Chapter 1

 

“Good heavens, sir, you’re creating a pond!”

Alexander Draycott Carmichael, Duke of Merrow, though the young woman wielding a mop like a weapon couldn’t possibly know that, stood dripping in the doorway of what appeared to be Bath’s most modest circulating library. He’d ducked inside to escape both the sudden downpour and, more critically, the Countess of Wealthe’s eagle-eyed pursuit at the tea gathering she had. The countess had a marriageable daughter and the tenacity of Napoleon’s entire army.

“I do beg your pardon,” he managed, attempting dignity despite the small waterfall cascading from his greatcoat onto the worn wooden floor. “The rain came on rather suddenly.”

“It’s merely water, sir,” the woman said, though her tone suggested she found him rather more troublesome than mere water. She was young, perhaps three and twenty, with brown hair pulled back in a practical knot and ink stains on her fingers. Not beautiful in the way society deemed essential, but there was something arresting about the way she looked at him, as if he were a particularly vexing mathematical equation she needed to solve. “Though it does seem intent on relocating itself from your person to our floor with remarkable enthusiasm.”

“So it is,” Alexander replied, glancing down at the expanding puddle beneath him. “Though it feels rather like judgment.”

That earned him the tiniest quirk of her lips—not quite a smile, but the suggestion of one carefully suppressed. “The rain judges no one, sir. That’s what makes it so admirably democratic. It soaks dukes and dustmen with equal dedication.”

If only she knew, Alexander thought, fighting his own smile. He hadn’t been recognized as anything more than a well-dressed gentleman fleeing the weather, and the novelty of it was intoxicating. When had someone last spoken to him with such cheerful irreverence?

“Miss Taylor!” A voice called from somewhere deeper in the shop. “Have we another customer? Mind you check they’ve paid their subscription before…oh!”

A plump woman in a violet turban emerged from behind a towering shelf, took one look at Alexander’s bedraggled state, and clasped her hands together. “Oh, you poor dear! Caught in this dreadful weather! Claire, fetch the gentleman a towel at once. We keep them for such occasions; you wouldn’t believe how many people treat us as a refuge from Bath’s meteorological betrayals.”

Claire, so that was her name, set down her mop with what Alexander could only describe as reluctance. “Mrs. Radcliffe, I hardly think…”

“Towels, Claire! The ones from the donation box. Quickly now, before the poor man catches his death. Sir, you must come away from the door. The draft is positively arctic. We have a fire in the back room—nothing grand, mind you, but it serves.”

Before Alexander could protest, he found himself shepherded deeper into the shop by Mrs. Radcliffe’s enthusiastic hospitality and Claire’s obvious resignation. The library was smaller than his private study at Merrow House, lined floor to ceiling with well-worn volumes that had clearly seen better decades. The smell of old paper, leather, and beeswax polish wrapped around him like a comfortable blanket.

“I shouldn’t wish to impose,” he began, though truthfully, he was calculating how long he could reasonably hide here before his absence was noted. His valet, Morrison, would be having palpitations by now.

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Radcliffe declared. “What sort of people would we be, turning away a soul in need? Though I must warn you, sir, if you’re hoping to borrow anything from our collection, you’ll need a subscription. Three shillings a month, or ten for the year. Quite reasonable, really, considering we’ve just acquired the latest Mrs. Burney.”

“Mrs. Radcliffe,” Claire said, returning with an armful of somewhat threadbare towels, “perhaps the gentleman simply sought shelter and has no interest in…”

“Actually,” Alexander interrupted, accepting a towel with genuine gratitude, “I am rather fond of reading.” This was true, though he hadn’t set foot in a public circulating library since his Cambridge days. “What would you recommend for a man with thoroughly dampened spirits?”

Claire shot him a look that suggested she wasn’t certain whether he was mocking them or not. “That would depend entirely on the source of the dampness, wouldn’t it? Weather-related melancholy might call for something warming—perhaps Tom Jones and his merry adventures. Social exhaustion, on the other hand, might require the bitter medicine of Swift.”

“And if one suffered from both?” Alexander asked, genuinely curious now. She was regarding him with those sharp eyes, taking his measure in a way that had nothing to do with his title or fortune.

“Then I’d prescribe something else entirely, something with a little irony,” she said decisively. “Nothing cures the twin ailments of weather and society quite like a good dose of irony served with tea.”

“Claire is quite the expert,” Mrs. Radcliffe confided in what she clearly believed was a whisper but could probably be heard in the street. “She reads everything, even the German philosophers, though I can’t see the appeal myself. All that sturm und drang in their books gives me a headache.”

“Sturm und Drang,” Claire corrected her pronunciation gently. “And it’s quite fascinating once you…” She caught herself, color rising in her cheeks. “But I’m certain the gentleman has no interest in my literary opinions.”

On the contrary, Alexander thought he might be more interested in her literary opinions than anything he’d heard at a society gathering in years. The Countess of Wealthe’s daughter, the accomplished Lady Millicent, could perform Mozart on the pianoforte and paint watercolors that were deemed “quite pretty” by everyone who saw them. But he’d wager his best horse she’d never read German philosophy or prescribed authors as medicine for social ailments.

“I should very much like to hear them,” he said, and meant it. “Though perhaps I should introduce myself properly first. Alexander Draycott, at your service.” It wasn’t entirely a lie—Draycott was one of his names, even if he’d strategically omitted the most significant one. Mentioning the name ‘’Carmichael’’ would easily give him away.

“Mr. Draycott,” Mrs. Radcliffe practically glowed with delight, “how wonderful! Are you new to Bath? Here for the waters? Or perhaps the assemblies? Though between you and me, they’re not what they were in my youth. These days, everyone seems more interested in being seen than seeing, if you understand my meaning.”

“Mrs. Radcliffe,” Claire intervened, “Mr. Draycott is still dripping.”

Indeed he was. Despite the towels, his coat continued its steady contribution to the library’s floor. Alexander shrugged out of it, revealing a beautifully tailored jacket beneath that was only slightly damp. Claire’s eyes widened fractionally, she clearly recognized quality when she saw it, before her expression returned to careful neutrality.

“Perhaps,” she suggested, “Mr. Draycott would prefer to dry himself by the fire rather than stand here being interrogated about his purposes in Bath?”

“I wasn’t interrogating!” Mrs. Radcliffe protested. “I was being friendly. There’s a difference, Claire dear, which you might know if you didn’t spend all your time with your nose in a book.”

“And what a terrible fate that is,” Claire murmured, just loudly enough for Alexander to hear. “Imagine the horror of preferring books to gossip.”

Alexander coughed to cover his laugh. “The fire sounds delightful, thank you. And perhaps, while I dry, you might tell me more about your collection? I find myself unexpectedly at leisure this afternoon.” And possibly for the next several afternoons, he thought, if it means avoiding the Countess and her matrimonial ambitions.

They led him to a small back room that served as both office and retreat. The fire was indeed modest, but the warmth was welcome. Alexander noted the neat columns of figures in an open ledger on the desk, the careful mending on the cushions of two worn chairs, and the stack of books marked “Donations for Charity Auction.” This was not a prosperous establishment, yet everything spoke of pride and careful attention.

“Tea?” Mrs. Radcliffe offered. “We were just about to take ours when you arrived.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense. Claire, fetch another cup. The good one, mind you…not the one with the chip.”

Claire rolled her eyes but disappeared through another door, presumably in search of the good cup. Alexander could hear the distant rattle of china and what sounded suspiciously like muttering.

“You must forgive Claire,” Mrs. Radcliffe said, settling herself into one of the mended chairs with a comfortable sigh. “She’s the vicar’s daughter, my cousin, Reverend Taylor, lovely man but distracted, you know how scholars are, and she volunteers here most afternoons. Brilliant girl, but perhaps a touch too clever for her own good. Scares off all the young men with her opinions.”

“Does she?” Alexander asked, accepting the seat opposite. The chair creaked alarmingly but held. “How unfortunate for the young men.”

Mrs. Radcliffe blinked at him. “That’s… not usually the response I get.”

“What response do you usually get?”

“Oh, you know.” She waved a hand vaguely. “That she should be more accommodating. Smile more. Read less. The usual nonsense men spout when confronted with a woman who can think circles around them.”

Alexander was formulating a response when Claire returned, bearing a tea tray with three decidedly mismatched cups, one of which was, indeed, chip-free. She handed it to him with an expression that dared him to comment.

“Miss Taylor,” he said instead, accepting the cup with proper gravity, “Mrs. Radcliffe tells me you’re something of a literary authority.”

“Mrs. Radcliffe exaggerates,” Claire replied, pouring tea with practiced efficiency. “I simply read.”

“She’s being modest,” Mrs. Radcliffe whispered. “She has read everything in this shop at least twice; small wonder we’re forever short of ink. She is always annotating her own volumes.”

“You write marginalia?” Alexander asked with genuine interest. “What sort of notes?”

Claire’s cheeks pinked again. “Nothing of consequence. Observations. Disagreements with the author’s logic. Occasionally corrections to their Latin.”

“Their Latin is often appalling,” Alexander agreed, thinking of some of the novels he’d encountered. “Just last week, I came across an author who seemed to believe carpe diem meant ‘fish of the day.'”

Claire’s laugh escaped before she could stop it—bright and genuine and utterly delightful. “Oh no! Please tell me you’re jesting.”

“I wish I were. It was in the middle of what was meant to be a very serious romantic declaration. ‘My darling, let us seize the fish of the day and feast upon the bounty of our love.'”

This time, even Mrs. Radcliffe laughed. “Good gracious! What book was this? We must remove it from our shelves immediately. We can’t have people thinking we endorse fish-seizing as a romantic gesture.”

“Though it would explain some of the proposals I’ve witnessed at the assembly rooms,” Claire added, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “I’d wondered why Lord Wilson kept mentioning salmon during his proposal to Miss Whitfield last month.”

“You attend the assemblies?” Alexander asked, trying to picture her among the silk-clad debutantes and their hawkish mamas.

“Occasionally. When Papa insists that I’m becoming too reclusive.” She shrugged. “I generally spend the evening hiding behind a potted palm with a book.”

“The potted palms are excellent for that,” Alexander agreed. “Though I prefer the curtains near the card room. Better light for reading, and you can escape through the window if someone particularly tedious approaches.”

Claire studied him with those discerning eyes. “You speak from experience, Mr. Draycott.”

“Bitter, extensive experience,” he confirmed. “Though I confess, I usually flee before resorting to the window. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“Oh yes, you’re positively ancient,” Claire said dryly. “What are you, five and thirty? Six and thirty? Practically decrepit.”

“Eight and twenty, actually, and feeling every year of it when confronted with this year’s crop of debutantes.” The words escaped before he could stop them. It was too revealing, too honest for someone of his station to admit.

But Claire merely nodded sympathetically. “They do seem to get younger and more foolish each season, don’t they? Last week, I overheard one young lady declare that reading gave one wrinkles from squinting. Her mother agreed and added that too much thinking made one’s forehead permanently furrowed.”

“A tragedy indeed,” Alexander said solemnly. “Though it does explain the remarkable smoothness of some faces I’ve encountered. Not a thought to trouble them.”

“Mr. Draycott!” Mrs. Radcliffe exclaimed, though she was clearly fighting a smile. “That’s unkind.”

“But accurate,” Claire murmured into her teacup.

They fell into a comfortable silence, the fire crackling and the rain drumming against the windows. Alexander couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so at ease. No one here expected him to be the Duke of Merrow, guardian of an ancient title, potential husband to some earl’s daughter, Member of Parliament, patron of countless causes. Here, he was simply Mr. Draycott, a man with damp clothes and opinions about Latin misuse.

“So,” Claire said eventually, “shall you be taking a subscription, Mr. Draycott? Or was the tea and fire payment enough for our literary expertise?”

There was a challenge in her voice, and Alexander found himself rising to meet it. “That depends, Miss Taylor. Do subscribers receive personalized reading recommendations? Or must we muddle through on our own?”

“Oh, Claire provides recommendations to everyone,” Mrs. Radcliffe assured him. “Whether they want them or not. Last week, she convinced Colonel Fitzroy that he needed to read Pamela. He’s been in three times since to discuss it with her.”

“Colonel Fitzroy is having a moral crisis about Mr. B’s behaviour,” Claire explained. “He keeps insisting that no gentleman would act thus, and I keep having to remind him that Mr. B isn’t meant to be a gentleman, he’s meant to be a cautionary tale.”

“Though I notice you didn’t recommend Pamela to me,” Alexander observed.

“You don’t seem the type to need cautionary tales about virtue,” Claire replied, then immediately looked mortified. “That is…I didn’t mean…”

“I believe,” Alexander said, taking pity on her embarrassment, “that might be the nicest thing anyone has said about me in recent memory. Usually, I’m told I need cautionary tales about duty, responsibility, and the importance of strategic marriages.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, too revealing once again. What was it about this place, these people, that made him forget his careful guards?

“Well,” Claire said finally, “we don’t stock many books about strategic marriages. Though we do have an excellent selection on agriculture, which amounts to much the same thing; lots of discussion about breeding and favorable conditions for growth.”

Alexander nearly choked on his tea. Mrs. Radcliffe made a scandalized sound, but she was clearly trying not to laugh.

“Claire Taylor! What would your father say?”

“That agriculture is a noble pursuit and the foundation of England’s prosperity,” Claire replied innocently. “Why, what did you think I meant?”

Alexander set down his teacup, decision made. “I should like a year’s subscription, please. Ten shillings, I believe you said?”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Mrs. Radcliffe clapped her hands. “Claire, fetch the ledger. Mr. Draycott, you won’t regret this. We get all the latest novels, and Claire’s recommendations truly are excellent, even if she does sometimes insist people read improving works.”

“Everyone should read at least one improving work a year,” Claire said, returning with the ledger. “It’s good for the character.”

“And what would you recommend for my character, Miss Taylor?” Alexander asked, counting out coins.

She tilted her head, studying him with that disconcerting directness. “You present an interesting challenge, Mr. Draycott. Well-educated, obviously. Well-travelled, I’d guess, from your ease with Latin and the slight tan that suggests somewhere warmer than England. You fled into our shop to escape something—not just the rain, or you wouldn’t have looked so relieved when Mrs. Radcliffe didn’t recognize you. You’re used to being recognized.”

Alexander felt his chest tighten. Had she figured it out already?

“You’re running from matchmaking efforts,” she continued, and he breathed again. “Which means you’re unmarried, reasonably prosperous, and sufficiently well-connected to be considered prey. But you read for pleasure, you think about what you read, and don’t consider yourself above taking tea in a shabby lending library with a vicar’s daughter and an overly friendly proprietress.”

“Your conclusion?” he managed, impressed despite himself.

“You need something that reminds you why thinking is worth the furrows it causes,” she decided. “Start with Pride and Prejudice. It’s witty enough to entertain but sharp enough to make you grateful for your own good sense in fleeing whatever martial ambush awaited you today.”

“Martial ambush,” Alexander repeated, delighted. “What an absolutely perfect description of the Countess of Wealthe’s tea gathering.”

“The Countess of Wealthe!” Mrs. Radcliffe exclaimed. “Oh, Mr. Draycott, you didn’t! Her tea gatherings are legendary. She once kept poor Lord Ashworth there for four hours while her daughter played the harp. He claims he still hears ghostly harp music when he tries to sleep.”

“Hence my desperate escape into the rain,” Alexander confirmed. “Though I confess, Lady Millicent had moved on from the harp to the pianoforte. All of Mozart’s greatest works, performed with mechanical precision and absolutely no feeling whatsoever.”

“Like a very expensive music box,” Claire suggested.

“Precisely! Though music boxes occasionally need winding and therefore must sometimes stop.”

They laughed together, and Alexander felt something shift in his chest; a loosening of bonds he hadn’t realized were so tight. When had he last laughed like this? Real laughter, not the polite chuckles expected at society gatherings?

“Well,” Mrs. Radcliffe said, consulting the small clock on the mantel, “goodness, look at the time! Claire, we should start sorting those donations before the light goes. Mr. Draycott, you’re welcome to stay by the fire until you’re properly dried. Browse the shelves, if you like. Your subscription starts immediately.”

“Actually,” Alexander said, surprising himself, “might I help with the sorting? I find myself reluctant to venture back into the rain just yet.” Or back to his real life, a traitorous voice whispered.

Claire looked skeptical. “You want to help sort donated books? It’s dusty work, Mr. Draycott. And some of these volumes are in deplorable condition.”

“I’m not afraid of a little dust, Miss Taylor. Contrary to appearances, I’m not entirely decorative.”

She glanced pointedly at his beautifully tailored jacket, the pristine white of his cravat, the gleaming Hessians that probably cost more than the library made in a month. “No?”

“Well, perhaps somewhat decorative,” he conceded. “But I can alphabetize. It’s one of my many hidden talents, along with Latin correction and window escapes.”

“This I must see,” Claire declared, brushing an escaped curl from her forehead with the air of someone preparing for a duel rather than light labor. “Very well, Mr. Draycott. Let us discover whether your alphabetizing lives up to your advertising.”

Alexander made a low bow. “Madam, I warn you, I take the arrangement of letters very seriously.”

“Then we shall get along famously,” she said, hands on hips. “I take chaos personally.”

Within minutes they were surrounded by tottering piles of donated books, the kind that smelled faintly of mildew and moral instruction. Alexander rolled up his sleeves, his valet, wherever he was, probably suffered sympathetic chest pains, and knelt beside a crate labeled Miscellaneous (Dreadful).

“These boxes,” Claire informed him gravely, “contain the literary remains of Bath’s most pious citizens. Proceed with caution. Many a good soul has been lost to boredom in the pages of Fordyce.”

He pried open the lid. “Surely it cannot be that bad.”

Claire reached in and withdrew a battered volume between two fingers, her expression pure disgust. “Another one. That makes three this week. I swear these sermons multiply in dark corners when no one’s watching.”

Alexander took the offending book. “Perhaps the donors believe they are improving our morals.”

“If I wanted to improve my morals, I’d take up fainting or embroidery. Both are less painful.”

He gave her a look of mock astonishment. “You don’t embroider?”

“I do. Exceptionally well, when pressed. But my samplers tend to carry unladylike messages. ‘A woman’s place is in the library,’ for instance. Or my favourite:‘Blessed are the curious, for they shall annoy their betters.’”

He laughed outright. “Miss Taylor, that borders on sedition.”

“In a genteel, needle-oriented way, yes.” She set the sermon aside and reached for another book, muttering, “If I find one more tract on proper female deportment, I shall lose my composure entirely, and that would scandalize Mrs. Radcliffe beyond repair.”

He inspected the growing stacks: Philosophy, Fiction, Hopeless, and a smaller pile Claire had labeled Punishment for the Next Raffle. “I am impressed by your system. Clear, ruthless, entirely practical.”

“Why thank you,” she said, sounding pleased. “Mrs. Radcliffe prefers alphabetical order, but I find moral judgment a more efficient approach.”

The rain continued, steady and soothing. Mrs. Radcliffe’s humming drifted through the shelves, something that might have been a hymn if one were feeling charitable, and the scent of burning wood hung in the air.

Alexander glanced up from a heap of pamphlets and caught Claire bent over a box, her brow furrowed in concentration, a smudge of ink on her cheek. The sight sent a peculiar warmth through him, one he could not attribute to the fire.

“Tell me,” he said, feigning casual interest, “do you sort books for amusement, or is this a calling?”

“Hardly a calling. It’s more of an affliction. I see disorder, and I must mend it. Whether it’s shelves or society, I can’t leave well enough alone.”

“And do you succeed with either?”

“Rarely,” she admitted with a grin. “But failure builds character. So Fordyce assures me.”

He chuckled, setting aside another book whose spine had given up years ago. “I confess, Miss Taylor, I cannot recall when I last found such pleasure in honest work. Usually I am occupied with ledgers, letters, and tedious dinners that never end.”

“Then perhaps,” she said lightly, “you should consider a career in library management. We pay in biscuits and the eternal gratitude of the local vicar.”

He pretended to ponder it. “Tempting, though I suspect my valet would resign. He already struggles to accept my fondness for rain.”

“Then he’d expire on the spot to see you elbow-deep in dust,” she jested, handing him a ragged novel. “Here, this one looks promising. The Sorrows of Young Werther. Misery, sentiment, and bad decisions…everything to warm a reader’s heart.”

Alexander examined the frayed pages. “Perhaps I should start with something lighter.”

“Impossible,” she said, smiling. “All the cheerful books are in the Borrowed and Never Returned pile.”

The clock chimed softly in the next room, marking an hour gone. Alexander glanced around, surprised at how swiftly time had passed. His coat hung forgotten on a chair, the puddle beneath it long dried. The fire burned lower, casting the room in a drowsy amber glow.

He turned back to Claire, who was now perched cross-legged beside a new box, humming tunelessly while she stacked novels by author and approximate worth.

He had not felt so unguarded in years. No conversation about politics, no mother orchestrating introductions, no ballrooms full of ambition. Just rain, warmth, and a clever woman quoting philosophy between jests about sermons.

When Mrs. Radcliffe’s voice called from the front, announcing tea, Claire stretched, wiping her hands on her apron. “Well, Mr. Draycott, your alphabetizing is satisfactory. Barely.”

He inclined his head gravely. “Coming from such a formidable critic, I shall take that as high praise.”

“Oh!” Claire exclaimed suddenly, pulling out a slim volume. “Look at this—it’s Byron’s The Corsair. First edition, I think.” She handled it reverently, checking the binding and pages with practiced care. “This is actually quite valuable.”

“For the auction?” Alexander asked, moving closer to see. She smelled of lavender and old books, a combination he found unexpectedly appealing.

“We could get at least two pounds for it, perhaps three if the right collector attends.” Her eyes were bright with excitement. “This could fund the parish school supplies for a month.”

“You run a parish school?”

“My father does. Well, I help. We teach reading and arithmetic to anyone who wants to learn, regardless of their ability to pay.” She carefully set the Byron aside. “It’s small, just a dozen students at present, but it’s something.”

“It’s admirable,” Alexander said sincerely. He donated to numerous charities, of course, but it was distant, managed through stewards and solicitors. This was immediate, personal, hands covered in dust from books that would buy slates and chalk.

“It’s necessary,” Claire corrected. “How can we expect people to better their circumstances if we don’t give them the tools to do so?”

Before Alexander could respond, the shop bell gave a violent jangle that made Mrs. Radcliffe nearly drop her teapot. Footsteps followed, brisk and purposeful, echoing through the aisles.

“Mr. Draycott!” Mrs. Radcliffe called from the front. “There’s a rather agitated gentleman here asking after someone of your description!”

 

Chapter 2

 

Alexander’s stomach sank. There was only one person in Bath who could sound agitated and polite at the same time. Morrison had found him. Which meant his peaceful afternoon of anonymity had just expired.

Moments later, he saw the tall, rain-spattered figure of his valet. Morrison’s coat was immaculate despite the downpour, though his hat looked slightly the worse for wear—a sure sign he’d been braving the streets in search of him. His gaze swept the scene: Alexander, sleeves rolled up, hands dusty from sorting books; Miss Taylor, standing a touch too near; and Mrs. Radcliffe beaming like a woman who believed she’d just facilitated divine intervention.

Morrison’s left eyelid twitched. That was always the first symptom of internal distress. The second came when his jaw tightened to an alarming degree.

“Mr. Draycott,” he said slowly, tasting half his name and not his title as though it were something exotic and possibly poisonous. “I have been searching for you, sir.”

Mrs. Radcliffe brightened. “Ah, yes! Mr. Draycott, your man here seemed quite anxious. I told him you were perfectly safe, alphabetizing away!”

“Alphabetizing,” Morrison repeated faintly, eyes narrowing at the sight of Alexander’s ungloved hands. His expression was the perfect balance of confusion and professional obedience. “Indeed, ma’am. His…. well…Mr.. Draycott’s dedication to order is well known to me.”

Claire looked from one man to the other, faint amusement glimmering in her eyes. “You seem to have been missed, Mr. Draycott.”

“So it would appear,” Alexander said, pretending calm. “Morrison, you mentioned something about an appointment?”

“Yes, sir,” Morrison replied, catching himself just before the fatal slip. “Your…engagement this afternoon. Her…” He coughed discreetly. “Her ladyship was inquiring.”

Alexander recognized the warning in that pause. His mother. Of course. He would no doubt be treated to an inquisition the moment he returned home. “Ah yes. My appointment. I had quite forgotten.”

Mrs. Radcliffe’s face fell in sympathy. “How dreadful! But I do hope we shall see you again, Mr. Draycott. Your subscription entitles you to borrow three books at once, you know. And Miss Taylor gives excellent recommendations.”

“I shall return tomorrow, if I may,” Alexander said, surprising himself with the eagerness in his own voice. “To collect Pride and Prejudice, was it not?”

Claire inclined her head, though something unreadable flickered behind her calm expression. “Indeed. I’ll set it aside for you, Mr. Draycott.”

He smiled faintly. “Until tomorrow, then.”

He bowed, properly this time, to both women, reclaimed his damp greatcoat, and allowed Morrison to usher him out into the now-dreary drizzle.

They walked several yards in silence, the only sound the squelch of boots and the faint hiss of rain. Morrison’s posture was the picture of self-restraint, which usually meant an eruption was imminent.

At last, his voice emerged, painfully level. “A lending library, Mr. Draycott?”

Alexander ignored the edge in his tone. “Quite a charming establishment, don’t you think?”

Morrison stopped dead. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but you have been addressed as Mr. Draycott—by name—within earshot of half of Bath. Were you struck by lightning while inside, or has your Grace decided to pursue a career in cataloguing secondhand sermons?”

Alexander shot him a warning look. “Do not!”

Morrison blinked, his composure reasserting itself with effort. “As you wish, Your Grace. Though I should like to note that I have never before been introduced as valet to a mister. It feels… morally compromising.”

Alexander gave a faint, tired smile. “Then think of it as a spiritual exercise. Builds humility.”

“On my part or yours, Your Grace?”

“Both, I should think.”

Morrison sighed, his umbrella snapping open with the finality of a man resigning himself to madness. 

“Your mother has sent three messages. The Countess of Wealthe is apparently quite displeased by your sudden disappearance. Lady Millicent had prepared a special performance.”

“Thank Heavens for rain,” Alexander muttered.

“Indeed, Your Grace. Though perhaps next time you might flee somewhere more… appropriate?”

Alexander thought of Claire’s laugh, her ink-stained fingers, the way she’d said he didn’t seem to need cautionary tales about virtue. “No,” he said quietly. “I think it was perfectly appropriate.”

Morrison’s eye twitched again, but he said nothing more.

 

***

 

That evening, Alexander sat in his mother’s drawing room, where the fire blazed with unnecessary ferocity and the scent of lavender water mingled with reprimand. The woman was in full lecture; duty, decorum, the proper use of one’s time, the catastrophic consequences of offending Lady Wealthe by failing to appear at the gathering. Her tone possessed the precision of a rapier and the stamina of a cavalry march.

Alexander nodded in the right places, but his thoughts had long since escaped her orbit. They drifted instead to the modest warmth of a little shop, the scent of old paper and polish, the rain tapping against the windows like a familiar rhythm.

He pictured Claire Taylor again, sleeves rolled, a smudge of ink on her face, laughing over Fordyce’s Sermons as though the author’s pomposity were a personal challenge. The sound of Mrs. Radcliffe’s humming returned to him, off-key but endearing, and the memory of that shabby back room glowed in his mind like the warmth of a dying hearth.

His mother’s voice rose. “Are you even listening, Alexander?”

“Perfectly, Mother,” he said smoothly, though he could not have repeated a single word she’d said.

In truth, the duchess’s world of elegant rooms and obligations felt far away, brittle and airless. The library had been small, chaotic, imperfect…but alive. There, no one had bowed or curtsied or pretended to care about his lineage. Miss Taylor had met his gaze without flinching, without calculation.

He almost smiled. If Morrison could see inside his head now, the man would likely have fainted.

Tomorrow, he decided. He would go back tomorrow.

“Alexander!” His mother’s sharp voice cut through his reverie. “Are you listening to me?”

“Every word, Mother.”

“Then you agree that you should call on Lady Millicent to apologize?”

“Absolutely not.”

The Duchess of Merrow’s expression could have frozen fire. “Alexander Draycott Carmichael, you are the Duke of Merrow. You have responsibilities. You cannot simply wander off whenever the mood strikes you.”

“Can’t I?” he asked mildly. “How curious. I was under the impression that being a duke meant I could do rather as I pleased.”

“With privilege comes duty!”

“Yes, Mother, I’m familiar with the lecture.” He stood, suddenly exhausted by the familiar refrain. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some reading to do.”

“Reading? Alexander, we’re discussing your future.”

“My future will still be there tomorrow, Mother. It always is.”

He left her sputtering in the drawing room and retreated to his study, where he selected a volume at random from his shelves. But he found himself unable to concentrate on the words. Instead, he thought about a pair of sharp eyes, ink-stained fingers, and the revolutionary notion that perhaps, just perhaps, he could be simply Mr. Draycott for a few hours each day.

The rain had stopped, leaving the air fresh with the promise of clearing skies. Somewhere across Bath, in a modest vicarage, Claire Taylor was probably reading by candlelight, making notes in margins, correcting someone’s terrible Latin.

Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.

Alexander smiled, a real smile that had nothing to do with duty or politeness or strategic advantages. He’d found something unexpected in that little library—not just shelter from the rain or escape from matchmaking mothers, but something far more precious: a place where he could simply be.

And if that place happened to include a quick-witted woman who recommended books as medicine and embroidered seditious messages into samplers? Well, that was just a particularly delightful bonus.

He thought about Claire’s assessment of him, how quickly she’d seen through his surface to the man beneath. But she’d missed one crucial detail, the one that would change everything if she knew. He was not merely prosperous Mr. Draycott fleeing from ambitious mamas. He was the Duke of Merrow, one of the most eligible bachelors in England, with a fortune that could buy a thousand libraries and responsibilities that weighed like chains.

But tomorrow, in that dusty back room with donations to sort and tea in chipped cups, he could forget all that. Tomorrow, he could be the man Claire Taylor thought he was—someone who didn’t need cautionary tales about virtue, someone who could laugh about fish-seizing and bad Latin, someone who was just Mr. Draycott.

The lie sat uneasily in his stomach, but the alternative, never seeing that little library again, never hearing Claire’s sharp observations or watching her handle books like treasures, was unthinkable.

Morrison knocked and entered with Alexander’s evening brandy, setting it silently on the desk. He paused at the door.

“Your Grace?”

“Yes, Morrison?”

“The establishment you visited today. Should I make… arrangements?”

Alexander understood what he was asking. Should he ensure discretion? Should money change hands to guarantee silence?

“No,” Alexander said firmly. “No arrangements.”

Morrison’s eye twitched, which was his highest expression of alarm. “Your Grace, if someone were to recognize you…”

“They won’t,” Alexander said with more confidence than he felt. “Mrs. Radcliffe and Miss Taylor have no reason to connect Mr. Draycott with the Duke of Merrow. And I intend to keep it that way.”

“For how long, Your Grace?”

It was a fair question. How long could he maintain this deception? How long before someone recognized him, or before the weight of his lies grew too heavy to bear?

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But for now, for tomorrow at least, I’m just Mr. Draycott.”

Morrison bowed and withdrew, disapproval radiating from every line of his impeccable posture.

Alexander picked up his brandy, swirling the amber liquid as he stared into the fire. He thought of Claire saying he presented an interesting challenge, the way she’d studied him like a puzzle to solve. What would she say when she learned the truth? Because she would learn it, eventually. Secrets like his didn’t stay hidden forever, especially not in Bath, where gossip traveled faster than the mail coach.

But that was a problem for another day. Tomorrow, he would return to the library. He would collect his copy of Pride and Prejudice. He would perhaps help sort more donations, drink tea from chipped cups, and listen to Claire’s opinions on everything from German philosophy to the proper use of Latin in romantic declarations.

Tomorrow, he would continue his deception, and he would hate himself a little for it. But he would also be happier than he’d been in months, possibly years.

He raised his glass in a silent toast to the rain, to desperate escapes, and to modest little libraries that offered more than just books. Then he drank deeply, trying not to think about how it would feel when his carefully constructed house of cards inevitably came tumbling down.

But that was tomorrow’s worry, or next week’s, or next month’s. Tonight, he had the memory of Claire’s laugh, the warmth of that shabby back room, and the promise of returning.

For now, that was enough.

It had to be.

 

***

 

The next morning dawned bright and crisp, the air carrying that deceptive freshness that only follows a day of thorough soaking. Bath gleamed—pavements scrubbed clean and rooftops shining faintly under a reluctant sun. It felt, Alexander thought as he rose, like the city had prepared itself for him to make a fool of his better judgment.

Morrison was already in attendance, of course, every inch the model valet: silent, efficient, and faintly judgmental. He laid out Alexander’s clothes with the precision of a military strategist; nothing too fine, lest anyone mistake him for nobility, but refined enough to suggest breeding of the quiet, inherited sort.

When Alexander reached for a simpler waistcoat, Morrison’s eyebrow twitched with disapproval. “Will Your Grace be attending Lady Wealthe’s morning calls?” he asked, tone deliberately neutral, as if discussing a funeral.

“I think not,” Alexander said, testing the knot of his cravat and deliberately loosening it again. Too formal, too rigid, too ducal. He wanted to look approachable, or at least, not as though he might demand a quarterly rent payment mid-conversation.

“I have business in town,” he added.

Morrison’s hands stilled on the coat he was brushing. “Business, Your Grace?” There was a hint of alarm under the civility, like a man who suspects the word ‘business’ might conceal something unholy, such as spontaneity.

“Literary business, Morrison.”

The eye twitch returned in force. “Indeed. Shall I have the carriage brought round?”

“No, I shall walk.”

That earned him a sharp inhale. Morrison’s horror was subtle, but no less potent for its restraint. Alexander could almost hear the internal monologue: A duke. Walking. In Bath. Alone. Heaven preserve us from social collapse.

“The exercise will do me good,” Alexander said, as though explaining basic physics. Then, seeing the tightening line of Morrison’s mouth, he added, “And should my mother inquire, I’ve gone to review some parliamentary papers.”

Morrison’s thin brows arched. “At the coffee house, Your Grace?”

“Yes. At the coffee house.”

“Which coffee house, Your Grace? In the interest of… consistency.”

He was right, of course. His mother could sniff out a lie in a matter of seconds. Alexander paused in contemplation, fastening his cufflinks. “Molloy’s,” he decided. Respectable, crowded, and mercifully uninteresting. The kind of place no one would look for a duke…or a man trying to borrow Pride and Prejudice.

Morrison inclined his head. “Very good, Your Grace.”

His tone said disastrous, his face said inevitable, and his hands folded behind his back like a man preparing to watch a carriage accident in slow motion.

As Alexander shrugged into his coat, he caught Morrison’s reflection in the mirror; expression politely blank, but his eyes gleaming faintly with disbelief. The man had seen his master in battle with ministers and matrons alike, yet nothing, Alexander suspected, unnerved him quite like the words “literary business.”

Still, Morrison handed him his gloves with immaculate grace. “Shall I send someone to fetch you from… Molloy’s… if Her Grace becomes insistent?”

Alexander smiled. “If she becomes insistent, Morrison, nothing short of divine intervention will help us both.”

The valet inclined his head. “Then I shall pray, Your Grace.”

And with that, Alexander left the townhouse, the echo of Morrison’s sigh trailing behind him like a benediction.

Thankfully, he escaped before his mother could emerge from her rooms and subject him to another lecture on duty and appropriate bride selection. The morning air was fresh, puddles from yesterday’s rain reflecting the pale blue sky. The walk to the library took him through the fashionable parts of Bath, past the Pump Room where the gossips would already be gathering, down increasingly modest streets until he reached the narrow lane where yesterday’s adventure had begun.

The library looked different in the morning light. What had seemed cozy by firelight now revealed its flaws, faded wallpaper, uneven floorboards, a faint crack snaking up one windowpane, but none of it lessened the charm. If anything, the place felt alive in its imperfections, like an old friend who’d long since stopped pretending to impress. The sign above the door, Radcliffe’s Circulating Library, hung crookedly, one chain squeaking with each gust of wind.

Alexander smiled as he pushed open the door, the little bell above it jangling its welcome. The scent of books, ink, and faintly damp paper met him like a benediction.

But the woman he expected behind the counter was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a thin, nervous-looking youth with spectacles perched on the end of his nose looked up from a ledger.

“Good morning, sir,” the boy said, standing so quickly his chair nearly toppled. “May I help you?”

Alexander felt an entirely unreasonable twinge of disappointment. “I was hoping to find Miss Taylor. Is she here?”

The boy shook his head, pushing his glasses up with one ink-stained finger. “Not yet, sir. She usually comes in after luncheon. May I take a message?”

“I…no.” He hesitated, aware of how foolish it sounded. “That is, I’m Mr. Draycott. I took a subscription yesterday. Miss Taylor was to set aside a book for me.”

The boy’s face brightened. “Oh, you’re Mr. Draycott! Yes, of course. Miss Taylor left something for you and she said you’d be back, though Aunt Radcliffe doubted it. She said no gentleman of sense rises before noon.”

“Then I must disappoint her,” Alexander said dryly.

The boy rummaged behind the counter and produced a neatly wrapped parcel tied with string. Tucked beneath it was a small folded note. Alexander’s heart gave an absurd little leap. Claire’s handwriting, small, neat, and undeniably precise, curved across the page.

Mr. Draycott—Assuming you survived your mysterious appointment. P&P as prescribed. Try not to see yourself in Mr. Darcy. Everyone does, and it’s rarely flattering.
—C.T.

He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. The woman had nerve…and wit enough to use it.

“Thank you, Mr…?”

“Timothy, sir. Timothy Radcliffe. Mrs. Radcliffe’s my aunt.”

“Ah.” Alexander inclined his head. “Then we’ve met your formidable relation. A most… spirited woman.”

Timothy smiled, clearly proud. “She is that, sir.”

Alexander tucked the note discreetly into his coat pocket before the boy could read more than a glimpse of Claire’s handwriting. “Please tell Miss Taylor I shall return the book when I’ve finished it. 

 “I’ll be sure she gets your message, sir. Though, um—she did say something else.”

Alexander raised an eyebrow. “Did she?”

The boy blushed crimson. “She said you might want to come by again on Tuesday afternoons. We get donations then, and, well, she said you seemed the type who liked to be useful.”

Alexander chuckled, surprised by how much pleasure the words gave him. “She did, did she?”

“Yes, sir. I shouldn’t have repeated it…”

“On the contrary,” Alexander interrupted, “you’ve given me a most excellent piece of information. Tuesday afternoons, you say?”

“After two o’clock, sir.”

“Excellent,” he said again, tucking the wrapped volume beneath his arm. “Thank you, Timothy. You’ve been most helpful.”

He left the boy still gaping behind the counter and stepped back into the sunshine, feeling, against all reason, rather pleased with himself. Claire Taylor had anticipated his early visit. She’d left him a note. She’d thought about him.

Of course, she’d also warned him not to see himself in Mr. Darcy, which was either a clever jest or an unsubtle declaration that she found him insufferable. Possibly both. Still, she’d wrapped the book neatly, written to him by name, and mentioned Tuesday donations. One could only interpret that as encouragement.

He was so occupied in turning this over, mentally cataloguing her every possible inflection, that he very nearly collided with Lord Wealthe, who was advancing down the pavement with his wife and daughter in tow. The man always moved as if Bath were his personal estate, and every passerby a trespasser.

“Your Grace!” Lord Wealthe boomed, loud enough to startle a nearby dog. “I thought you were indisposed yesterday! Yet here you are—picture of health!”

Alexander barely managed not to wince. Of course the man would use his title in the middle of the street. Subtlety was among his many deficiencies.

“Lord Wealthe,” Alexander said smoothly, bowing just low enough to satisfy propriety. “Lady Wealthe. Lady Millicent.”

He discreetly shifted the parcel behind his back. It was a futile gesture, he was six feet tall and the book-shaped object wasn’t exactly invisible, but he clung to the illusion of dignity.

Lady Millicent smiled up at him, all golden curls and practiced docility. She was lovely, in the polished, uniform way of debutantes whose mothers hired the same tutors and modistes. “Your Grace, we missed you yesterday,” she trilled. “I had prepared Mozart’s Sonata Number Eleven especially.”

Alexander summoned a look of regret polished by years of experience. “My deepest apologies, Lady Millicent. The rain brought on a dreadful headache. I would not have wished to spoil your day.”

Lady Wealthe’s fan fluttered like an agitated bird. “Then you must redeem yourself by joining us on Thursday. A small soirée—very select.”

Alexander had attended her “select” soirées before. They usually involved fifty guests, half of them ambitious mamas and the other half their daughters, each wielding a pianoforte piece like a weapon.

“I’ll have to consult my engagements,” he said blandly.

“Oh, but you must come!” Lady Millicent exclaimed, then seemed to remember that enthusiasm was unladylike and dropped her gaze, adding softly, “we would be honoured by your presence.”

Lord Wealthe, who had been staring at the parcel still half-visible beneath Alexander’s arm, frowned. “What have you got there, Your Grace? Looks like a book. Don’t tell me you’ve taken up sermon reading.”

“Nothing of consequence,” Alexander replied smoothly. “Parliamentary papers.”

The lie came far too easily.

Lady Wealthe leaned forward slightly, curiosity lighting her eyes. “Parliamentary papers? In brown paper and tied with string?”

Alexander forced a polite smile. “The contents of government, are often more fragile than they appear.”

Lord Wealthe let out a loud laugh. “Ha! Very good, very good! Always the wit, eh, Your Grace? Still, one might think a duke would have someone carry his papers for him.”

Alexander inclined his head. “I find the exercise refreshing.”

The truth, of course, was that he would rather face a session of Parliament than another five minutes of Lady Millicent’s artless admiration. He could already hear his mother’s voice echoing in his head: Millicent Wealthe would make a fine duchess—gentle, accomplished, manageable.

Manageable. How he loathed that word.

He glanced down at the parcel under his arm, at the faint trace of Claire’s handwriting still visible on the folded note beneath the string, and felt an irrepressible flicker of amusement.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said with practiced charm, “I really must deliver these papers before the fate of the nation collapses entirely.”

Lord Wealthe guffawed again, taking this as good humor rather than escape. “Ever the patriot! Thursday, then!”

Alexander bowed once more, retreated down the street, and let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Your Grace!” Another voice called out, and Alexander suppressed a groan. Lord Ashworth was approaching, looking harried as usual. “Just the man I wanted to see. About the canal bill…”

What followed was twenty minutes of mind-numbing discussion about parliamentary procedure, water rights, and the vital importance of proper canal depth regulations, all while the Wealthes hovered like well-dressed vultures and Alexander’s wrapped book grew heavier in his hands. By the time he escaped, claiming an urgent appointment with his solicitor, the morning’s brightness had dimmed considerably.

This was his reality; chance encounters that turned into political discussions, every conversation a potential negotiation, every unmarried woman a potential duchess. He couldn’t walk down a street without being accosted, recognized, deferred to, pursued.

No wonder Claire’s casual irreverence had been such a shock to his system. She’d treated him like an ordinary man because she thought he was one. The question was: how long could he maintain that fiction?

 

Chapter 3

 

Back at his house Alexander retreated to his study and unwrapped Claire’s selection. Pride and Prejudice by A Lady. He’d heard of it, of course, but had never read it. Novels weren’t generally considered appropriate reading for dukes. He had estate reports, parliamentary bills, correspondence from tenants and investors and countless people who wanted something from him.

But this afternoon, he had a novel selected by a woman who corrected Latin and embroidered sedition.

He opened to the first page and began to read.

Two hours later, Morrison found him still reading, having forgotten entirely about luncheon.

“Your Grace, your mother is asking for you.”

“Tell her I’m indisposed.”

“She specifically said, Your Grace, that if you claimed to be indisposed, I was to remind you that you appeared quite well this morning.”

Alexander didn’t look up from the page. “Then tell her I’ve developed a sudden illness. Something highly contagious but not life-threatening.”

“Your Grace…”

“Morrison, have you read Pride and Prejudice?”

His valet’s eye twitched so violently Alexander feared for his health. “I… no, Your Grace. It is a novel.”

“An excellent novel. The heroine reminds me of someone.” Elizabeth Bennet with her wit and her prejudices, her quick tongue and her refusal to be impressed by wealth or status. “Listen to this: ‘My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.'”

“Very… spirited, Your Grace.”

“Precisely. Spirited.” Alexander returned to his reading. “Tell my mother I shall join her for dinner. Maybe.”

Morrison withdrew with the air of a man facing the gallows. Alexander barely noticed, too absorbed in the story of a proud man who nearly lost everything because he couldn’t see past his own assumptions.

Try not to see yourself in Mr. Darcy, Claire had written. But how could he not? A man of wealth and position, making assumptions about those he considered beneath him, too proud to unbend until it was almost too late.

Was that how Claire saw him? Or how she would see him when she learned the truth?

The thought sobered him enough to set the book aside. He rose and walked to the window, looking out over Bath’s elegant crescents. Somewhere in this city, Claire was probably helping her father with the parish school, teaching children to read and write, making the world better in small, practical ways. While he… what did he do? Sign papers his steward prepared? Attend sessions of Parliament where he voted as tradition and party dictated? Avoid marriage-minded mothers and their musical daughters?

When had his life become so empty of purpose?

A knock at the door interrupted these uncomfortable thoughts. “Come.”

But it wasn’t Morrison. His mother swept in, resplendent in morning dress that probably cost more than the library made in a year.

“Alexander, this is ridiculous. You cannot hide in your study all day.”

“I’m not hiding. I’m reading.”

She glanced at the book on his desk with distaste. “A novel? Really, Alexander. What would your father say?”

“Considering Father’s extensive collection of French novels, the ones you had removed from the library after his death, I think he’d understand perfectly.”

His mother’s lips thinned. “Your father’s reading habits were not among his virtues. Now, about Thursday’s soirée…”

“I’m not going.”

“Alexander!”

“Mother, I am eight and twenty years old, master of three estates, and a peer of the realm. I am not going to spend another evening listening to Lady Millicent murder Mozart while her mother watches me like a hawk eyes a mouse.”

“You need to marry.”

“Eventually.”

“Soon. You have a duty to the title, to produce an heir…”

“And I will. When I find someone I can bear to spend more than an evening with.” He thought of Claire’s laugh, her complete inability to be impressed by his consequence. “Someone who reads. Someone who thinks. Someone who doesn’t simper or play the pianoforte without a spark of feeling.”

His mother studied him with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. “You’ve met someone.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You disappeared yesterday. You went out early this morning. You’re reading a novel, Alexander. You never read novels.”

“Perhaps I’m broadening my horizons.”

“Who is she?”

“There is no ‘she.'”

“Is she suitable?”

“Mother…”

“Because if she’s some opera dancer or actress…”

“She’s not…that is, there is no she!” But his protest came too late. His mother’s eyes gleamed with triumph.

“So there is a she. Who are her people? What’s her portion? Has she been presented?”

Alexander felt the walls closing in. This was how it would go; his mother would investigate, discover Claire’s identity, find her wanting, and destroy everything before it had even begun. Whatever ‘it’ was.

“Leave it alone, Mother.”

“Alexander, you are the Duke of Merrow. You cannot simply…”

“I said leave it alone.” He used what Morrison called his ‘ducal voice,’ the one that brooked no argument. “There is nothing to discuss. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have correspondence to attend to.”

His mother left, but not without a look that promised this conversation was far from over.

Alexander returned to his desk but couldn’t concentrate on letters. Instead, he picked up Claire’s note again. Try not to see yourself in Mr. Darcy. Everyone does, and it’s rarely flattering.

But what if he was Darcy? Proud, prejudiced, lying to a woman who deserved better? The difference was, Darcy’s pride had only hurt Elizabeth and himself. Alexander’s deception, when discovered, would hurt Claire. She would think he’d been laughing at her, playing at being ordinary while knowing he held all the power.

He should stop now. Return the book by messenger, never go back to the library, forget about Tuesday donations and tea in chipped cups.

But even as he thought it, he knew he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. For the first time in years, he felt alive, present, real. Not the Duke of Merrow, but Alexander Draycott, a man who could jest about bad Latin and help sort dusty books and make a sharp-tongued woman laugh.

Tuesday. He would go back Tuesday.

And if that made him selfish, deceptive, unworthy of Claire’s friendship… well, perhaps that too was something Mr. Darcy would understand.

Alexander picked up the novel again, losing himself in the story of pride, prejudice, and the possibility, just the possibility, of redemption through love.

Outside, Bath continued its elegant routines, but inside his study, Alexander was learning what it meant to hope for something more than duty, something more than a suitable match, something more than a life lived entirely for others’ expectations.

He was learning what it meant to want.

And what he wanted, he realized with a clarity that should have frightened him, was more Tuesday afternoons with Claire Taylor.

 

***

 

Tuesday arrived with unseasonable warmth, as if summer had returned for one last encore before autumn properly took hold. Alexander had endured three days of his mother’s increasingly creative attempts to discover the identity of his mysterious woman, deflecting her questions with the skill of a diplomat and the desperation of a cornered fox.

“I’m going out,” he announced after luncheon, not waiting for her response.

“Where?” she called after him.

“Parliament papers,” he replied vaguely. “Canal bills. Terribly important.”

Morrison appeared with his gloves and hat, disapproval radiating from every line of his impeccable posture. “Your Grace, perhaps a carriage…”

“Walking, Morrison. The exercise, remember?”

“As Your Grace wishes.” Morrison’s tone suggested that what His Grace wished was likely to result in disaster, but he was too well-trained to say so aloud.

Alexander escaped before further objections could be raised. He’d finished Pride and Prejudice the night before, staying up far too late to reach the ending. Elizabeth and Darcy’s happiness had left him with a strange ache in his chest, a longing for something he couldn’t quite name. Or rather, something he could name but didn’t dare.

The library was busier than he’d yet seen it when he arrived. Several ladies perused the shelves while Timothy managed the desk with barely controlled panic. Through the doorway to the back room, Alexander could see boxes stacked precariously high.

“Mr. Draycott!” Mrs. Radcliffe’s voice boomed from somewhere among the stacks. “Claire said you might come! We’re drowning in donations, absolutely drowning!”

He made his way through the narrow aisles to find Mrs. Radcliffe surrounded by boxes, her violet turban askew and a smudge of dust on her nose. Claire was balanced precariously on a stepladder, trying to fit books onto an already overcrowded shelf.

“Careful!” he said, moving instinctively to steady the ladder as it wobbled.

Claire looked down at him, and for a moment, something passed between them—awareness, perhaps, or recognition of some kind. Then she smiled, that slight quirk of lips he was beginning to treasure.

“Mr. Draycott. Have you come to alphabetize?”

“Among other talents,” he replied, very aware of his hands on the ladder, of her proximity, of the way the afternoon light caught the gold threads in her brown hair.

“Good,” she said briskly, descending with an armful of books. “Because Lady Weatherby has donated her entire library, and half of it appears to be sermons on the proper behaviour of young ladies.”

“The horror,” Alexander said solemnly. “Shall we burn them?”

“Mr. Draycott!” Mrs. Radcliffe exclaimed. “We don’t burn books!”

“Even Fordyce?” Claire asked hopefully.

“Even Fordyce. Though we might price him very reasonably for the auction. Very, very reasonably.”

They set to work, the three of them falling into rhythm as though they’d done it a dozen times before. Mrs. Radcliffe stationed herself at the little writing desk, spectacles perched at the end of her nose, recording each donation in looping, decisive script. She also muttered commentary as she worked, “two copies of Fordyce again, heaven preserve us,” and occasionally hummed under her breath, some melody that wandered off-key but managed to sound cheerful nonetheless.

Claire knelt beside a crate, sorting through the latest arrivals with an efficiency born of affection. She examined bindings, assessed wear, sniffed for mildew, and discarded hopeless cases with a sigh of mourning, as though each ruined volume were a fallen soldier.

Alexander took on the more physical labor—lifting boxes, carrying stacks, steadying the ladder when Mrs. Radcliffe needed to reach a high shelf. Within half an hour, the cuffs of his fine linen shirt were smudged with dust, his waistcoat bore a faint streak of cobweb, and there was an alarming tear near the elbow of his jacket.

“You’re ruining your coat,” Claire observed, glancing up from her inspection of a tattered volume of Clarissa.

He looked down at himself with mild curiosity, brushing at the dust to no effect. “It’s only cloth.”

Her brow arched. “Only cloth? That jacket could feed a family for a month.”

“Well I’m pleased to be feeding posterity,” he said, shifting another heavy box to the corner. “These books are a wonder for the next generations.”

Mrs. Radcliffe, without looking up, remarked, “Now there’s a sentiment I could embroider on a pillow.”

Claire’s lips twitched. “You’re very strange, Mr. Draycott.”

“Strange?” He turned, mock affronted. “How so?”

“Most gentlemen of your… caliber,” she waved vaguely at his attire, now hopelessly dusty, “wouldn’t be caught dead performing manual labor in a lending library. They’d consider it beneath their dignity.”

“Then it’s fortunate,” he said lightly, “that I’ve never had much use for dignity.”

Her eyes lifted to his, studying him as if he were an unfamiliar species of man—one she hadn’t decided whether to admire or mistrust. “No,” she said finally, quieter now. “You’re certainly not like most.”

He looked away before he betrayed how much that pleased him. “A dangerous statement, Miss Taylor. If it goes to my head, I’ll start demanding an honorary membership.”

She snorted softly. “We might permit it, provided you continue hauling the heavy boxes.”

They worked for hours in that easy rhythm; Mrs. Radcliffe’s quill pen scratched steadily across the ledger, Claire’s low voice reading out titles for cataloguing, and Alexander’s occasional commentary breaking through the steady creak of shelves.

He learned that Claire had read nearly everything; novels, plays, political essays, obscure philosophical treatises in translation. She spoke of Rousseau and Richardson in the same breath, quoted Pope one moment and Wollstonecraft the next. It was… disarming.

When she disagreed with him, and she often did, it was with wit sharp enough to make him laugh, not bristle. 

“How did you come to read so broadly?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“My mother,” she said, handling a worn copy of Mary Wollstonecraft with reverence. “She believed that ignorance was the only true prison. After she died, reading became… well, a way to still hear her voice, I suppose.”

“How old were you?”

“Twelve.” She set the book carefully in the ‘valuable’ pile. “Old enough to remember everything, young enough to believe that if I just read enough, learned enough, I could somehow bring her back.”

Alexander wanted to offer comfort, but what could he say? That he understood loss? His father had died when he was twenty, old enough to bear it, and they’d never been close anyway. The Duke of Merrow had been a distant figure, more title than father.

“She would be proud of you,” he said finally. “Teaching at the parish school, helping here.”

“Would she?” Claire’s smile was sad. “Sometimes I think she’d be horrified. She wanted me to do great things, change the world. Instead, I’m teaching farmers’ children their letters and sorting donated sermons.”

“Isn’t that changing the world? One reader at a time?”

She looked at him then, and Alexander felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with his hidden title.

“You’re quite the optimist, Mr. Draycott.”

“Alexander,” he said impulsively. “My friends call me Alexander.”

“Alexander,” she repeated, testing the name. “And what do your enemies call you?”

Your Grace, he thought but said, “Various uncomplimentary things, I’m sure.”

“Well then, Alexander,” she said, and his name in her voice did something peculiar to his breathing, “since we’re to be friends, you should call me Claire.”

“Claire.” He liked the simplicity of it, the clarity. “It suits you.”

“Better than Clarissa or Clairebelle or any of the other elaborate names my mother could have chosen. She said she wanted me to be clear-sighted, clear-headed, clear-hearted. Hence, Claire.”

“And are you? Clear in all things?”

“I try to be.” She paused in her sorting. “Though lately, I find myself rather muddled.”

“Oh? About what?”

She glanced at him, then away. “Nothing of consequence. Here, help me with this box. Lady Weatherby seems to have been quite fond of Gothic novels.”

They spent the next hour discovering Lady Weatherby’s surprising taste in literature. Beyond the expected sermons lurked a treasure trove of Gothic romances, sensational novels, and even some rather scandalous French poetry.

“My goodness,” Mrs. Radcliffe gasped, fanning herself after Claire translated a particularly heated verse. “Lady Weatherby! Who would have thought?”

“Still waters,” Claire murmured, “apparently run rather passionate.”

Alexander laughed, delighted by the discovery. “Perhaps we should create a special section. ‘Books for Ladies Who Appear Respectable.'”

“All the best ladies would shop there,” Claire agreed. “We’d make a fortune.”

“Speaking of fortunes,” Mrs. Radcliffe said, “look what I’ve found!” She held up a first edition of Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound and beautifully preserved. “This must be worth ten pounds at least!”

Claire took it reverently, checking the binding and pages with expert fingers. “More, I think. Look at the printing date. This is genuinely valuable.”

“Excellent,” Alexander said. “More funds for the parish school.”

“You really do care about that, don’t you?” Claire asked, looking at him curiously. “It’s not just politeness.”

“Why would it be mere politeness?”

“Because that’s what gentlemen do. They express vague interest in charitable causes while secretly calculating how quickly they can escape.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Lord Ashworth visited last month,” she said dryly. “He spent twenty minutes explaining why education for the poor was admirable in theory but dangerous in practice. Apparently, if farmers’ children learn to read, they might get ideas.”

“Heaven forbid,” Alexander said. “Ideas are terribly dangerous.”

“Yes, all that liberté, égalité, fraternité nonsense,” Claire agreed with false solemnity. “Much better to keep everyone in their proper places.”

“Exactly. Farmers farming, lords lording…”

“Dukes duke-ing?”

Alexander’s heart stopped. Did she know? But Claire was still smiling, continuing their jest.

“Is duke-ing even a word?” he managed.

“It is now. I’ve decided. Duke-ing (verb): the act of being insufferably grand and requiring others to bow and scrape.”

“You’ve met many dukes, have you not?”

“Oh, dozens,” she said airily. “They’re forever stopping by the library, demanding we stock only improving works and complaining about the dust.”

“The dust is rather excessive,” Alexander observed, brushing at his thoroughly begrimed jacket.

“True. But we prefer to think of it as ‘atmospheric.'”

They continued working, the afternoon shadows lengthening as they sorted, evaluated, and debated. Alexander found himself telling stories he hadn’t thought of in years—his tutor’s horror when young Alexander had questioned the divine right of kings, his first trip to London and getting thoroughly lost in Covent Garden, the time he’d tried to teach himself Greek and accidentally ordered five dozen live chickens instead of five dressed chickens for a dinner gathering.

“Five dozen!” Claire laughed so hard she had to sit down. “What did you do with them all?”

“Gave them to the tenants,” Alexander said, grinning at the memory. “They thought I’d gone mad. Someone in the dukedom, personally delivering chickens to every cottage.”

He realized his mistake the moment the words left his mouth. Claire’s laughter stopped abruptly.

“The dukedom?” she repeated slowly.

Alexander’s mind raced. “My… employer,” he said, forcing a smile that felt brittle. “I manage the estates for the Duke of Merrow. Didn’t I mention that?”

“No,” she said, and her tone was careful now; polite, but edged. “You didn’t.”

He shrugged, hating himself for the lie but too far in to retreat. “It’s frightfully dull work. Rents, repairs, arguments over drainage rights. The sort of thing that makes one long for a good storm or a bad play.”

Mrs. Radcliffe, who had been listening with growing interest, leaned forward eagerly. “You manage for the Duke of Merrow? My goodness! They say he’s one of the richest men in England!”

Alexander winced. “He’s… comfortable.”

“And unmarried,” Mrs. Radcliffe continued with relish. “Every mother in the kingdom wants him for her daughter. Is he as handsome as they say?”

Alexander blinked. “I…well…I wouldn’t know.”

Mrs. Radcliffe tilted her head. “Oh, come now. You’ve seen him, surely?”

He cleared his throat. “I suppose he’s… presentable. In a certain light.”

“He sounds absolutely insufferable,” Claire said, mercifully cutting through his floundering. She’d gone back to sorting books, her voice dry but amused. “All that wealth and power…he’s probably the sort of man who believes everyone should be grateful just to breathe the same air.”

Alexander straightened from the crate he was lifting. “He’s not…” He caught himself just in time. “That is… I imagine he’s not entirely like that.”

Claire looked up, her brow arched. “I’ve met his sort, Mr. Draycott. Aristocrats who think kindness is a weakness and humility a myth. Can you imagine living like that? Marrying a man like that?”

He swallowed. “Perhaps, with the right woman…”

“There is no right duke,” she said firmly. “They’re all wrong by design. Products of a system that rewards birth instead of merit. Wealth without purpose. I’d rather marry a baker.”

Mrs. Radcliffe gasped, scandalized. “Claire! You can’t mean that.”

“I absolutely do,” she said, smiling with serene conviction. “Give me an honest tradesman who works for his living over a titled fool who’s never lifted a finger. At least with a baker, I’d have fresh bread.”

Mrs. Radcliffe pressed a hand to her chest. “You’ll never catch a husband talking like that.”

“Then I shall die well-fed and unbothered,” Claire said cheerfully.

Alexander bent low over the box, pretending to be deeply engrossed in rearranging the books. Each word she spoke seemed to tighten the invisible knot around his throat. She despised men like him—men born into privilege, insulated from consequence. And here he was, pretending to be one of the sensible few who simply worked for such a man.

He’d wanted honesty with her. He’d found everything but.

“Mr. Draycott, you’ve gone very quiet,” Claire said after a moment. “Have I scandalized you? I know you work for the Duke, and…”

“No!” he said quickly…too quickly. “Not at all. I… quite agree with you, actually. The system is ridiculous. And the…fools especially.”

That earned him a laugh, warm and genuine, her earlier sharpness dissolving into amusement. “I knew you were sensible,” she said, eyes bright. “Despite your fancy waistcoat and mysterious appointments.”

Alexander smiled faintly, though guilt pressed heavy in his chest. She saw through everyone, he thought…and yet she hadn’t seen through him.

And for reasons he couldn’t name, that didn’t feel like victory at all.

“Speaking of appointments,” Mrs. Radcliffe said, checking the clock, “goodness, it’s nearly five! Claire, your father will be wondering where you are.”

“Oh!” Claire began hastily tidying her workspace. “I promised to help with evening prayers. Mr. Draycott…Alexander…thank you for your help today.”

“It was my pleasure,” he said, meaning it completely. “Same time next week?”

“If you can bear more dust and sermons.”

“I’m developing quite a tolerance for both.”

She laughed, gathering her things. “Then yes, next Tuesday. Oh, and what did you think of Pride and Prejudice?”

“I found it… instructive,” he said carefully. “Mr. Darcy’s journey was particularly interesting.”

“His pride was nearly his downfall,” Claire observed. “If he hadn’t learned to value Elizabeth for herself, rather than despite her circumstances…”

“He would have lost everything that mattered,” Alexander finished quietly.

They looked at each other for a long moment, something unspoken hanging in the air between them.

“Claire!” Mrs. Radcliffe called. “Your father!”

“Going!” She turned back to Alexander. “Next week, I’ll have another recommendation ready. Something less improving, perhaps.”

“I trust your judgment.”

She gave him one last smile and was gone, leaving Alexander standing among boxes of books and swirling dust motes, feeling like Darcy at his worst and hoping somehow to become Darcy at his best; worthy of a woman who valued honesty above titles, worth above wealth.

“She’s special, our Claire,” Mrs. Radcliffe said quietly, appearing at his elbow.

“Yes,” Alexander agreed. “She is.”

“Be careful with her, Mr. Draycott. She’s had enough disappointment in her life.”

Alexander looked at the older woman, surprised by her serious tone. “I would never…”

“Intentionally hurt her? No, I don’t think you would. But there are secrets in your silences, young man. Good ones or bad ones, I can’t tell, but secrets nonetheless.”

“Mrs. Radcliffe…”

“I’m not asking you to confess,” she said gently. “Just… be careful. Claire sees the best in people, but she doesn’t forgive deception easily. Her last suitor, Mr. Wealthe, the current Lord Wealthe’s younger brother, courted her for months before she discovered he was already betrothed to an heiress in London. He’d thought her a pleasant diversion for his stay in Bath.”

Alexander’s hands clenched involuntarily. “That’s despicable.”

“That’s what Claire said. Rather more forcefully, with better vocabulary. She also dumped a pot of tea over his head, but that’s neither here nor there.” Mrs. Radcliffe patted his arm. “Just remember, Mr. Draycott…whatever you’re hiding, the truth has a way of coming out. Better it come from you than from someone else.”

She bustled away, leaving Alexander alone with his guilt and the growing certainty that he was in far deeper than he’d intended.

He made his way home slowly, his mind churning with Claire’s words about dukes and deception, about choosing a baker over a title. Morrison nearly fainted when he saw the state of his clothes, but Alexander barely noticed. He was thinking about truth and consequences, about pride and prejudice, about a woman who valued honesty above all else and the man who was lying to her with every breath.

That night, as he endured another of his mother’s unexpected dinner gatherings, watching Lady Millicent perform yet another Mozart piece with mechanical precision, Alexander made a decision. He would tell Claire the truth. Not immediately, he wasn’t brave enough for that, but soon. Before someone else could, before the lie grew too large to overcome.

He would tell her and hope that, unlike Mr. Wealthe, he might avoid having tea poured over his head.

Though, he thought as Lady Millicent murdered another crescendo, if Claire did pour tea on him, he’d probably deserve it.

The thought shouldn’t have made him smile, but it did.