Amara Royce Read online

  To his credit, Lord Devin didn’t seem to respond in any way to the girl’s feminine wiles. He maintained a consistently superior, mildly sardonic tone and demeanor. Normally, she denigrated such lordly behavior, yet she could swear she glimpsed humor in his eyes when he glanced her way. Yet the mother and daughter either didn’t notice or steadfastly remained undaunted. Then he looked at her directly with a glint of combined mischief and entreaty. She repressed a shiver as she recalled the warmth of his body against hers and responded to his tacit request, though not as he might expect.

  “Pardon my interruption.” She had to get back to the business at hand. “But, madam, would you like me to bring your books up to the register for you? So you can continue your conversation unencumbered.” Receiving an affirmative response, she turned to Margaret. “These are all lovely, but perhaps you might also be interested in more entertaining reading. I have here a few titles that are currently popular, including the newer edition of Wuthering Heights, the one revealing the identity of the Bell authors.” The girl’s eyes finally tore away from the strapping gentleman and glinted with genuine interest at the reference to Wuthering Heights but her mother intervened.

  “No, my Margaret doesn’t have time for frivolous reading, I assure you. Ours is a Bible-reading home,” the mother said. “As it is, these prices are steep for honest, upstanding families who have serious financial responsibilities.” More snideness. Honoria prided herself on being a reasonable businesswoman, striving to meet every customer’s needs, whether enlightening or entertaining, and at a reasonable cost; she would endure personal affront but would not let insults to her business go unchallenged.

  “I agree, madam. I do strive to keep prices as low as possible and yet still make some kind of living. It is my policy to charge no more than one percent above the publisher prices. It’s a terribly difficult business.” Honoria hoped she kept the venom out of her tone as Margaret’s mother turned her attention back to Lord Devin. She raised a brow fleetingly at him and received an amused tilt of his head as he squared his shoulders to defend himself against the maternal onslaught. As she wrote out the sale back at the register, the little group’s voices ranged and flowed, the mother’s voice always the loudest.

  “Well,” said the mother, finally sputtering to an end of her verbal dysentery, “Margaret, come bid Lord Devin a good day. Sir, I do hope you find the ideal gift for your mother. That shee-hair-a-zod, is that German? It sounds quite interesting.” As soon as they’d taken their leave of him, the mother ushered her daughter to the register to collect their purchase. The mother gave what seemed like an inappropriately casual wave of her fingers at the gentleman as they pushed out the door.

  The click of the door latching suddenly, inexplicably, made Honoria uncomfortable. She was preternaturally aware of the Viscount Devin, the only remaining customer, striding to the register. He was surprisingly young, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six, but then she caught herself—why should that be a surprise? What, from their limited interaction thus far, would give the impression he was older? His barely restrained disdain for everyone around him, perhaps? Not that such behavior suggested true maturity, just a level of assumption she associated with older men. His black hair still slightly disarrayed from their collision, she felt the impulse to smooth it down. But as she glanced down at her hands, wondering where the devil that thought came from, she noticed the not-so-fine lines on her knuckles, the bagginess of her skin, and she balled up her fists and slid them beneath the counter. Immediately, she berated herself for such vanity and forced her hands to grasp a ledger and place it softly on top of the counter. Really, Nora! What can you be thinking?

  She looked up at his face as he arrived, standing before her with an air of ownership and expectation, as if all the world bowed to his will. As if anything he wanted were his for the taking. Her breasts tingled anew, her skin remembering the contours of his face. She was shocked at her response, unfamiliar and unwelcome. A chit like Margaret could behave fancifully, but that a woman of forty should react in such a way! The human body could be so wayward and pathetic. Get a grip, Nora!

  It was nearly dinnertime. She hoped the young gentleman wouldn’t take long. She still had plenty to do in the back. Obligatory curtsy, professional smile, placid tone. Onward.

  “My lord, if you don’t mind my overhearing, if you are interested in the Scheherazade stories, I do happen to have a copy of Edward Lane’s One Thousand and One Nights. As you might imagine, I couldn’t stock the twelve-volume French version.”

  “The Lane version will be fine. Thank you, Mrs.—?”

  By this time, he’d reached the counter, and she had to tilt her head back to look up at his face. Yet her eyes didn’t focus on him, not when her instincts warned her to quell the silly emotions fluttering through her.

  “Mrs. Malcolm Duchamp, my lord,” she said, addressing the light fixture beyond his head. “I am the proprietress here. It is my pleasure to serve you. I’ll be right back with your book.”

  Before she could step from behind the counter, he said, “If it truly were your pleasure to serve me, you would have come to my aid back there.”

  He glanced behind him to follow her gaze, making her self-conscious about her avoidance of him. How rude of her. When she finally looked directly at him, her cheeks warmed at his eyes and his words, yet another unfamiliar sensation. All the air seemed to be sucked from the room. It would be a relief to leave his presence for a brief reprieve.

  “Such services are not in my purview. I would happily recommend books to enlighten and entertain; I could perhaps see if there are any specifically regarding how to avoid matchmaking mothers.”

  “I could think of other, more entertaining fare.”

  Despite his lack of inflection, she read innuendo in his statement but quickly dismissed it as her own oversensitivity based on unfortunate experience. His behavior was really beyond reproach.

  “I’ll get that Scheherazade.” She made a hasty retreat to the back room.

  When she returned with the sumptuously bound volume, he asked, “Duchamp? How did you come to be attached to Evans Books?”

  His query surprised her, adverse as he supposedly was to idle chatter. She couldn’t imagine he would be interested in the lineage of a common bookshop.

  “Duchamp is my married name. My father, Sir Samuel Evans, was the owner and operator of Evans Books until he died twenty-two years ago. I served as his assistant for many, many years before taking over the business myself.”

  “I see. How unusual for a baronet to go into commerce.” The distaste in his voice was clear. No titled gentleman in his right mind would stoop to the level of a common merchant. “And you run the shop yourself? Independently?”

  Hairs at the back of her neck bristled. She nodded, concentrating on writing up his purchase, trying to mask her reluctance to delve into her family history. If he openly denigrated her father, their business acquaintance would be short indeed.

  “You don’t employ any help? What of your husband? Does he take an active role? Does he approve of your activities?”

  She shook her head at the rush of questions, at the audacity of his inquiry, having difficulty focusing on the numbers in front of her and adding them for the third time in a row. When she managed to separate his questions into individual pieces, she said, “I fail to see how my shop could be of such interest to you, my lord. I can assure you that I run it impeccably. I have a delivery boy in the afternoons. That is my only help, but it is quite manageable for me. As for my husband and his approval . . .” Here she worked very hard to temper her annoyance at his impertinence and presumption. After all, it wasn’t unusual, given her circumstances. “My husband passed many years ago.”

  “My condolences.” He did not, however, apologize for his forwardness. “How interesting,” he continued, as he picked up his purchase and turned the volume in his hands. “This is a handsome edition of Lane. Have you read it?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I
read a copy when they first arrived. One of the unparalleled pleasures of this business, I suppose.”

  “What did you think of it?”

  Surprised by the question, simple as it was, Honoria looked up at him and noticed for the first time how strikingly green his eyes were, like new oak leaves in spring. She forgot his question. When he repeated it, his demeanor indicated it wasn’t an idle question; he wanted an answer. Every day, she offered recommendations based on individual purchases, but no one stopped to ask her what she herself read or preferred. It was her role to steer conversations with clients; being on the receiving end left her unnervingly open to the unexpected. It took a moment for her to compose a moderate response.

  “Yes, well,” she said, hesitatingly, “it’s so very fantastical. So much variety and exoticism.” Lord Devin grimaced for a moment, so quickly she thought she might have imagined it.

  “You don’t find the fantasies extreme? Unrealistic?”

  How can we really tell what is unrealistic? she thought. Some children have seen horrors no one should ever see, that no one would ever believe. Unrealistic they might seem, but true nonetheless. She shuddered but kept these thoughts to herself. Instead, she responded, “Well, of course. They’re intended as such, to catch the attention of a jaded king. What binds them to our world, as I’m sure you know, is Scheherazade herself. That is, the legend of such a storyteller, one with the creative power to deflect the vengeance of a ruthless king with simply her words—what a dream such a gift would be.”

  She looked out the shop windows, lost in thought.

  “But?” Lord Devin prompted with an open palm. It was terribly kind for him to indulge her in such conversation, when he surely had more important business and powerful people to attend to. It must be such a bore for him. She couldn’t imagine why he lingered here in idle literary conversation. The gliding motion of his hand distracted her. His long, graceful fingers, encased in pristine gloves, seemed so out of place here.

  “Oh, but the brutality. So much of it against women and children, powerless and weak.”

  “You contradict yourself. You just said Scheherazade herself is a paragon of cleverness and ingenuity. Isn’t that power in the end?” Lord Devin focused on her with an intensity she couldn’t interpret. Those spring eyes were darkening to the emerald of summer grass. It had been a long day, and obviously her fancy was running away with her.

  “Yes, but how sad that the heroine must use such trickery to protect herself.” Again, feeling discomfort in his presence, she slipped back into her professional persona. That was when she realized she hadn’t finished writing up his receipt. No wonder he hadn’t left. How much of a flibbertigibbet am I today? “Shall I wrap this for you and deliver it directly to your mother?”

  “Have it delivered to me at Devin House in Eaton Square. I would like to give it to my mother in person.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Accustomed as she was to customers being curt and overbearing, she gritted her teeth nonetheless at his orders. The trouble was she didn’t think he was being rude or inappropriate, and yet his tone rankled her anyway. “Will there be anything for you? Might I interest you in one of these abolitionist pamphlets? It is edifying. Come to think of it, this might be a reasonable base to balance out Mr. Lane’s rather acidic view of Negroes in One Thousand and One Nights. I highly doubt his tone toward that group is true to the original story.”

  “Of course, please add that and this labor treatise to my purchase. I’m curious. Are these bindings done in-house?” He glanced around the shop.

  “Yes, we do offer bookbinding services. The machinery is in back. Mostly, we handle minor repairs. We can also do limited printing orders, mostly signs and pamphlets. Why do you ask?”

  “My family has some books that have seen rough usage and want fresh binding.”

  “If you bring them in, I would be happy to estimate the cost of rebinding.”

  “Just so,” he replied. At the completion of the transaction, he added, “I am pleased to see you have recovered easily from your little fall.” Amusement lit his eyes for a moment, or perhaps she just imagined it.

  “Yes, thank you, my lord.” My boy would be more likely, despite the strange little flutter in her belly and that now-embarrassingly recurring sensation in her nipples, as if they had a memory of their own. These unusually extreme pitches of emotion unnerved her. These silly manifestations would subside, she was certain, after his lordship disappeared. “I am completely fine. Your arrival was fortuitous.”

  “I hope I can be of service to you again someday, Mrs. Duchamp.” He stood still for a moment, looking at her intensely, if inscrutably. Then he bowed and took his leave.

  Now what was all that about? she thought, as she locked up and went in the back to square the accounts and start the printing press.

  “Make the woman’s acquaintance,” Mr. Withersby had said.

  Well, I have certainly done that, Lord Devin thought. Upon entering, he hadn’t expected to do more than scan the shop and get a general impression of its owner. Unobtrusive, subtle, distant. Instead, he’d become abruptly and intimately acquainted with her ample bosom before he even formally knew her name. Bloody hell, he’d thought as her body careened at him. He could still recall the faint scent of lilies that wafted from her. He could still feel the delicate weight of her in his arms. And on his skin.

  “Investigate and neutralize,” Mr. Withersby had said.

  Lord Devin still needed more time and information to comprehend why there would be a need to neutralize such a harmless, albeit lovely, matron. She might be able to convince customers to drop an extra penny or two they hadn’t planned to spend, but she was no threat to the future of British society.

  Two days prior to the bookshop encounter, Lord Devin had found himself in the dark, smoky, heavily appointed office of Mr. Withersby, attorney-at-law. He abhorred this dank building, this increasingly seedy district, and this man, this sniveling excuse for a man whom he’d enabled to claw into the Devin family’s stronghold.

  “You have a job for me?” he said as he barged into the office. He didn’t care if Withersby was otherwise occupied, whether with client for business or, just as frequently, with some skirt for pleasure.

  “No time for pleasantries today, Lord Devin? Have a seat.”

  “I do not take kindly to being called like a dog, Withersby. You called; I came. I do not want to be here any longer than necessary.” He remained standing, glaring down his nose at the short, stout, spectacled solicitor, who resembled a woodchuck, with his beady eyes and pointy face.

  “Quite right, milord.” Withersby stood and went to the mahogany sideboard to pour himself a brandy. He swirled the dark liquid in the tumbler. “I have a client who complains of a nuisance, and I want you to take care of it.”

  “What kind of nuisance are we talking about, a thorn in the paw or a spear in the side?”

  “Oh, to be sure, it’s a mosquito, my good man.” He waved a hand around his head by way of illustration. “Tiny. Distracting. Mildly irritating. But it’s proving annoyingly difficult to swat.”

  “Hard to believe such a miniscule nuisance, as you called it, would require special attention.” Lord Devin recalled the last “mosquito” Mr. Withersby sent him to swat; it turned out to be a peer with outrageous bestial impulses that needed to be curbed. It was an unpleasant encounter. He knew there was much more to this story and hoped to high heaven that this pest didn’t prove to be as messy or distasteful. “I am sure you have plenty of flyswatters to hand. More to the point, I am sure you have expert pest exterminators who would make quick work of this without blinking an eye. Why not give this job to one of them?”

  “Considering this particular little fly, my clients would prefer the situation be handled with a certain finesse and exactness. My usual workforce is a bit too blunt and heavy-handed for this kind of project. We need a cunning spider who can set a fine but sticky web.”

  “Do tell,” Lord Devin said flatly.
He quickly tired of this discussion and the annoying insect metaphors. He resented the hell out of this perpetuated obligation and made no efforts to disguise his feelings.

  “Have a look for yourself.” Mr. Withersby returned to the desk, set down his glass, and slid a thin envelope from a pile on his desk.

  Lord Devin took the envelope, weighed it in his hand, and removed its contents: a single sheet of paper. Previous assignments involved much bulkier documentation. The smooth cream page had few lines written on it, taking up less than half the page. He scanned the simple dossier and looked at Mr. Withersby in open surprise.

  “Of all the—Is this a joke? This is your mark? A mosquito, indeed.” Several things seemed wrong with this assignment. First, he had never targeted a woman before; it seemed beneath him. Second, she hardly seemed worth targeting. “Your client wants to harass a lowly widow? A widow who runs a bookshop? You can’t be serious. She can’t possibly require this kind of attention.” The page provided a brief biography, physical description, and a rough schedule of her weekly activities. “For God’s sake, the woman is entombed in a bookstore and attends a weekly knitting group for orphans. Are you saying this meek mouse of a human being is a danger to the realm?”

  Withersby shrugged.

  “My client has his reasons.”

  Lord Devin couldn’t make sense of it. He perused the sheet again for more weighty information. Then a new and exceedingly distasteful thought occurred to him.

  “You mentioned that the case requires finesse. What exactly do you mean?”

  “This isn’t, as you so charmingly suggested, an extermination. Nothing so extreme or crass. I do have several associates who could perform such a task easily and efficiently. But removal of this particular pest would not, my client believes, solve the underlying problem. Hence, the objective is to have this woman disgraced publicly, her judgment and integrity completely discredited such that her connections and opinions are likewise brought into question.”