Calhoun Chronicles Bundle by Susan Wiggs

corridor hung with portraits. The family tree, Ryan assumed, noting that each subject seemed to be extraordinarily handsome. Either the painters were expert flatterers or this clan had been bred for show.
    They passed through a glassed-in verandah and then emerged onto a clipped and sculpted yard. Paradise in miniature, Ryan thought, noting the vine pergolas and pruned yew trees, At the far end stood a gazebo with a domed roof and open sides. In the middle sat a woman in black, her head bent as she read a thick book in her lap.
    “Miss Peabody?” Ryan said.
    She looked up, blinking owlishly as if she had come from a dark place into the light. A pair of spectacles sat low on her nose, and she seemed to see better by peering over the top of the lenses.
    “Yes.” Her voice squeaked, and she cleared her throat. “Yes,” she said again. “Captain Calhoun. I am indeed pleased that you’ve come.”
    He stood before her, watching her hands, expecting her to extend one for his kiss. Instead, she clutched the book very hard, displaying fingernails that had been bitten ragged. She had, of all things, the indirect, cowed look of a slave. As if she feared she might be beaten at any moment.
    Discomfited by the thought, he opted for a formal bow from the waist. “This is Mr. Journey Calhoun, my associate and steward of the Swan. ”
    She clutched the book tighter. “Oh! I was expecting a note, not two grown men! I’m—um—pleased to meet you.”
    Ryan had never met a more socially gauche woman in his life. He dared not look at Journey, for if their gazes met, they would surely dishonor her with a fit of sniggering.
    She cleared her throat again and used one finger to push her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. Said nose was red and swollen; either she was unwell or the book had moved her to tears.
    She sneezed violently into a crumpled handkerchief. Unwell, Ryan decided.
    She tucked the handkerchief up her sleeve. “My apologies. It is the grippe, I fear.”
    “Do you suffer from it often?”
    “Constantly, Captain. Except in the springtime. Then it is the hay fever that plagues me, though I can seldom tell the difference between the two ailments—” She broke off, looking horrified. “Forgive me for going on about such a disagreeable subject.”
    “I find nothing disagreeable about discussing you, Miss Peabody,” Ryan said, forcing his gallantry to its limits. He was here to refuse her offer, so he might as well do it politely.
    She finally seemed to remember the book she was holding. “Pardon me,” she said, shutting the tome and setting it on the marble table beside her.
    He turned his head to see its title. The symbols on the cover looked only vaguely familiar; he had made a point of sleeping through the classics at university.
    “Ptolemy,” she said.
    “In the original Greek,” he guessed.
    “Oh, indeed. I wouldn’t want to read Ptolemy any other way. He has such a distinctive authority in the original.”
    “I couldn’t agree with you more,” Ryan said. He could hear a chuckle starting in Journey’s throat. “I take it you have a facility with languages.”
    “Yes, yes, I do. I was fortunate to have been tutored by my late great aunt, who was quite the scholar in her day, and I also attended Mount Holyoke. I am conversant in Spanish, French, Italian and Portuguese and have a reading knowledge of Latin, Greek and Hebrew.”
    She was probably more knowledgeable than the majority of Harvard graduates, Ryan guessed. Curious. Why would her wealthy parents allow a girl such latitude?
    “Miss Peabody,” he said, “I came in person because any other way would fail to do justice to the incredibly generous offer you made me.”
    She pressed her nail-bitten fingers into a steeple. “Then you will take me? I’m going to Rio on your ship?”
    “No.” He said it swiftly to kill the blooming hope on her face. “It is not that you are lacking in any way,” he hastened to add. “The fault is with me, and