectly amiable—at least, as amiable as he knows how to be—until you went needling him. You deserved that set-down, and honestly, we’re lucky he didn’t tell us to go to the devil. If we want to be able to learn anything about why The Fifty Shades is disappearing everywhere, it would behoove you to not behave like a six-year-old when Quin comes for you tomorrow. And yes, he really does know Mr. Spruce. I peeked.”
Annabel bit back a defensive retort. Very well, perhaps she had been a little childish in her reaction—just a little—but… “Thank you for looking. But I still don’t like him because I don’t trust him. Something he said a week or so back about Clementina makes me wonder if he doesn’t know more than he ought to about the Lady Patronesses.”
Emily pursed her lips. “All the more reason, then, to be pleasant to him so you can find out what he might know. Men will bare their souls to pretty women, given the least bit of encouragement.”
The remainder of their ride was unusually silent.
Emily was still distinctly chilly toward her that evening at Almack’s, which seemed odd to Annabel: her friend almost never bore grudges. But apart from that, Almack’s seemed to be back to normal after the voucher upheaval of two weeks before. Young girls in their white or pale pink or yellow gowns, along with their hopeful mamas carefully surveying the room for eligible dance (and matrimonial) partners, lined the ballroom. Not for the first time, Annabel sighed with relief that she was no longer of their number: sometimes, being young was such an ordeal.
She bowed and nodded to friends and acquaintances, had a word with Mr. Willis near the door, and was on her way to the seats reserved for the Lady Patronesses when she spotted Frances a short distance away, conversing with an unfamiliar man, and went over to them. Frances would be delighted to hear that progress had been made on finding out what was going on with The Fifty Shades.
“Annabel!” Frances seemed pleased to see her. “May I present my brother, Glenrick? Alex, this is my good friend, Lady Fellbridge.”
She curtsied in response to his bow. Now that she was closer, she could see the family resemblance between him and Frances—the same straight, light brown hair, long noses, and compact build. He was younger than Frances, she knew—perhaps a few years older than she was herself.
“How pleasant to see you at Almack’s, sir,” she said. “I don’t recall your visiting before.”
He pretended to stagger, as if from a blow. “Not in the past year or two, but you once gave me two dances in this very room, before you were married. I am devastated that I made so little impression on you.”
Gracious—had they met? She didn’t recall having done so…and considering she’d written down the name of every eligible gentleman she had danced with during her Season in her diary, along with their salient features (alas, put on the fire when she married, for it would have made amusing reading today), she was certain she would have remembered dancing with the heir to a dukedom. “Then you must forgive me. I expect I did dance with you, but I was a shockingly green young lady in my first Season and had a regrettable tendency to forget most of the people I met. And after my marriage I was not often in town.”
“I hope that you will not be so quick to forget me this time, madam. I am sorry we never met after your marriage. We are kinsmen, you know: your husband and I were cousins on our mothers’ sides.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that. Freddy never said.” There was a great many things Freddy hadn’t told her; this was evidently another one.
“Yes,” Lord Glenrick said with a little sigh. “So very sad, his loss. But I am glad that you have returned to London. Frances has said many flattering things about you. I see that she has not exaggerated.”
“I never exaggerate, Alex! I’ve told you that at least a thousand times!” Frances tapped his arm with her fan. “Do you see what I must suffer with, Annabel?”
“Perhaps Lady Fellbridge would be kind enough to take me off your hands for an hour or two. Would you care to drive in the park tomorrow afternoon with me? Do say yes, to oblige my sister.” He smiled mischievously. “You can see what a good brother I am to her!”
“Yes, when it suits your own inclinations!” Frances retorted.
Annabel laughed. “I would be very happy to take you off Frances’ hands tomorrow, but I already have an engagement and don’t know what time I shall return.” She turned to Frances. “That is what I came to tell you—I am being taken to pay a call on—er, on that author we have been discussing.”
Her discretion was unnecessary. “Mr. Spruce! You found him?” Frances clutched at her arm. “Oh Annabel, you’re so clever! How did you do it?”
“I can’t take any credit for it. It seems Lord Quinceton actually knows the man and offered to bring me.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. All the pleased excitement drained from Frances’ face, and her shoulders drooped. “Quin’s taking you to see him? But why didn’t he tell me that he knows Mr. Spruce when we dined last night?”
“Perhaps because I had not yet decided to inflict any of you upon him?” Lord Quinceton’s voice drawled.
Lord Quinceton! For the first time she could recall, Annabel was glad to see him. “Good evening, sir,” she said, turning and finding herself actually smiling at him.
“Quin! Why didn’t you tell me you know Mr. Spruce, you bad creature!” Frances’ scold sounded more like a caress.
“You didn’t ask me. ’Evening, Glenrick. Your servant, ladies.” He bowed.
Lord Glenrick laughed. “You are a hand, Quinceton.”
“Quite possibly. Fellbridge, I have been sent to find you.” He held out his arm to her.
Glenrick raised an eyebrow. “Must you take Lady Fellbridge away when I am trying very hard to engage her to go driving with me?” He smiled at her. “As much as I like you, Quin, you are very much de trop just now.”
“Of course not,” Lord Quinceton said cordially, “if you would do me the favor of explaining to Sally Jersey why I was unable to bring one of her Lady Patronesses over to consult with her.”
“Oh, I didn’t know Sally was here. You must excuse me, Lord Glenrick. Frances, we’ll talk later.” Annabel hesitated, then took Lord Quinceton’s arm.
“I shall call on you very soon, Lady Fellbridge, and claim you for that drive. Depend on it!” Glenrick bowed and smiled warmly at her. But the marquis was already steering her away.
They left the ballroom and entered the card room. Annabel glanced around, puzzled; Sally usually preferred to establish herself in the ballroom, which was much livelier. “Is she here?”
“Hmm? Who?” Lord Quinceton sounded abstracted.
“Lady Jersey, of course.” She frowned and stopped walking. “Or did she really send you to find me?”
“Oh. No.” With a seeming effort, he turned his attention to her. “Invoking Sally Jersey’s name seemed the most likely way to extract you from the unsavory company you were keeping.”
“Unsavory!” Annabel’s voice had risen, and one or two of the card players glanced up at her. She pressed her lips together and kept silent till they had reached a less populous corner. “Pray, what do you mean by calling Lord Glenrick unsavory? Did you not dine with him just last evening?”
“Yes. But just because I am proof against him doesn’t mean you are. Keep away from Glenrick, Fellbridge. He’s not—” he hesitated. “He’s not a person it would add to your consequence to know.”
“I know it.” She sighed theatrically. “These ducal heirs can be so tiresomely encroaching.”
He didn’t smile. “Some of them, yes.”
She stared. “You are serious! How is he encroaching, if you please?”
“He’s making a nuisance of himself, trying to live in my pocket.”
“If it would not be impertinent to inquire—why should Glenrick toad-eat a—forgive me—a mere marquis?”
“It is somewhat mysterious to me, I admit.”
She took a breath, willing herself into calm. He was joking. He had to be. But he was also taking her to see Mr. Spruce tomorrow; she would not jeopardize that by tearing at him, just as Emily had cautioned. “I cannot perceive why I should find Lord Glenrick in the least alarming. I liked him. And his sister is a dear friend of mine. But—but I shall make note of what you say.”
“I suppose that’s the most I can ask for.”
As if he had the right to ask for anything from her! She looked up at him quickly; his face was stern and set, without the usual sardonic curve to his lips.
Very strange.
Mr. Spruce, as it happened, lived in Hampstead. Annabel thought she handled the not-inconsiderable journey with Lord Quinceton as well as could be hoped for.
He came for her promptly at noon, helped her into his handsome curricle with a quiet compliment on her appearance that to her surprise did not set her teeth on edge, and set his pair of match bays northward. It was a fine day and the streets were thronged, so Annabel gladly remained silent and let him concentrate on driving. It gave her further opportunity to think about their encounter the night before.
What had he meant by warning her off Lord Glenrick? She had liked the man, liked his easy manners and his gentle badinage with his sister. And liked his polite but frank admiration. He wasn’t a philanderer like the married Lord Ordway or a male cocotte like Lord Keene. She would have been delighted to go driving with him today if she had not been engaged to see Mr. Spruce and would still welcome his paying a call on her…but not with the same unalloyed pleasure in the wake of Lord Quinceton’s warning. Obviously he must know something about the man…but what? And why would it cause him to warn her, whom he must have noticed did not hold him in the greatest like? Did she dare bring it up today, where it would be difficult for him to evade her question?
“There’s really no need to maintain strict silence, Fellbridge. I am capable of making polite conversation, though you might not credit it,” he said after some twenty minutes.
Annabel felt herself flush and wished she could wrap herself in a nice, dark shadow. “I—I did not wish to distract you while the roads were so busy.”
“You put me in mind of a schoolroom miss on her best behavior.” His voice was full of restrained amusement. “Believe it or not, I am also capable of conversing politely and driving at the same time.”
“I am sorry. My husband…he disliked chatter when he drove. I would seem to be out of practice.”
More silence. Finally he said, “I am quite amenable to being practiced upon.”
“Yes…I…” Oh, heavens, what should she say? All at once she felt like the schoolroom miss he’d likened her to: her mind had gone horribly, whitely blank. It wasn’t very polite of him to tease her this way, but when had conventional politeness ever stopped him? “I have been…surprised to see you at Almack’s so often, sir.”
“I happen to find the company this spring unusually stimulating,” he replied promptly.
“Er, indeed.” What was she supposed to say to that? Unless—was—was he referring to her company? It seemed a distinct possibility; he must find needling her an excellent source of entertainment. Now of course would be the perfect time to ask him about Lord Glenrick, but she simply couldn’t. Then inspiration struck. “Have you known Mr. Spruce a long time?”
“A number of years. Incidentally, Emily Cowper was not very clear about the nature of the problem we are consulting him about. His books are disappearing, you say.”
Oh, dear. Well, it was bound to come up sooner or later. “Not all of them. Just the third volume of his most recent book—but yes.”
“Is someone buying them up? Stealing them?”
“No, not buying them. I suppose it would be considered theft. They’re vanishing.” She braced herself.
“Vanishing.” His voice was politely incredulous. She was grateful for the “polite” part.
“Yes. Emily’s copy was in her bedchamber Saturday night and gone Sunday morning. She isn’t the only one. Booksellers say that they’re disappearing from their shops between one minute and the next.”
“Literally vanishing.” This time he turned to look at her.
“Yes.”
He was silent for several minutes. “If it were anyone but you, Fellbridge, I would assume I was being hoaxed,” he finally said.
Another compliment? He would put her quite out of countenance shortly. “It’s no hoax, Lord Quinceton.”
“No. That’s the damnable thing.”
He remained silent until they pulled up before a sturdy, square house, built across a lane from the edge of Hampstead Heath. A glimpse of a neatly-kept garden behind it was just visible, but before it was the bleak, empty wilderness. Annabel wondered if Mr. Spruce’s desk looked out over the heath; it would be a most useful source of inspiration for his novels.
A groom came running from the side of the house to take the horses, and Lord Quinceton helped Annabel alight. He did not release her hand but led her up the shallow steps to the front door and plied the knocker.
The door was opened by a dignified, white-haired housekeeper wearing a starched white cap. When she saw the marquis, her sober expression was quickly replaced by a broad smile.
“Your lordship!” She opened the door to admit them. “My word, what a pleasant surprise!”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Barnes. Is Mr. Spruce at home? I should like him to meet Lady Fellbridge.” Lord Quinceton advanced into the front hall, square like the house itself and furnished with neat propriety.
The housekeeper dropped Annabel a quick curtsy. “Your ladyship,” she murmured, then looked back to the marquis. There was a small hesitation in her manner, but she nodded. “Certainly, sir. Will you wait in the Small Parlor, please?”
“Thank you. How are Master James and the little ones faring at school?”
“Oh, famously, my lord. Master James was cramming for his examinations when he was home at Easter. He still has his heart set on Cambridge,” Mrs. Barnes said, leading them into a small, comfortable room. “Master John and Master Geoffrey are going on well. Master Geoffrey has decided that there will be a place for him on the Rugby Eleven someday.”
“As soon as he’s taller than the wicket,” Lord Quinceton said with a chuckle.
She smiled. “Oh, don’t let him hear you say that, sir, or he’ll be forced to knock you down.” She swept aside the curtains and opened the windows to let in the soft afternoon air, then left them.
Lord Quinceton approached a chair by the empty hearth, removing his hat and gloves. “What is it, Fellbridge? You have a certain look on your face.”
Annabel sat down on the sofa opposite him. “I didn’t understand that Mr. Spruce was your friend,” she said, reluctantly. “I assumed you were merely acquaintances.” It was strange to think of him having friends, people with whom he was on comfortable, even confidential, terms. She was far too used to viewing him in an adversarial light to admit that such a thing might be possible.
“His youngest son is my godson. Why? Am I not permitted friends?” he asked, coming uncomfortably close to echoing her thoughts. “Some people enjoy my company, you may be astonished to hear.”
Annabel felt her cheeks grow warm, but before she was able to frame a response, the door opened. A small woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties and dressed in a quietly elegant gray silk dress, entered the room; she put Annabel in mind of a robin, with her dark hair, fresh complexion, and air of friendly curiosity.
“Geoffrey!” She crossed the room toward him, her hands outstretched. “Why did you not send word you were coming? It’s been a ridiculous amount of time since your last visit. The boys were sorry not to see you over their holidays.”
Lord Quinceton had risen and took her hands, smiled down at her, and bent to kiss her cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t have the chance to see them, Eliza. Mrs. Barnes tells me my namesake has gone cricket-mad. Are you all well?”
“Yes, thank you. And ‘mad’ is precisely the word. I feared for my windows the entire time he was home.” She half-turned so that she could meet Annabel’s eyes. “Please excuse us, ma’am. My lord Quinceton is for all intents a member of the family.”
Annabel rose. “No excuses required, Mrs. Spruce. How do you do?”
The woman hesitated and looked up at Lord Quinceton. He cleared his throat, and Annabel saw a distinctly mischievous twinkle enter his eye. “Actually, Fellbridge, that’s not quite it. May I make E.C. Spruce known to you?”