At long last, the ladies filed out of the ballroom. Some headed upstairs for bed, but the majority were bound for the Ian Fleming Lounge where the bartenders waited to serve the evening’s specialty cocktail. Called Cherub’s Cups, the drink was a blend of elderflower liqueur, vodka, and muddled strawberry topped by a splash of champagne.
Except for Eloise, the Cover Girls were too tired to imbibe. They hugged Jane, bid her good night, and left.
“Look at me. All dressed up with nowhere to go,” Eloise said and flashed Jane a conspiratorial smile. She sat with her injured foot propped on a chair, watching the staff disassemble the runway. Lachlan, who’d fetched a bag of frozen peas from the kitchen and had used gauze to secure the bag to Eloise’s ankle, was now dragging a large piece of wood backstage. “Perhaps your Mr. Lachlan would like to buy me a drink to ease my pain.”
“I’m sure he would.” Jane squeezed her friend’s shoulder and murmured, “Just be careful, okay?”
“Don’t worry. I just want to get to know him better, and I think the way to do that is to talk books with him. Since that’s my favorite subject, I can’t imagine a better way to round out what’s already been a very exciting evening.”
“Gavin is bringing you the crutches he used following his knee surgery.” Jane gave Eloise an innocent look. “Unless you prefer to be carried all over Storyton, that is?”
“I don’t want to overplay my Damsel in Distress card. Besides, someone will have to drive me home.” She wiggled her brows until Jane had to laugh.
“Have fun, Eloise. You deserve it.”
“So do you!” Eloise called as Jane crossed the room to where Lachlan stacked the last of the folding chairs onto a wheeled dolly.
“Thank you for participating in the fashion show,” Jane said. “I hope it wasn’t too awful for you.”
Lachlan shrugged. “It was the best way for me to keep an eye on the guests while staying close to you. Should I take up a position by one of the exits now? Maybe Sinclair or Butterworth need a break.”
Jane shook her head. “I’d rather you mingle with the guests for a bit—observe those of our suspects tossing back cocktails in the Ian Fleming Lounge. The alcohol may loosen their tongues.” She raised her finger. “And if I could beg one more favor of you tonight? Eloise Alcott will need a ride home. I’d take care of it myself, but I’ll be engaged for the next hour or so.”
If Lachlan knew about her date with Edwin, he gave no sign of it. “I’d be glad to assist Ms. Alcott,” he said and strode to where Eloise was sitting in a pool of candlelight.
With Lachlan and Eloise gone, Jane was alone in the ballroom. For a brief moment, she felt a stirring of alarm. The candles had burned low and dark shadows grew in the corners and along the perimeter of the vast space.
Just then, the members of the Storyton Band walked onstage, carrying chairs and music stands. After waving to Jane, they unpacked their instruments, opened their sheet music, and ran through some scales. Four men pushed a piano to stage left while a young woman followed behind with a stool. The conductor, Butterworth’s understudy, was the last to appear. He bowed to Jane, turned to face his musicians, and then tapped his baton against the edge of his music stand.
“You were supposed to wear your silver dress,” Edwin said from behind Jane, startling her.
“No lady can resist showing off a new gown. But if it’s not to your liking, I could go home and change,” she quipped.
“I wouldn’t let you go now for all the world,” he said, closing the space between them. “I’ve waited too long for this dance, Jane Steward, Mistress of Storyton Hall.”
He whispered her name as though it were a line of poetry, and Jane longed to hear him say it over and over again. She raised her arms, holding one hand out for him to take while her other hand came to rest on his broad shoulder.
The band struck up the opening notes of “Waves of the Danube,” and Edwin and Jane began to waltz inside the circle of candelabras.
Neither Jane nor Edwin spoke. For Jane, it was enough to hear the music fill the room. The melody was as delicate and joyful as a first snowfall or a shower of cherry blossoms in spring. Edwin’s palm on her back felt warm and solid, but he cradled her hand in his as though it were made of glass. He led her with such confidence that she didn’t have to think about where to step. They moved as one body.
The band swept them up in Chopin’s “Grande Valse,” Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings, and the airy strains of Strauss’s “Tales from the Vienna Woods.”
As they waltzed, Jane and Edwin exchanged snippets of conversation. Edwin told Jane about how he and Sam had searched for Nigel Poindexter without finding any trace of him in the woods.
“Considering the rain and the cold, that doesn’t come as a surprise,” Jane said, wishing Edwin hadn’t brought up Nigel. She wanted to keep a bubble around this portion of the night, to prevent her real-life problems from infecting her fantasy. But then, she realized that she’d never get close to Edwin Alcott unless he and she talked about what shaped their lives, both past and present.
“The only person I’ve encountered as of late has been Mr. Lachlan,” Edwin said, slowing his pace in time with the music. “Like me, he also keeps odd hours.”
Jane smiled. “I guess you’re both immune to winter mornings. Mr. Lachlan is a retired Army Ranger, so I’m sure he’s braved harsher conditions than this. And you?” She stared into his eyes, which were dark pools in the dim light. “I get the feeling that your years of travel have taught you to survive without the creature comforts, but why do you choose to go out at such an hour?”
“I revel in the silence,” Edwin said. “The world is so noisy. I always look for places where I can be alone, no matter where I go. A deep cave, a lake hemmed in by mountains, a primeval forest, an ocean of sand.”
Jane, who also cherished her rare moments of quiet, nodded in understanding. “Whenever I can seize time to myself, I use it to read.” She swept her arm out. “My whole world is here, so my travels occur in my imagination. My life must seem rather dull to you.”
Edwin shook his head. “There’s nothing dull about you, Jane. You are an extraordinary woman.”
He spun her around until they were in the center of the room. Flushed from exertion and pleasure, Jane wished the night would never end. However, she couldn’t help but notice how low the candles had burned. The room was so dark that the doorway had faded into black and the only thing Jane could see clearly was Edwin’s face.
“One last song,” Edwin whispered. He signaled to the conductor and the band began to play very quietly.
Edwin lowered his head so that his cheek rested against Jane’s as they danced. His skin felt hot against hers and Jane was caught off guard by the rush of longing that flooded through her. She hadn’t wanted another man since her husband’s passing, but she wanted this man. She wanted Edwin Alcott.
Jane’s hand strayed from his shoulder, her fingers plunging into his thick waves of hair. In response, he pressed her closer and closer, until the gap between their bodies was erased.
As though from a great distance, Jane heard the waltz from “Sleeping Beauty.” While the notes tiptoed through the air, Edwin twirled her round and round and then dipped her toward the floor in a low, graceful arc. He leaned over at the same time, and Jane instinctively stiffened.
“Let go,” Edwin murmured.
Closing her eyes, Jane went limp in his arms. She knew he was powerful enough to hold her and it was a thrill to put complete trust in his strength.
Edwin kissed her then. A long, slow kiss that was as soft and passionate as music. It made Jane’s body sing. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he slowly raised her to her feet. That’s when Jane felt a whisper of cool air on her décolletage. Far too low on her décolletage.
Jane’s attention was divided. She wanted nothing more than to focus on the feel of Edwin’s lips on her lips and the pressure of his hands on her back, but she was also acutely aware of her exposed skin.
Breaking off the kiss, Jane rested her cheek against Edwin’s and cast a surreptitious glance down at her chest. The swell of her breasts was fuller than before and her owl tattoo was no longer concealed by the gown’s bodice.
The song came to an end at this unfortunate moment and Edwin straightened. It was a slight movement, but enough to create a small space between them. Jane tugged the gathered silk up over her chest, but not before Edwin’s eyes widened in surprise.
He quickly turned away and gave the band a deep bow of appreciation.
When Jane’s gown was suitably repositioned, she applauded the musicians. They smiled, bowed in return, and put away their instruments. Jane wondered how long she and Edwin had been dancing. The candles were nothing but stubs and though Jane was tired, Edwin’s kiss had lit a fire in her. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to sleep.
Edwin took her by the hand. “Shall we blow out the candles?”
Jane’s embarrassment over her dress mishap vanished. She and Edwin blew out all the candles save for one. Edwin plucked this taper from its holder and led Jane to the door.
Once bundled in their winter coats, they crossed the wide swath of lawn toward Jane’s house. At her door, Jane blew out the stump of the candle.
“As Edna St. Vincent Millay said, ‘My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—It gives a lovely light.’”
Edwin took one of the curls framing her face and gently wove it through his fingers. “Yes, it does.”
“Now you know my secret,” Jane whispered. “You saw my tattoo.”
“We all have secrets.” Edwin reached for her hand. He stroked the back of it and then turned it over and pressed a kiss in the center of her palm. A jolt of electricity coursed through Jane’s arm. She was tempted to grab hold of him, to keep him from leaving, but Edwin released her hand and donned his top hat. “Thank you for an unforgettable evening. It was worth the wait.”
“It was,” Jane answered with a smile. “Good night.”
As Edwin melted into the shadows, Jane couldn’t help but wonder what secrets he kept.
* * *
By the next morning, Valentine’s Day, it seemed to Jane that most of Storyton Hall’s guests had forgotten about Rosamund York. The ladies rose late, undoubtedly needing to sleep off the effects of their late-night cocktails, and when they appeared in the lobby, it was plain to see they’d taken great pains over their appearance.
By eleven o’clock, every chair was occupied by women sipping coffee or tea. Though they all had books open on their laps, they couldn’t keep their eyes on the page. As Jane moved through the lobby, stopping to ask how the women had enjoyed the fashion show, it became clear that her guests were all waiting for the male cover model contestants to appear.
“I should have gone to the silhouette workshop,” a woman lamented to Jane. “Will the new guests arrive before or after lunch?”
“They’ll start checking in this afternoon,” Jane said.
The woman closed her book and got to her feet. “I’m going to attend the make-your-own dance card workshop. I hope every line of my card will be filled out by a smoldering hunk.” She poked the woman next to her on the shoulder. “Are you coming, Lisa?”
“Go on, I’ll catch up,” Lisa said. Setting her teacup aside, she smiled at Jane. “I may be happily married, but I’ve been dreaming of the Ladies’ Choice Valentine’s dance for weeks. We can partner with any man in the room, right?”
Jane nodded. “You can choose from a wide range of men. Those from the village and Storyton Hall, and of course, the contestants from the cover model search as well.”
Lisa shivered with delight. “Forgive my lack of tact, Ms. Steward, but if every author in this hotel dropped dead, I still wouldn’t pack my bags and leave. Nothing’s going to stop me from dancing with my own Fabio. Nothing!”
And with that, she pressed her romance novel to her chest and hurried after her friend.
Jane did her best to check items off her to-do list, but between Nigel’s continued disappearance and memories of her date with Edwin, her plans to review the spring bookings went unfulfilled.
Ignoring the spreadsheet on her computer screen, she went across the hall where she found Sterling gazing at the bank of security monitors.
“Did you get any sleep?” she asked, taking note of the dark half-moons beneath his eyes.
“A few hours,” he said. “I reviewed the footage of Mr. Poindexter entering the staircase a dozen times. No cameras pick him up from that point and we’ve searched the basements, attics, and servant’s passageways. I can only come to one conclusion.”
“Which is?”
“He exited through the loading dock door and made an escape in a delivery truck. If he crouched low enough to stay out of the camera’s viewpoint, we’d have no way of knowing when he left the resort. We had a multitude of deliveries yesterday from the Potter’s Shed, the Pickled Pig, and UPS.”
Jane frowned. “But even if Nigel hid in the back of a truck, how would he get out of Storyton? Of those three deliveries, only the UPS truck goes over the mountain.” She glanced at her watch. “We’ve had the same driver for over a year now. I’ll ask him if he could have had a stowaway yesterday.”
“Mr. Butterworth and I will speak with the local men,” Sterling said.
Jane pointed at the screens. “And what of our female suspects? Have you observed their behavior?”
“They’ve been perfectly charming ladies, every one of them. Even Ms. Stone seems to have lost her ire following Ms. York’s death.”
Jane grew thoughtful. “Maybe her fury was spent killing Rosamund. As far as I’m concerned, none of them are in the clear.” She put a hand on Sterling’s shoulder. “You should get some rest. You have two hours before your first trip to the train station, and I’m sure my uncle would be more than happy to cover for you.”
“I don’t doubt that.” Sterling smiled, but his smile faltered and then vanished altogether. “Actually, he and your aunt would like to speak with you. They’re in their apartments.” He turned back to the screens. “I believe Mr. Sinclair is also present. He found a definitive link between Mr. Poindexter and Ms. York.”
Thrilled by the idea that they might have some insight into Nigel’s reason for killing Rosamund, Jane rushed upstairs.
Her aunt was in the living room, an exquisite heart-shaped wreath made of paper roses resting on her lap.
“How lovely!” Jane cried. “Are the flowers made of book pages? And which novel?”
“You’d have to ask Mr. Alcott that question,” Aunt Octavia answered testily. “He sent this on behalf of himself and his sister.”
Ignoring her aunt’s dour look, Jane reached for the wreath and examined its petals. “It’s poetry. Examples of different poetry. This one’s Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and I believe this line about spring’s first rose was written by E. E. Cummings. And here’s ‘One Flower’ by Jack Kerouac. Someone knows what makes good verse.”
“Someone knows a great deal about books,” Aunt Octavia said derisively.
“You’re acting like that’s a bad thing.” Jane laid the wreath on the coffee table. “Are you upset that book pages were used to make this wreath or because I danced with Edwin last night?”
Even though Jane had spoken gently, Aunt Octavia’s eyes darkened in anger. “I’ve told you before that Mr. Alcott isn’t a suitable partner, but you refuse to listen.”
“It was just a dance,” Jane said, stunned by her aunt’s reaction.
Aunt Octavia snorted. “You and Mr. Alcott were the only couple dancing in a candlelit ballroom. If that wasn’t a scene set for romance, then I don’t know what is.”
Jane’s ire rose. “And what of it? I’ve been alone for seven years! I need—”
Sinclair appeared from the direction of Uncle Aloysius’s office and cleared his throat. Shooting an apologetic glance at Aunt Octavia, he said, “Pardon me, but before we’re further sidetracked by the subject of waltzes, allow me to show this to Jane.”
He proffered a sheet of paper. “Miss Jane, these are all the conferences Mr. Poindexter and Ms. York simultaneously attended. Note how many there are in the beginning.”
As Jane studied the printout, her ill temper subsided. “This can’t be coincidence.”
Sinclair shook his head. “I don’t think so either. I also looked up every article he wrote during this period—we’re talking two years’ worth of conferences—and Mr. Poindexter barely published a word. In fact, I’m not sure how he made a living as he didn’t seem to have regular employment.”
Jane sank into the sofa opposite Aunt Octavia and sighed. “A mystery within a mystery.”
“There’s more,” Sinclair said, placing a second sheet of paper on top of the first. “Rosamund York must be a pseudonym because she doesn’t exist in government databases. I’ve yet to discover her real name. I even placed a call to her editor and was met with stony silence. Rosamund York didn’t come into existence until the year prior to the publication of her first book. Because Ms. York doesn’t have a literary agent, only certain members of her publishing company know her legal name. Without that name, I cannot search for other places where she might have crossed paths with Mr. Poindexter.”
“Her real name could be the key to solving this whole puzzle,” Jane said. “She might have wronged Nigel—or someone else—before she became Rosamund York.”
Sinclair nodded. “An assistant editor from Heartfire, Ms. York’s publishing company, will be arriving later this afternoon. Perhaps she can be persuaded to help us.”
“If she refuses, she can talk to Sheriff Evans instead.” Jane’s anger sparked into life again. “Once I see that she and the sheriff are comfortably settled in the William Faulkner, I’ll creep behind the wall and listen to every word they say.”
“It may come to that,” Sinclair said. “In the meantime, Mr. Sterling and Mr. Butterworth will interview anyone who made deliveries to Storyton Hall on the day Mr. Poindexter disappeared. Someone must have seen something.”
Sinclair moved to leave, but Jane held out her hand. “Would you stay for a moment? Please?”
Jane then called her uncle into the room. Facing the three people who’d been her mentors, advisors, and surrogate parents, she said, “It’s time for all of you to tell me about Edwin Alcott. Why the stern warnings, Aunt Octavia? Why the sideways glances from you and the other Fins, Sinclair? Whenever Edwin enters Storyton Hall, there’s a noticeable chill. What do the three of you know about him that I don’t?”
Aunt Octavia looked at Uncle Aloysius and said, “We have no choice. Tell her.”
When her uncle’s kind eyes filled with sorrow, Jane was suddenly afraid of what he had to say.
“We didn’t think he’d stay in Storyton, my girl,” her uncle said solemnly. “And we never imagined he’d try to win your heart. If we’d seen that coming, we would have spoken sooner. I see that we were foolish to have waited this long.”
“What has he done?” Jane’s voice was thin with anxiety.
Aunt Octavia held out her hands in supplication. “Because he’s your best friend’s brother, we decided not to elaborate on his nature when he first returned. We didn’t want the knowledge to taint your friendship with Eloise. You two have been like sisters since you came back to Storyton all those years ago.” She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her mauve velvet housedress and wound it through her fingers. “You’re falling for him, Jane, and the man isn’t worthy of licking your boots.”
Jane growled in exasperation. “Stop dancing around the subject. What sins has he committed?”
“The most deplorable kind,” her uncle muttered.
“He is the worst of men,” Aunt Octavia said, her mouth pursed in disgust. “A book thief.”
Picturing Edwin hoarding a stack of overdue library books, Jane nearly laughed. “What are you saying—that he steals books from shops and libraries? I find that hard to believe when his sister owns a bookstore.”
“We’re not talking about a boy filching a comic book,” Sinclair said gravely. “Mr. Alcott is a notorious and highly-skilled thief. He steals extremely rare books. Irreplaceable books. Invaluable books. Books worth more than gold and jewels.”
Jane stared at Sinclair in astonishment. “Books like . . .” She pointed at the ceiling. “Like ours?”
“Yes,” Sinclair said.
“I thought he was a travel writer!” Jane spluttered.
Aunt Octavia smirked. “One cannot own properties around the world on a travel writer’s salary. Free and clear, I might add. Mr. Alcott also bought his new café outright. He’s a wealthy man, Jane.”
Unable to sit still a moment longer, Jane began to pace the floor. “I can’t believe this. A book thief? Who does he work for?”
“He’s a freelancer,” Uncle Aloysius said. “Or perhaps, I should use the term mercenary. In short, he’s paid by the job. Very handsomely too. He goes by the name the Templar. I believe this is a nod to the Knights Templar, though why he choose that moniker is beyond me.” He turned his gaze to the hearth, where a crackling fire created an atmosphere of somnolent warmth that was, to Jane, completely incongruent with their conversation. Her heart felt as cold and heavy as a dropped anchor.
Her uncle continued his narrative. “It can take months for the Templar to steal one book. First, he must establish himself in the region of the world where the book is located by finding employment and befriending the locals. Next, he studies, observes, and plans. Once he’s arranged for a suitable distraction to take place, he strikes. He’s as silent as a shadow and as patient as water wearing down stone.”
“Has he ever been caught?” Jane asked. She desperately wanted the image her uncle was painting to be untrue, but even as she fought against it, she could picture Edwin creeping through a museum at night with the stealth of a panther. How many times had she compared him to a feline on the prowl? “Does he have an arrest record?”
Sinclair straightened his paisley bow tie. “He does.”
“I’d like to see it,” Jane said, pressing her hands to her throbbing temple. “But not now. I need to be alone. I’m going upstairs.”
The lever that would release the secret door leading to Storyton’s hidden library was hidden behind an air return vent at the back of Aunt Octavia’s walk-in closet. Without saying another word, Jane rushed into her aunt’s room, shoved aside the colorful dresses, and pushed a metal shoe rack out of the way. Using the penknife tucked inside one of her aunt’s slippers, Jane unscrewed the vent panel, tossed it on the carpet, and then removed the key she wore on a long chain around her neck. The key stayed hidden under her shirt and she only took it off when she showered or slept.
Jane slid the key in the keyhole with one hand and turned it clockwise while moving the lever handle next to the keyhole counterclockwise. She heard gears spinning deep inside the wall.
She returned to the living room, where the china cabinet had swung away from the wall to reveal a vertical slash of darkness. Feeling the eyes of her aunt, uncle, and Sinclair on her, Jane plunged into the void.
There was a battery-powered lantern on the floor just inside the opening and Jane’s fingers closed over the handle. Switching it on, she began to climb the narrow, spiral stairs leading to the turret room.
She hurried upward, swatting impatiently at cobwebs. She’d never felt such an acute need for solitude, for a silent sanctuary.
At the top of the stairs, she pushed open the metal door, shut it behind her, and sagged against it. Her chest was tight with anger and something that felt like grief. She’d been falling for Edwin Alcott, but he was not the man she believed him to be. The man who’d volunteered to hunt for Nigel Poindexter. The man who’d made breakfast for her sons. The man who’d kissed her in the center of a ring of candlelight. He was not Jane’s Mr. Darcy. He was a rogue and a liar. Worst of all, he was a book thief.
As tears burned down Jane’s cheeks, she set the lantern on the table in the center of the room, pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves, and moved to the wall of drawers. Though the space looked like a bank’s safety deposit vault, Jane could sense the presence of many books. Just thinking of all the stories tucked safely away in this fireproof, temperature-controlled room made Jane’s world less imbalanced.
Wiping away her tears with the back of her glove, she opened a random drawer and reached inside.
The treasure she pulled out was a hand printed copy of T.S. Eliot’s poems. Jane drank in the beautiful engravings in the margins, replaced the book, and thumbed through a diary belonging to Ralph Waldo Emerson next. The words of the long dead writers spun a cocoon of warmth and safety around her, softening the raw edge of her pain.
After spending another thirty minutes studying the contents of the drawer, which included a fragment of Latin script encased in Plexiglas and bearing the label: ENNIUS (c. 239 BC–c. 169 BC, Father of Roman Poetry), Jane’s fingers backtracked to a slim volume of George Eliot’s poems. A laminated bookmark tucked inside the front cover read, AKA MARY ANN EVANS. Jane remembered that George Eliot was the male pseudonym for the female writer, Mary Ann Evans.
Jane sat down at the table and gently leafed through the book. “You used a man’s name so that you’d be taken seriously. Has a man ever used a woman’s name? I wonder . . .”
Replacing the poetry book, Jane closed the drawer and removed her gloves. She picked up the lantern, moved to the door, and turned to face the room again.
“As long as I live and breathe, Edwin Alcott will never step foot in this library,” she vowed to the silent space. “I will not let my guard down again. I swear it.”
She closed the heavy door, descended the staircase, and reentered the living room.
“Are you all right, my girl?” Uncle Aloysius asked, his eyes filled with concern.
“I will be,” Jane said firmly. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s a lead I’d like to pursue before our next round of guests arrive.”
Aunt Octavia arched her brows. “What of Mr. Alcott?”
Jane drew herself up to her full height. “Mr. Alcott will learn to keep his distance from Storyton Hall. If he doesn’t, he may end up with an arrow sticking out of his chest. And I’m not talking about Cupid’s arrow, but one bearing Storyton’s gold-and-blue fletching. Like that cursed little cherub, I’ve become a damned good shot.”