It's In His Kiss

Chapter 15

Inside the Clair House library. There is little reason to chronicle the journey across Mayfair, other than to make note of Hyacinth’s wellspring of energy and enthusiasm, and Gareth’s lack thereof.

“Do you see anything?” Hyacinth whispered.

“Only books.”

She gave him a frustrated glare but decided not to chastise him for his lack of enthusiasm. Such an argument would only distract them from the task at hand. “Do you see,” she said, with as much patience as she could muster, “any sections which seem to be composed of scientific titles?” She glanced at the shelf in front of her, which contained three novels, two works of philosophy, a three-volume history of ancient Greece, and The Care and Feeding of Swine. “Or are they in any order at all?” she sighed.

“Somewhat,” came the reply from above. Gareth was standing on a stool, investigating the upper shelves. “Not really.”

Hyacinth twisted her neck, glancing up until she had a fairly good view of the underside of his chin. “What do you see?”

“Quite a bit on the topic of early Britain. But look what I found, tucked away on the end.” He plucked a small book from the shelf and tossed it down.

Hyacinth caught it easily, then turned it in her hands until the title was right side up. “No!” she said.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

She looked back down again. Right there, in gold lettering: Miss Davenport and the Dark Marquis. “I don’t believe it,” she said.

“Perhaps you should take it home to my grandmother. No one will miss it here.”

Hyacinth opened to the title page. “It was written by the same author as Miss Butterworth.”

“It would have to be,” Gareth commented, bending his knees to better inspect the next shelf down.

“We didn’t know about this one,” Hyacinth said. “We’ve read Miss Sainsbury and the Mysterious Colonel, of course.”

“A military tale?”

“Set in Portugal.” Hyacinth resumed her inspection of the shelf in front of her. “It didn’t seem terribly authentic, however. Not, of course, that I’ve ever been to Portugal.”

He nodded, then stepped off his stool and moved it in front of the next set of shelves. Hyacinth watched as he climbed back up and began his work anew, on the highest shelf.

“Remind me,” he said. “What, precisely, are we looking for?”

Hyacinth pulled the oft-folded note from her pocket. “Discorso Intorno alle Cose che stanno in sù l’acqua.”

He stared at her for a moment. “Which means…?”

“Discussion of inside things that are in water?” She hadn’t meant to say it as a question.

He looked dubious. “Inside things?”

“That are in water. Or that move,” she added. “Ò che in quella si muovono. That’s the last part of it.”

“And someone would wish to read that because…?”

“I have no idea,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re the Cantabridgian.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I wasn’t much for the sciences.”

Hyacinth decided not to comment and turned back to the shelf in front of her, which contained a seven-volume set on the topic of English botany, two works of Shakespeare, and a rather fat book titled, simply, Wildflowers. “I think,” she said, chewing on her lower lip for a moment as she glanced back at several of the shelves she’d already cataloged, “that perhaps these books had been in order at some point. There does seem to be some organization to it. If you look right here”-she motioned to one of the first shelves she’d inspected-“it’s almost completely works of poetry. But then right in the middle one finds something by Plato, and over on the end, An Illustrated History of Denmark.”

“Right,” Gareth said, sounding a bit like he was grimacing. “Right.”

“Right?” she echoed, looking up.

“Right.” Now he sounded embarrassed. “That might have been my fault.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“It was one of my less mature moments,” he admitted. “I was angry.”

“You were…angry?”

“I rearranged the shelves.”

“You what?” She’d have liked to yell, and frankly, she was rather proud of herself for not doing so.

He shrugged sheepishly. “It seemed impressively underhanded at the time.”

Hyacinth found herself staring blankly at the shelf in front of her. “Who could have guessed it would come back to haunt you?”

“Who indeed.” He moved to another shelf, tilting his head as he read the titles on the spines. “The worst of it was, it turned out to be a tad too underhanded. Didn’t bother my father one bit.”

“It would have driven me insane.”

“Yes, but you read. My father never even noticed there was anything amiss.”

“But someone must have been here since your little effort at reorganization.” Hyacinth looked down at the book by her side. “I don’t think Miss Davenport is more than a few years old.”

Gareth shook his head. “Perhaps someone left it here. It could have been my brother’s wife. I imagine one of the servants just tucked it on whichever shelf possessed the most room.”

Hyacinth let out a long exhale, trying to figure out how best to proceed. “Can you remember anything about the organization of the titles?” she asked. “Anything at all? Were they grouped by author? By subject?”

Gareth shook his head. “I was in a bit of a rush. I just grabbed books at random and swapped their places.” He stopped, exhaling as he planted his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. “I do recall that there was quite a bit on the topic of hounds. And over there there was…”

His words trailed off. Hyacinth looked up sharply and saw that he was staring at a shelf by the door. “What is it?” she asked urgently, coming to her feet.

“A section in Italian,” he said, turning and striding to the opposite side of the room.

Hyacinth was right on his heels. “They must be your grandmother’s books.”

“And the last ones any of the St. Clairs might think to open,” Gareth murmured.

“Do you see them?”

Gareth shook his head as he ran his finger along the spines of the books, searching for the ones in Italian.

“I don’t suppose you thought to leave the set intact,” Hyacinth murmured, crouching below him to inspect the lower shelves.

“I don’t recall,” he admitted. “But surely most will still be where they belong. I grew too bored of the prank to do a really good job of it. I left most in place. And in fact-” He suddenly straightened. “Here they are.”

Hyacinth immediately stood up. “Are there many?”

“Only two shelves,” he said. “I would imagine it was rather expensive to import books from Italy.”

The books were right on a level with Hyacinth’s face, so she had Gareth hold their candle while she scanned the titles for something that sounded like what Isabella had written in her note. Several did not have the entire title printed on the spine, and these she had to pull out to read the words on the front. Every time she did so, she could hear Gareth’s sharply indrawn breath, followed by a disappointed exhale when she replaced the book on the shelf.

She reached the end of the lower shelf and then stood on her tiptoes to investigate the upper. Gareth was right behind her, standing so close that she could feel the heat of his body rippling through the air.

“Do you see anything?” he asked, his words low and warm by her ear. She didn’t think he was purposefully trying to unsettle her with his nearness, but it was the end result all the same.

“Not yet,” she said, shaking her head. Most of Isabella’s books were poetry. A few seemed to be English poets, translated into Italian. As Hyacinth reached the midpoint of the shelf, however, the books turned to nonfiction. History, philosophy, history, history…

Hyacinth’s breath caught.

“What is it?” Gareth demanded.

With trembling hands she pulled out a slim volume and turned it over until the front cover was visible to them both.

Galileo Galilei

Discorso intorno alle cose che stanno, in sù l’acqua, ò che in quella si muovono

“Exactly what she wrote in the clue,” Hyacinth whispered, hastily adding, “Except for the bit about Mr. Galilei. It would have been a great deal easier to find the book if we’d known the author.”

Gareth waved aside her excuses and motioned to the text in her hands.

Slowly, carefully, Hyacinth opened the book to look for the telltale slip of paper. There was nothing tucked right inside, so she turned a page, then another, then another…

Until Gareth yanked the book from her hands. “Do you want to be here until next week?” he whispered impatiently. With no delicacy whatsoever, he grasped both the front and back covers of the book and held it open, spine-side up so that the pages formed an upside-down fan.

“Gareth, you-”

“Shush.” He shook the book, bent down and peered up and inside, then shook it again, harder. And sure enough, a slip of paper came free and fell to the carpet.

“Give that to me,” Hyacinth demanded, after Gareth had grabbed it. “You won’t be able to read it in any case.”

Obviously swayed by her logic, he handed the clue over, but he remained close, leaning over her shoulder with the candle as she opened the single fold in the paper.

“What does it say?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t-”

“I don’t know,” she snapped, hating that she had to admit defeat. “I don’t recognize anything. I’m not even certain this is Italian. Do you know if she spoke another language?”

“I have no idea.”

Hyacinth clamped her teeth together, thoroughly discouraged by the turn of events. She hadn’t necessarily thought they would find the jewels that evening, but it had never occurred to her that the next clue might lead them straight into a brick wall.

“May I see?” Gareth asked.

She handed him the note, watching as he shook his head. “I don’t know what that is, but it’s not Italian.”

“Nor anything related to it,” Hyacinth said.

Gareth swore under his breath, something that Hyacinth was fairly certain she was not meant to hear.

“With your permission,” she said, using that even tone of voice she’d long since learned was required when dealing with a truculent male, “I could show it to my brother Colin. He has traveled quite extensively, and he might recognize the language, even if he lacks the ability to translate it.”

Gareth appeared to hesitate, so she added, “We can trust him. I promise you.”

He gave her a nod. “We’d best leave. There’s nothing more we can do this night, anyway.”

There was little cleaning up to be done; they had put the books back on the shelves almost as soon as they’d removed them. Hyacinth moved a stool back in place against the wall, and Gareth did the same with a chair. The drapes had remained in place this time; there was little moonlight to see by, anyway.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She grabbed Miss Davenport and the Dark Marquis. “Are you certain no one will miss this?”

He tucked Isabella’s clue between the pages for safekeeping. “Quite.”

Hyacinth watched as he pressed his ear to the door. No one had been about when they had sneaked in a half hour earlier, but Gareth had explained that the butler never retired before the baron. And with the baron still out at the Mottram Ball, that left one man up and possibly about, and another who could return at any time.

Gareth placed one finger on his lips and motioned for her to follow him as he carefully turned the doorknob. He opened the door an inch-just enough to peer out the crack and make sure that it was safe to proceed. Together they crept into the hall, moving swiftly to the stairs that led down to the ground floor. It was dark, but Hyacinth’s eyes had adjusted well enough to see where she was going, and in under a minute they were back in the drawing room-the one with the faulty window latch.

As he had the time before, Gareth climbed out first, then formed a step with his hands for Hyacinth to balance upon as she reached up and shut the window. He lowered her down, dropped a quick kiss on her nose, and said, “You need to get home.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “I’m already hopelessly compromised.”

“Yes, but I’m the only one who knows.”

Hyacinth thought it rather charming of him to be so concerned for her reputation. After all, it didn’t truly matter if anyone caught them or not; she had lain with him, and she must marry him. A woman of her birth could do no less. Good heavens, there could be a baby, and even if not, she was no longer a virgin.

But she had known what she was doing when she had given herself to him. She knew the ramifications.

Together they crept down the alley to Dover Street. It was imperative, Hyacinth realized, that they move quickly. The Mottram Ball was notorious for running into the wee hours of the morning, but they’d got a late start on their search, and surely everyone would be heading home soon. There would be carriages on the streets of Mayfair, which meant that she and Gareth needed to render themselves as invisible as possible.

Hyacinth’s joking aside, she didn’t wish to be caught out in the middle of the night. It was true that their marriage was now an inevitability, but all the same, she didn’t particularly relish the thought of being the subject of scurrilous gossip.

“Wait here,” Gareth said, barring her from moving forward with his arm. Hyacinth remained in the shadows as he stepped onto Dover Street, edging as close to the corner as she dared while he made sure there was no one about. After a few seconds she saw Gareth’s hand, reaching back and making a scooping, “come along” gesture.

She stepped out onto Dover Street, but she was there barely a second before she heard Gareth’s sharply in-drawn breath and felt herself being shoved back into the shadows.

Flattening herself against the back wall of the corner building, she clutched Miss Davenport-and within it, Isabella’s clue-to her chest as she waited for Gareth to appear by her side.

And then she heard it.

Just one word. In his father’s voice.

“You.”

Gareth had barely a second to react. He didn’t know how it had happened, didn’t know where the baron had suddenly appeared from, but somehow he managed to push Hyacinth back into the alley in the very second before he was caught.

“Greetings,” he said, in his jauntiest voice, stepping forward so as to put as much distance between him and the alley as possible.

His father was already striding over, his face visibly angry, even in the dim light of the night. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

Gareth shrugged, the same expression that had infuriated his father so many times before. Except this time he wasn’t trying to provoke, he was just trying to keep the baron’s attention firmly fixed. “Just making my way home,” he said, with deliberate nonchalance.

His father’s eyes were suspicious. “You’re a bit far afield.”

“I like to stop by and inspect my inheritance every now and then,” Gareth said, his smile terribly bland. “Just to make sure you haven’t burned the place down.”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have.”

The baron held silent for a moment, then said, “You weren’t at the ball tonight.”

Gareth wasn’t sure how best to respond, so he just lifted his brows ever so slightly and kept his expression even.

“Miss Bridgerton wasn’t there, either.”

“Wasn’t she?” Gareth asked mildly, hoping the lady in question possessed sufficient self-restraint not to leap out from the alley, yelling, “Yes, I was!”

“Just at the beginning,” the baron admitted. “She left rather early.”

Gareth shrugged again. “It’s a woman’s prerogative.”

“To change her mind?” The baron’s lips formed the tiniest of curves, and his eyes were mocking. “You had better hope she’s a bit more steadfast than that.”

Gareth gave him a cold stare. Somehow, amazingly, he still felt in control. Or at the very least, like the adult he liked to think that he was. He felt no childish desire to lash out, or to say something for the sole purpose of infuriating him. He’d spent half his life trying to impress the man, and the other half trying to aggravate him. But now…finally…all he wanted was to be rid of him.

He didn’t quite feel the nothing he had wished for, but it was damned close.

Maybe, just maybe, it was because he’d finally found someone else to fill the void.

“You certainly didn’t waste any time with her,” the baron said, his voice snide.

“A gentleman must marry,” Gareth said. It wasn’t exactly the statement he wished to say in front of Hyacinth, but it was far more important to keep up the ruse with his father than it was to feed whatever need she might feel for romantic speech.

“Yes,” the baron murmured. “A gentleman must.”

Gareth’s skin began to prickle. He knew what his father was hinting at, and even though he’d already compromised Hyacinth, he’d rather she didn’t learn the truth of his birth until after the wedding. It would simply be easier that way, and maybe…

Well, maybe she’d never learn the truth at all. It seemed unlikely, between his father’s venom and Isabella’s diary, but stranger things had happened.

He needed to leave. Now. “I have to go,” he said brusquely.

The baron’s mouth curved into an unpleasant smile. “Yes, yes,” he said mockingly. “You’ll need to tidy yourself up before you go off to lick Miss Bridgerton’s feet tomorrow.”

Gareth spoke between his teeth. “Get out of my way.”

But the baron wasn’t done. “What I wonder is…how did you get her to say yes?”

A red haze began to wash over Gareth’s eyes. “I said-”

“Did you seduce her?” his father laughingly asked. “Make sure she couldn’t say no, even if-”

Gareth hadn’t meant to do it. He’d meant to maintain his calm, and he would have managed it if the baron had kept his insults to him. But when he mentioned Hyacinth…

His fury took over, and the next thing he knew, he had his father pinned against the wall. “Do not,” he warned, barely recognizing his own voice, “speak to me of her again.”

“You would make the mistake of attempting to kill me here, on a public street?” The baron was gasping, but even so, his voice maintained an impressive degree of hatred.

“It’s tempting.”

“Ah, but you’d lose the title. And then where would you be? Oh yes,” he said, practically choking on his words now, “at the end of a hangman’s rope.”

Gareth loosened his grip. Not because of his father’s words, but because he was finally regaining his hold on his emotions. Hyacinth was listening, he reminded himself. She was right around the corner. He could not do something he might later regret.

“I knew you’d do it,” his father said, just when Gareth had let go and turned to leave.

Damn. He always knew what to say, exactly which button to push to keep Gareth from doing the right thing.

“Do what?” Gareth asked, frozen in his tracks.

“Ask her to marry you.”

Gareth turned slowly around. His father was grinning, supremely pleased with himself. It was a sight that made Gareth’s blood run cold.

“You’re so predictable,” the baron said, cocking his head just an inch or so to the side. It was a gesture Gareth had seen a hundred times before, maybe a thousand. It was patronizing and it was contemptuous, and it always managed to make Gareth feel like he was a boy again, working so hard for his father’s approval.

And failing every time.

“One word from me,” the baron said, chuckling to himself. “Just one word from me.”

Gareth chose his words very carefully. He had an audience. He had to remember that. And so, when he spoke, all he said was, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

And his father erupted with laughter. He threw back his head and roared, showing a degree of mirth that shocked Gareth into silence.

“Oh, come now,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I told you you couldn’t win her, and look what you did.”

Gareth’s chest began to feel very, very tight. What was his father saying? That he’d wanted him to marry Hyacinth?

“You went right out and asked her to marry you,” the baron continued. “How long did that take? A day? Two? No more than a week, I’m sure.”

“My proposal to Miss Bridgerton had nothing to do with you,” Gareth said icily.

“Oh, please,” the baron said, with utter disdain. “Everything you do is because of me. Haven’t you figured that out by now?”

Gareth stared at him in horror. Was it true? Was it even a little bit true?

“Well, I do believe I shall take myself off to bed,” the baron said, with an affected sigh. “It’s been…entertaining, don’t you think?”

Gareth didn’t know what to think.

“Oh, and before you marry Miss Bridgerton,” the baron said, tossing the remark over his shoulder as he placed his foot on the first step up to Clair House’s front door, “you might want to see about clearing up your other betrothal.”

“What?”

The baron smiled silkily. “Didn’t you know? You’re still betrothed to poor little Mary Winthrop. She never did marry anyone else.”

“That can’t be legal.”

“Oh, I assure you it is.” The baron leaned slightly forward. “I made sure of it.”

Gareth just stood there, his mouth slack, his arms hanging limply at his sides. If his father had yanked down the moon and clocked him on the head with it he couldn’t have been more stunned.

“I’ll see you at the wedding,” the baron called out. “Oh, silly me. Which wedding?” He laughed, taking a few more steps up toward the front door. “Do let me know, once you sort it all out.” He gave a little wave, obviously pleased with himself, and slipped inside the house.

“Dear God,” Gareth said to himself. And then again, because never in his life had the moment more called for blasphemy: “Dear God.”

What sort of mess was he in now? A man couldn’t offer marriage to more than one woman at once. And while he might not have offered it to Mary Winthrop, the baron had done so in his name, and had signed documents to that effect. Gareth had no idea what this meant to his plans with Hyacinth, but it couldn’t be good.

Oh, bloody…Hyacinth.

Dear God, indeed. She’d heard every word.

Gareth started to run for the corner, then stopped himself, glancing up at the house to make sure that his father wasn’t watching for him. The windows were still dark, but that didn’t mean…

Oh, hell. Who cared?

He ran around the corner, skidding to a halt in front of the alley, where he’d left her.

She was gone.