bowing to the dowdy Mistress Hathaway, aware of a prickle of disappointment that the momentary appearance of someone else beneath the dowdy surface had merely been an illusion.
“I didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am, but Sir Stephen said I might disturb you at your work if you could spare a little time to assist me. I’m most anxious to see the Decameron . . . and any other treasures you could show me.”
“Indeed, sir,” she responded rather distantly. How long had he been standing there watching her? It was so difficult to be on her guard when she was alone, and she could easily have betrayed herself with an unwary expression or a gesture not in keeping with the character of the downtrodden librarian. She overcame the flicker of fear with sheer effort of will and continued casually, “I am rather busy at the moment, but the shelves are at your disposal, of course. Please feel free to browse.” She bent her head to her papers once again.
Peregrine frowned at this cool dismissal. It was not her place to refuse her assistance when her employer had promised it. “I don’t wish to interrupt your work, Mistress Hathaway, but . . .”
She looked up at him again with a little sigh of exasperation that would not have been out of place on a vexed schoolmistress. For some perverse reason, it overcame his irritation. It just wasn’t convincing. He gestured to the shelves with a comically perplexed air. “Where am I to start? You must admit ’tis a daunting exercise if one doesn’t know how they are categorized. Are they alphabetical? If so, by title or author? Are they in order of rarity or shelved according to subject? I have even seen libraries where the books are arranged according to size.”
“Surely not?” Mistress Hathaway exclaimed. “What barbarian would do something that idiotic?”
He laughed. There was nothing of the schoolmistress about her now or, indeed, of the diffident librarian.Her indignation had brought a flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to the gray eyes, quite at odds with the subdued mien Mistress Hathaway generally presented to the world. Her shoulders had straightened imperceptibly, and her chin was lifted in that slightly challenging manner he remembered glimpsing the previous evening. “A barbarian rather like our friend Sir Stephen, I imagine,” he observed lightly, giving no indication of his fascinated reflections. “I understand he’s interested in selling the collection.”
Her expression darkened, and the fleeting impression of youthfulness vanished. “That is so. Are you in the market, sir?”
He shook his head ruefully. “Alas, no. I have nothing like the necessary funds for such treasure. I may only gaze and admire at a distance.”
She cast him a covert glance as if assessing the truth of what he said. “I am hoping to find a buyer who will appreciate what is here for itself rather than for its monetary value. Do you know of anyone, perhaps, whom I could approach privately before the collection goes to auction?”
“I know plenty of men who would kill for this library, but none I know has the necessary funds to acquire it intact. Are you prepared to break it up?”
Again, a look of distress crossed her face, and she turned aside for a moment before responding. “ I would not wish it, but I doubt Sir Stephen minds how it’s disposed of as long as it goes to the highest bidder.”
Peregrine wandered across to the nearest row of shelves and glanced along them, fingering the leather spines. “I understand Sir Arthur Douglas and his father before him were responsible for the acquisitions. They must have been as shrewd as they were book lovers.”
Something unreadable flashed again across her eyes, but her voice was flat, her face expressionless. “I wouldn’t know, sir. I work for Sir Stephen. My job is to catalogue the library and do what I can to secure the best price for it. That is my sole interest.”
Peregrine looked at her in disbelief. “Oh, come now,
“I didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am, but Sir Stephen said I might disturb you at your work if you could spare a little time to assist me. I’m most anxious to see the Decameron . . . and any other treasures you could show me.”
“Indeed, sir,” she responded rather distantly. How long had he been standing there watching her? It was so difficult to be on her guard when she was alone, and she could easily have betrayed herself with an unwary expression or a gesture not in keeping with the character of the downtrodden librarian. She overcame the flicker of fear with sheer effort of will and continued casually, “I am rather busy at the moment, but the shelves are at your disposal, of course. Please feel free to browse.” She bent her head to her papers once again.
Peregrine frowned at this cool dismissal. It was not her place to refuse her assistance when her employer had promised it. “I don’t wish to interrupt your work, Mistress Hathaway, but . . .”
She looked up at him again with a little sigh of exasperation that would not have been out of place on a vexed schoolmistress. For some perverse reason, it overcame his irritation. It just wasn’t convincing. He gestured to the shelves with a comically perplexed air. “Where am I to start? You must admit ’tis a daunting exercise if one doesn’t know how they are categorized. Are they alphabetical? If so, by title or author? Are they in order of rarity or shelved according to subject? I have even seen libraries where the books are arranged according to size.”
“Surely not?” Mistress Hathaway exclaimed. “What barbarian would do something that idiotic?”
He laughed. There was nothing of the schoolmistress about her now or, indeed, of the diffident librarian.Her indignation had brought a flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to the gray eyes, quite at odds with the subdued mien Mistress Hathaway generally presented to the world. Her shoulders had straightened imperceptibly, and her chin was lifted in that slightly challenging manner he remembered glimpsing the previous evening. “A barbarian rather like our friend Sir Stephen, I imagine,” he observed lightly, giving no indication of his fascinated reflections. “I understand he’s interested in selling the collection.”
Her expression darkened, and the fleeting impression of youthfulness vanished. “That is so. Are you in the market, sir?”
He shook his head ruefully. “Alas, no. I have nothing like the necessary funds for such treasure. I may only gaze and admire at a distance.”
She cast him a covert glance as if assessing the truth of what he said. “I am hoping to find a buyer who will appreciate what is here for itself rather than for its monetary value. Do you know of anyone, perhaps, whom I could approach privately before the collection goes to auction?”
“I know plenty of men who would kill for this library, but none I know has the necessary funds to acquire it intact. Are you prepared to break it up?”
Again, a look of distress crossed her face, and she turned aside for a moment before responding. “ I would not wish it, but I doubt Sir Stephen minds how it’s disposed of as long as it goes to the highest bidder.”
Peregrine wandered across to the nearest row of shelves and glanced along them, fingering the leather spines. “I understand Sir Arthur Douglas and his father before him were responsible for the acquisitions. They must have been as shrewd as they were book lovers.”
Something unreadable flashed again across her eyes, but her voice was flat, her face expressionless. “I wouldn’t know, sir. I work for Sir Stephen. My job is to catalogue the library and do what I can to secure the best price for it. That is my sole interest.”
Peregrine looked at her in disbelief. “Oh, come now,
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