His eyes moved over the familiar assortment of baubles and shells and sea glass, looking for the trinket box she’d always kept in a place of honor, ever since Mother had given it to her from her own collection. It was usually right there, on the middle of the middle shelf, proudly showcasing the gold-leafed crest that he thought matched the one on this paper. Only empty space stared back.
Oliver’s brows knotted. He couldn’t remember the wooden box’s story entirely—something about a long-gone relative, a noble-born love lost at sea. Beth had loved the story though. It had fueled her own dreams of finding a love with a man from a noble family, he knew.
But it was gone. Along with his sister. Which meant . . . what exactly? That she still had it with her, wherever she was?
That made precious little sense. But then, nothing did anymore.
13
The telegram sat on her dressing table, yellow and watchful. Proof that even from hundreds of miles away, Libby’s mother still knew when she was tempted to bow out of an engagement and stay home with her books and microscope. If she didn’t attend the Wights’ dinner party tonight, Mama would know. Somehow she would know, and another telegram would come, or a letter—or worst case, she herself would appear at the door, reproof in every lovely line of her face.
It was a fear bigger than that of sitting through a boring dinner that kept Libby’s bottom planted on the stool while Mabena fussed with her hair. And fussed some more. And fussed again.
Libby scowled at her friend in the mirror. Nothing made her half so cross as having unending hairpins jabbed into her scalp. “Why are you going to so much trouble? I don’t care if I impress these people.”
Mabena flicked a gaze to her reflected one, then back to what she was doing. “You’ve worn nothing but a braid since you arrived. If you’re going to dress for dinner, we’re going to do it right. Besides.” She flashed a grin. “Maybe you’ll steal the attention of the one that chatty gossip wants.”
“Amusing.” As if she’d ever stolen the attention of any man. And as if she’d want to.
“Well, why not? Look at yourself, my lady.” Mabena pushed Libby’s shoulders into their proper posture, positioned her head just so, and nodded beside her in the mirror. “You’re as lovely as any other young lady when you try.”
A blatant lie. Other young ladies—like Edith, for example—didn’t need to try to be pretty. They just were. Even when their hair was in a braid and they were wearing cotton.
Or perhaps it was that they always tried. Which sounded exhausting. Libby blinked at her reflection, tempted to screw up her lips to ruin the image. She didn’t look like herself. Didn’t feel like herself in this beaded evening gown. The only thing she liked was that it was purple. And even that only made her smile because it reminded her of Mamm-wynn. “Are you finished yet?”
Mabena rolled her eyes and turned to root through the box of doodads and whatnot on the dressing table. It held all the dreaded hairpins and the ribbons and pearls Libby had begged her not to put into the coiffure, along with bracelets and rings and necklaces.
The digging and shifting went from lazy to panicked. “Where are your necklaces?”
Libby wrinkled her nose at her reflection, tempted to stick out her tongue at herself too. “How am I to know? You did the packing.” She sounded petulant. But it was the corset’s fault. Mabena hadn’t let her keep it tied as loosely as she usually did. Probably because the purple gown wouldn’t have fit otherwise. And she’d made her put on the ridiculously long satin gloves. She hated gloves, unless it was cold outside. They made it hard to write or sketch.
A knock came from the front door, bringing Libby to her feet. It would be Oliver, here to spend the evening poring over maps and history texts and every record of the legends surrounding Vice Admiral Sir John Mucknell, pirate extraordinaire. Sure enough, many of the books she and Mabena thought might be Beth’s touched on the pirate and had been taken, Oliver was certain, from the Tremayne library.
And though history wasn’t Libby’s primary interest, she would have far preferred spending the evening learning about the East India Company’s rather justified argument with the king and their leaning toward the Puritan Roundheads than going to a dinner party.
She scrambled to her feet while Mabena was still distracted with the hunt for the necklace, before she could decide she needed more hairpins. “I’ll let him in.”
Mabena was still mumbling about missing pearls and how she knew she’d packed a selection of three necklaces as Libby hurried into the main room. She pulled the door open, offering a smile to Oliver, who stood there with a briefcase in one hand, the other hand in his pocket.
And utter stupefaction on his face as he blinked at her. “Pardon me. I must have the wrong cottage.”
“You’re hilarious.” After spending the last two evenings with him, she could very nearly ignore the fluttering he caused in her midsection and focus instead on the tease. Stepping back, she gestured him inside.
He entered, but without taking his eyes from her. Which very nearly made her think the hairpins were worth it. And the corset. Though if he liked this version, which wasn’t the real her . . . She pressed a hand to her ribs.
His smile was right at least. Soft. Knowing. Altogether Oliver. “The viscount is going to be completely enchanted.”
“I have no interest in enchanting the viscount. Or his wealthy cousin. I’ll bore them with talk of Latin nomenclature to prove it.”
From the bedroom, Mabena called out, “I thought Miss Gossip said the viscount was fascinated by scientific things.”
Libby wrinkled her nose at the memory of when Lottie had found her cottage on Thursday and spent three eternal hours there chattering about people Libby didn’t know. Or want to know. “Then I’ll bore him with talk of pirates.”
Oliver raised a finger. “Talk of pirates is never boring, my lady.”
She sighed. “I’m sure I’ll find some other way to lose their interest then. It never takes me long.”
“How could that possibly be?” He slid his satchel onto the table, as he’d done last evening, and the one before. She rather liked how it looked there—so masculine and comfortable. “I could talk to you for hours and be riveted every moment of it.”
Heat crept up her neck, and she found herself rather glad that his words had been too quiet for Mabena to hear from the bedroom. He was probably being kind, trying to bolster her confidence before the dinner she’d already admitted she didn’t want to attend. He seemed like that sort of man. And Mabena, who knew him better, would no doubt say as much, which would rob it of a bit of its effect.
She also had no idea how to respond to such a compliment. She could only smile her thanks and try to nudge Darling away from the beaded hem of her dress that had been tempting him since she put it on. And then snicker a bit when Mabena came stomping out with obvious frustration, muttering, “I thought for certain I’d packed them. I must have put them down again when I considered adding the silver set.”
Oliver turned to greet the newcomer with a grin. “Problem, Mabena?”
“No, I’m muttering for my health.”