Her face grew sad. “I am merely looking today.” Her gaze strayed to the books. “And seeking information.”
“In which direction do your interests lie?” He didn’t know why he was prolonging their encounter. He had plenty still to accomplish today, many responsibilities to tend to in several of his personas. Yet he found himself wanting to linger with Lady Charlotte, discussing one of his favorite topics.
“I have so many interests. I was almost finished reading a translation of Rosini’s History of Ancient Rome, but …” Her voice trailed off, and her lower lip disappeared for an instant. “… I no longer have access to that book. In fact, that’s part of the reason I came in today.”
She raised her reticule, tugging open the pouch and withdrawing a slip of paper. The movement caused her cloak to open slightly, and a glint of gold caught his attention against the dark brown of her dress. She was wearing the locket she’d won last evening. Without much thought he’d turned the matching ring over to his valet last night when he’d returned home. Now he wished he had worn it today, though he wasn’t much for jewelry.
Handing the paper to Quillington behind the counter, she asked, “Could you please tell me what the replacement costs for these volumes would be?” She gave a slight shrug, tilting her head. “They don’t have to be new. Used would be fine.” She turned back to Marcus.
“You’re reading about Roman history?” he asked. “And Rosini no less?”
She straightened, and her eyes became intense. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those men who think women should confine their reading to the latest housekeeping methods or the fashion broadsheets?”
He backed away a step, putting up his hands, a chuckle starting up his throat. “I meant no offense. I’ve never met a young woman who was interested in reading history.” He leaned over and looked at the paper on the counter as Quillington made notations beside each item. “Memoir, biography … oh, good, a novel or two. I’m partial to novels myself.” He paused. “Did I understand you to be asking the replacement cost for these books? Have you misplaced so many volumes?” There were a dozen or so on the list.
She bit her lower lip, and a flush developed on her cheeks. She studied her hands, the bookshelf over his shoulder, and finally the floor. Her only response to his teasing was a small shake of her head. He sought to change the topic, sorry that he’d caused her discomfort.
A man emerged from the back of the shop, edging past them, his face turned away, and Marcus was careful not to notice any details about him. The man’s appearance was his signal that Sir Noel was now alone and he could go up.
“My lady.” Quillington spoke up. “I cannot be exact, not with used books, but here is what I feel would be a reasonable price for each title. I’m sorry to hear you need replacements. I was so happy to sell you each of these the first time.” He handed across the paper.
Lady Charlotte scanned the list, and she pressed her lips together. Her shoulders drooped. “Thank you, Mr. Quillington.”
“I have that Greek history you were asking after last week. Would you like to see it?”
She shook her head. “Not today, thank you. I have another errand to run.” Consulting the eight-day clock behind the counter, she all but jumped. “I must fly. It won’t do to be late. Good day to you, Your Grace.”
He winced, wishing she could just call him Mr. Haverly, or Marcus even, but knowing it couldn’t be.
“And thank you, Mr. Quillington.” She waved the list and slipped out the door, leaving Marcus looking after her.
With a short nod to the clerk, he turned toward the back of the shop and the “storage cupboard” door, a smile lingering on his face. Talking with Lady Charlotte had a decidedly cheerful effect on his outlook.
The moment he stepped into Sir Noel’s office, he put thoughts of Lady Charlotte aside. The room smelled of scorched coffee, but also of pipe smoke. His chief only smoked his pipe when troubled. From the fug of soot in the air, he had been smoking for some time.
“Problems?” Marcus dropped into the chair, wishing once again for a window in the small space. At least sitting down he was below the thickest layer.
“Yes.” St. Clair pointed at him with the pipe stem. “And I’m blaming you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Or at least your circumstances. If it wasn’t for your title, you’d be on a mission to France right now.”
“New developments in the Fitzroy case?” Marcus mentally packed his bag.
“No, another matter. I’ve had to send someone else, someone with not nearly your experience. I only hope he’s up to the task.”
The news that someone had been sent in his place was like a bucket of cold water to the face. “Who?” Who replaced him?
“You know I’m not going to tell you that. The identities of agents are confidential. The less you know, the less you can reveal.”
Which had worked fine in the past. Each agent worked alone or had his own team of subordinates. But Marcus burned to know who Sir Noel had trusted with a secret mission to France that should’ve been his.
“Why did you send someone else? I could’ve gone.”
St. Clair raised one impressive white brow. “Really? And how would you explain your absence? You’re expected at the Pemberton girl’s debut ball tonight. And dinner with Trelawney next week. As well as half a dozen other events in the upcoming days. Not to mention you’re being sponsored to take your seat in Lords.” He lifted a newspaper. “You’re in print this morning as having attended the Washburn party last night. People are noticing your every move. The Duke of Haverly can hardly disappear to France for a fortnight or month in the middle of the Season without someone commenting upon it. Especially because you’re unmarried. Matchmaking mamas and determined debutantes are no doubt hunting you with dedication and desperation. If you were married and off the market, so to speak, we might possibly be able to ease you back into field work abroad. But until then, you stay in London.”
Marcus fisted his hands on his thighs. His mother and his boss, for different reasons, firing arrows at the same target.
Matrimony.
As if getting married would solve everyone’s problems. Except his.
Gratefully, the topic turned, and he and St. Clair spoke of their strategies for the upcoming days, and Marcus received his orders.
“So you’ll attend St. George’s on Sunday? And contrive a meeting with General Eddington? He’s a faithful parishioner, and that will be a good place to continue your acquaintance.” St. Clair knocked the dottle out of his meerschaum into a dish. His agitation must be subsiding, because he hung the pipe from the rack on the corner of his desk.
“That is my plan.” A trickle of guilt ran through him. His attendance at church since returning to town had been … patchy. He’d been neglectful of that particular compartment of his life. Some time spent in worship would do him good. He could check that box and do a little sleuthing at the same time this Sunday.
Charlotte’s cheeks warmed as she stopped to ask directions to King’s Place. At least this time she was in an outwardly respectable neighborhood in the afternoon sunlight, instead of creeping along in the dark, headed to a rookery, but both destinations would scandalize every person of her acquaintance.