Chapter 1

Halifax Nova Scotia, July 1876

Madeline Murray hated crowds even more than a dog-eared book or small talk with strangers while trying to buy sugar at Kenny’s Dry Goods. And yet here she was, standing in MacAskill’s bookshop, with two of her Everwell companions, Rimple Jones and Elouise Ashe, being jostled and squeezed amongst the horde of readers eager to buy copies of Over the Ocean: Or, Sights and Scenes in Foreign Lands and have them signed by the author himself.

Normally spending a day surrounded by books was not a chore, but today was not a normal day.

Well, not entirely normal.

When one had to switch out a counterfeit copy of a rare—and rather expensive—book with a real one, sacrifices had to be made. Particularly when that sacrifice involved the wellbeing of Mrs. Amelia Cornish, the latest client of The Everwell Society of Scandalous Spinsters and Wayward Women. A charlatan had convinced Mrs. Cornish that her prized copy of William Blake’s Poetical Sketches was a fake and had offered to take it off her hands for a meagre sum. The very idea that a reprobate would cheat a good-hearted soul like Mrs. Cornish out of a family heirloom—and that heirloom being a book—was enough to convince Maddy to brave the bookshop on the single busiest day of the year. So here she was, enduring the endless sideways glances as a woman who, in the words of her mother, had been cursed with far too much height, hips far too broad, and hair far too red to ever to attract the good opinion of a man.

Not that Maddy ever needed one. What had Jane Austen written once upon a time? What are men to rocks and mountains? Elizabeth may have found her match in the imperious Mr. Darcy, but Maddy couldn’t help but wonder if Mary Bennett didn’t have the right of it in the end.

After all, there were flowers and books. Flowers came in endless variety. Some grew happily with little fuss or care at all, like dandelions, Queen Anne’s lace, and Forget-Me-Nots. Others demanded particular attention. Dahlias and Delphiniums were fussy about soil and moisture. Rhododendrons needed to be sheltered from too much sun and wind. And her roses—they were the most demanding of all.

Books had far fewer requirements, but neither books or flowers expected anything from her except a little attention and her time. A rose didn’t care if her skirts were not of the latest fashion. A book did not concern itself that she might have eaten one too many of Rimple Jones’ delicious scones. And neither demanded that she smile.

Except today, when a book required her to put on a fashionable walking gown and venture into a crowded bookshop, her normally unruly hair pinned into an elegant chignon. Maddy hadn’t had an elegant day in her life. Elouise had come to assist with today’s job, using her singular good looks and natural ease to distract anyone from paying too close attention to Maddy as she made the switch. Rimple came simply because she was Rimple, curious almost to a fault, and fascinated by the world and everything in it.

“This place is an absolute crush!” Rimple whispered, her lilting Welsh accent barely audible over the din of the crowd.

“Of course it is,” Elouise chimed in, turning her practiced eye across the room before flashing a dazzling smile back at Maddy and Rimple. “It’s perfect.”

Using the occasion of the book signing had been purposeful. The bookshop attendants would be busy with the unusual number of customers and the requirements of their author, leaving Maddy to find the volume in question and switch it out for the fake copy in her bag.

“It’s not going to be on these shelves,” she said, murmuring to her companions. “That book is worth a small fortune. It’s going to be in that locked cabinet, behind the counter.”

“If only Gemma were here,” Rimple said, referring to Gemma Webber, Everwell’s sleight-of-hand master.

“She’s helping Jeremy host a luncheon,” Elouise replied. “Right now that’s probably the most important job she can do for us today.”

Maddy exchanged a look with Rimple, whose seemingly perpetual smile had just dimmed. Gemma had married Jeremy Webber, a former colonel of the British army, who worked as the Private Secretary for the Lieutenant Governor. The normally shy spinster—or former spinster, Maddy reminded herself—was now wife to a man with a very public role. Since their fateful meeting, they’d encountered disturbing rumours about The Everwell Society for the Benefit of Sorrowful Spinsters and Woeful Widows — the public face of The Everwell Society. Aside from Everwell’s rather scandalous mission of educating girls from all social classes and races, and providing emergency shelter for women in distress, there were whispers amongst that the upper echelons of Halifax society, sitting in their lush parlours and private clubs, of a den of lady thieves working out of old Georgian manor.

Of course the rumours, or at least some of them, were true.

“Plan A, or Plan B?” Maddy asked, eager to get on with their mission.

“Plan A is less risky,” Rimple suggested. “Especially if someone decides I should leave.”

Something fierce flared in Maddy’s chest as she scanned the room, looking for even the slightest hint of a threat. The daughter of a Welsh Engineer and a half-English, half-Indian mathematician, Rimple’s golden-brown skin subjected her to looks that ranged from curiosity to remarks of outright hostility. It didn’t stop her, of course, because Rimple seemed to have a bottomless well of confidence, no doubt due to living half her life under the guardianship of two of the most self-assured and powerful women Maddy had ever the privilege to know. But it didn’t make it any less taxing on Rimple, nor any more safe. And Maddy would die a thousand deaths rather than see harm of any kind come to Rimple, Elouise, or the others at Everwell.

Elouise, aware of her ability to dazzle people with a smile so bright the sun might seem dim in its presence, stayed close by. “No one is going to even suggest it,” she said. Elouise was a master of the confidence game. “Rimple, let’s get in line. Maddy, you get in position. Once you get the clerk to open the cabinet, wait for our signal.”

“And if it’s not there?” Maddy asked.

“Then we go to Plan C.”

Eloise took Rimple by the arm and escorted her into the line that snaked through the store while Maddy approached the counter lined with customers and one harried clerk.

“Excuse me,” she said, waving as politely as she could muster, trying to catch the clerk’s eye. His gaze brushed past her as if she were invisible, moving to assist one customer on her left, before then being so ever helpful to another on her right.

“Excuse me,” she repeated, a little louder, after the clerk had passed over her once more. Not that she could imagine he hadn’t heard her the first time or ignored her subtle waves to draw his attention to her. “Can I?—”

“The line starts back there,” called out an annoyed customer from somewhere behind her. “Wait your turn.”

Maddy looked over her shoulder, looking past the irate man behind her, to where Elouise and Rimple were already making their way to the front of the autograph line. This wasn’t going to work if she couldn’t get the man to see her. How could he miss her? She was taller than half the men in the shop by at least three inches. She blew out a low breath.

“Excuse me,” she said called out a third time, suppressing the urge to reach across the counter and grab the clerk by the collar. “I would like?—"

“Can I help you?”

Maddy started at the sound of a male voice, rich like Lady Em’s good brandy, with much the same effect. Recovering, she looked to her left, caught off guard by the man with stunning whisky-coloured eyes who had somehow managed to appear at her side without her notice. She cast a quick glance around, looking for whomever was the object if his question, because men with eyes like that—or any, in fact—did not pay much attention to Madeline Murray. At least not the good kind.

But given he was standing close enough that the bottom of her skirts nearly brushed the tips of his shoes, and he seemed to be waiting for a reply, it dawned on Maddy that he was speaking to her.

“No,” she said, angry at herself for allowing this man to distract her. Then, recalling some lesson about social niceties from Elouise, Maddy nodded at the man one more. “No thank you.”

“I think you do,” he replied with the confidence of a man who, with his impeccably tailored suit and objectively handsome face, probably never had to fight to command attention when he desired it. Every woman and a few men were gawking at him. And not in the way they gawked at Maddy. The attention this man attracted was nothing less than fascination. And no wonder. Lady Em, one of Everwell’s two matrons, might describe him as “well put together.” But Maddy had a job to do, which did not include being sidetracked by a man gifted with a face seemingly created to tempt the most pious to sin.

She turned back to the counter, where the clerk seemed to notice her at last. The wiry man with fair skin, curly brown hair, and a nose made to peer down at people, looked her way with an expression that, to her astonishment, had turned from indifference to obliging. Maddy didn’t have time to contemplate the rationale for this miraculous turn, but she needed to exploit it.

“Good morning,” she said, and started pointing to the locked glass fronted case. “Can you please…”

She trailed off as the clerk, who seemed a second ago to finally see her, walked past her again, turning his attention to someone standing next to her.

Maddy let go a string of silent curses.

“Good morning,” came that same voice, as smooth as butter.

“How can I help you sir?” the clerk asked.

Unable to help herself, Maddy turned to watch the exchange, wondering what sort of unholy spell this man had unleashed.

“I believe this lovely lady needs your assistance,” the gentleman beside her said.

Maddy paused, craning her neck to see the damsel in distress he was so eager to help.

“Of course,” the clerk replied turned to Maddy, looking at her for all the world as if she’d just appeared out of nowhere. “How may I help you?”

Maddy blinked, realizing almost too late that she was the object of this gentleman’s attention. She froze, suddenly uncertain, before the clerk politely cleared his throat. The sound cut through her confusion, allowing her to re-focus on the job at hand. She needed that book, and the only way to get it was through the man in front of her. Normally when confronted with an obstacle, Maddy’s job was to swing a fist, or perhaps even level a blade at someone if the stakes were high enough.

Right now, unfortunately, she had to be pleasant.

“Thank you,” she said, forcing her lips into what she hoped was a passable smile. “I believe you have a copy of Blake’s Poetical Sketches. I would like to view it.”

The clerk blinked, and Maddy knew full well why.

“I’m not…” He faltered, then regarded Maddy with more care. She’d been in MacAskill’s too many times for him not to be familiar with who she was. And no librarian working at a charity school would have easy access to the funds required to purchase a rare volume that normally belonged on the shelves of academic institutions or in the private libraries of wealthy collectors.

“Is there a problem?” the man asked of the clerk, the slightest edge of impatience in his voice. By the cut of his suit, he looked as though he might very well be the type of man to have a library full of first editions and rare volumes of books sitting on shelves just because he could.

“Of course not,” the clerk said brightly, clearly not eager to put himself on the wrong side of this well-dressed stranger. Turning around, he pulled out a ring of keys and opened the locked cabinet.

Maddy found herself leaning forward, scanning the shelves which held a small collection of books of all sizes, from those so small they could fit the palm of her hand, to oversized volumes. Some were bound in leather, others cloth. Most were so old the spines had no identifying marks to alert the reader to the contents. What she wouldn’t give to spend time with each and every one of these.

He returned to the counter with the book and slid it in front of her. Normally it was Gemma, or even Elouise who performed the sleight of hand. Poetics was a rare tome—worth, according to some, more than the entire contents in the shop. Carefully, she opened the book to verify its contents.

The clerk was nearby, appropriately watchful.

And so was the stranger, who leaned on the counter as if he owned the place. She’d never met a man with such an easy charm—nor one so insistent on getting her attention. It had the perplexing effect of making her annoyed and fascinated all at once.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s a book,” she replied.

He chuckled to himself, a low, warm sound that settled on her ear and rippled through her body. Her intentionally curt reply seemed to amuse him. Perhaps most men would take that as an invitation to leave. It had been her intention. Instead, he picked up the priceless volume as easily as if he were picking up a newspaper worth a few pennies and held it out of her reach.

“I had no idea,” he said, cocking an eyebrow. For a moment she thought he was toying with her, except for the crease along his brow as he examined it that suggested he was actually interested. “What makes this one so special?”

“Because this is one of the few known original copies of this work—there were only twenty-four made, and some of them even had his corrections in them. This one does. This was a gift to one of his benefactors and his wife, who supported him. You should see the inscription in the front cover,” Maddy said, her heart racing at the very thought of so generous a gift. It was so romantic. “He didn’t have much money at the time, so he gave the only thing he had of any value—his poetry.”

She paused, realizing perhaps that she’d never spoken with a stranger in such a familiar way. Her heart pounded in her chest and she didn’t know whether it was nerves or simply the heat of the crowd. But somehow, the noise faded into the background along with everyone else. It was just him and the slim volume in his hands. She reached for it, but he made no effort to return it. Instead, he seemed to hold it closer, forcing her to reach toward him. Pulling her body closer.

At any other time, she would have walked away, but there was too much at stake. She needed this book. And the fact this man so carelessly toyed with a precious work that was also the key to another woman’s security flared her anger.

“Please,” she said, holding out her hand. “It’s very precious.”

“Can I buy it for you?”

Maddy blinked. Now he was absolutely toying with her.

“It’s worth more than most men make in a lifetime.”

At that, he leaned into her, like a tiger she’d seen once at Downs Zoological Gardens. He lowered the book, putting it in easy reach. On reflex, she reached out for it, but he did not release his hold.

“I am not most men.”

The next moment, Maddy was unable to do anything but watch as he—for she had no idea who he was—hailed the clerk and advised him of the sale. The clerk’s eye’s widened, apparently just as taken aback as Maddy. Old James MacAskill himself was summoned away from his authorial guest, and payment arranged. Maddy turned to Elouise and Rimple, still in the autograph line, giving them the signal to abort the diversion Elouise had planned to employ that would have allowed Maddy to make the switch with the counterfeit.

She turned back just in time to be handed the book, carefully packaged. A job they’d spent two weeks planning had been upended by one deep-pocketed stranger.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, instantly suspicious.

He nodded, his face lighting up with an expression of bemusement that appeared genuine.

“To see you smile.”

He put the book into her hands and she gripped it, desperate to hold onto something. Everything about this experience was utterly unexpected and she needed to escape. Suddenly all the heat and noise that had disappeared was back. For the first time in nearly twenty years, a man was smiling at her. And it felt real. And terrifying.

“I have to go.” Maddy turned on her heel, ready to flee with Elouise and Rimple in tow before this stranger realized his mistake and demanded his book back. She took a step, coming face to face with none other than Veronica Turnbull. Diminutive in stature, the last time Maddy had seen the brew-king’s wife was in the hallowed halls of Government House, where she’d inflicted the crowd of a charity event with her singing.

Though Maddy was easily a head taller than Mrs. Turnbull, the woman looked past Maddy as if she wasn’t even there.

“There you are, Beau,” she said, smiling at the gentleman with affection. “I wondered where you had gone off to.”

“Hello, Aunt. I was just making my acquaintance with some of the more scholarly patrons,” he said smoothly, nodding his head in Maddy’s direction. He seemed like something out of another time, this Beau, with his smile that could melt butter in winter and a cocky sort of confidence that somehow didn’t manage to be completely obnoxious.

Mrs. Turnbull’s eyebrow shot up in a perfectly formed arch. Clearly, she did not care for her nephew’s answer—but then, Maddy couldn’t be bothered with either of them. Instead, she clutched the book tightly under her arm, ignoring the sensation that he was watching her every step. She only took a breath when she left the store, where Rimple and Elouise were waiting.

“What happened?” Rimple asked.

“I have it,” Maddy said, gesturing to the package under her arm.

“It’s wrapped,” Elouise said, not bothering to hide her shock. “How on earth did you manage to sweet talk them into doing that for you?”

“I didn’t,” Maddy said. “Someone bought it for me.”

Elouise and Rimple exchanged a glance, then the three walked along Spring Garden Road up to the Public Gardens while Maddy recounted the entire story.

“Beau,” Elouise said, tapping a finger to her lips as she was thinking. “I think that’s Beau da Silva. He’s the scion of the Silver Lumber Company founder in New Brunswick. No wonder he could buy that for you—they own half the province. I had no idea he was related to the Turnbulls. Of course, money travels in small circles, and in this part of the world, those circles are even smaller.”

Elouise and Rimple continued to chat, leaving Maddy lost in her own thoughts. Before long they’d reached the Public Gardens, lush from the hundreds of trees that had been planted there over the past few years. It was a place Maddy usually enjoyed visiting, but she was too preoccupied by the events at MacAskill’s to show much interest.

“Elouise and I will go find Reg,” Rimple said, referring to Reg Knickle, an associate of Everwell who sometimes helped out with the occasional bit of Scandalous Spinsters business. “We’ll return in a moment.”

The two left, and Maddy sat on a nearby bench, enjoying the shade from the soaring oak trees, when she heard Victoria Turnbull’s voice from behind her. Maddy stilled, tilting her head away so as to not catch their attention.

“Your father is not going to be pleased with you squandering your money like this,” Mrs. Turnbull said.

“It wasn’t squandering,” Mr. da Silva insisted. “I am thirty-nine years old, in charge of my own accounts and last time I checked, my last trip to New York secured da Silva Lumber new accounts worth nearly three hundred thousand dollars. And I have found a keen buyer for the old Redden homestead. I think I’ve earned the right to be frivolous.”

“It was frivolous,” Mrs. Turnbull said.

Maddy couldn’t help but agree.

“Aunt,” he said, and did his voice harden in a way she hadn’t heard before? “If I can’t make a poor old spinster’s day a little brighter by buying her a trinket, then what in the hell is all this money good for?” he said.

Maddy shut her eyes and pulled in her bottom lip, biting it hard to keep herself from letting out a bitter laugh. The two continued on their walk, their voices trailing off into the distance.

Poor old spinster. It all made sense. The smiles. The teasing. She’d known in the moment there was nothing genuine or real about Beau da Silva. They were practically the same age. And while she hadn’t had da Silva money, once upon a time, she’d had a dowry so large men had fought over it.

And yet somehow, she was the one who’d lost.

She tensed her body, balling up every ounce of the lingering discomfort, wishing she could take back that stupid smile she’d wasted on Beau da Silva. She counted to ten, then released the pang of bitterness before rising to go find Elouise and Rimple. And she would pretend, once again, that nothing could hurt her.