Chapter 4

Ada waited for the shop door to swing shut behind Mr. Gibbs. As soon as it did, she expelled the deep breath she felt as though she’d been holding since his arrival. Goodness gracious, the poor man must think her daft with her prattling on the way she’d done. She could scarcely recall what she’d said. Or what he’d said for that matter. All she’d known was him and his rather breathtaking presence.

Nitwit.

She dropped her gaze and stared at the note she’d prepared. Her heart beat a bit faster with the reminder that he would return. Tomorrow, he’d said. Or was she the one who’d suggested the time?

The bell above the door chimed and Ada looked up to find Uncle James walking happily toward her. She narrowed her gaze. “Where have you been?”

He grinned. “You know the answer to that, Ada.”

“Of course.” She crossed her arms and uncrossed them again, placing both hands on her hips. “You didn’t lock up when you left.”

“Didn’t I?” He sent the door an incredulous glance. “Must have slipped my mind. Sorry about that. Is the tea ready?”

“No. I’m sorry. We had a customer. A gentleman wanting to purchase Rob Roy. So I didn’t manage to make the tea yet.” With jerky movements, she gathered the leather samples she’d used and flashed a smile. “I’ll do so right now.”

“What was he like?” Uncle James inquired, following her to the back room where the books on order were bound. It narrowed toward a small rear entrance where a steep flight of stairs led to the upstairs apartment. A range comprising a compact oven and boiler was squeezed into the corner next to the back door.

“Talkative,” she said, deliberately avoiding words like impressive and remarkable while grabbing a ladle. “Unfamiliar with Jane Austen’s work.”

“I take it you tried to win him over?”

Ada chuckled and proceeded to scoop some hot water into a teapot. “If I could convince you, I daresay there’s hope for all men.”

“And?” Uncle James leaned against the doorjamb and watched Ada swirl the water to heat the pot, then pour it out before adding fragrant dry leaves from a canister. “Did you make a sale?”

She rubbed the back of her neck and filled the pot with fresh hot water. “Yes. He will return tomorrow afternoon to collect his books. They’re to be bound in blue leather.”

“Ah. So you’ll see him again.”

Ada turned to face her uncle more fully. “I shouldn’t. As it is, I ought to have turned him away.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Because she’d been awestruck by his eyes.

“A book fell on my head and I got distracted.”

“Really?”

“It’s not funny,” Ada insisted, noting the way his lips twitched and doing her best not to laugh as well. “We were alone together for quite some time. It was completely inappropriate. If someone had seen…”

Uncle James appeared to mull that over while she collected two cups from the cupboard. “Did anyone see?”

“No. But that doesn’t change the fact that I am a young, unmarried woman.” She poured the tea. “I shouldn’t be working in a bookshop to begin with, never mind dealing with young men like Mr. Gibbs unless there’s a chaperone present.”

“You’re right. I apologize. It won’t happen again.” Uncle James accepted the cup she handed to him. “When Mr. Gibbs returns tomorrow, I’ll meet with him while you remain hidden away in here as usual.”

Ada’s gut twisted. Despite her protestations, she wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. “There’s a chance he’ll ask for me.”

“I suppose so, but I can always tell him you’ve gone out.”

“Hmm…” She was starting to see the wisdom in thinking before speaking. Setting her cup to her lips, she sipped her tea. “If you’re there, I believe it ought to be fine.”

“Yes.” Uncle James nodded. “I suppose you’re right about that.”

Happy to have steered things back in the right direction, Ada sent him a warm smile. “Now that’s settled, I probably ought to start on the binding.”

“In that case, I’ll prepare a list of upcoming releases to order and update the ledger.” He returned to the shop, but before closing the door he told her softly, “Every Elizabeth Bennett belongs with her own Mr. Darcy, Ada. Even you.”

She spun toward him so she could question his meaning, but the door was already shut. Rather than yank it open and ask for an explanation, she simply stood there, staring. At nineteen years of age she ought to set her sights on marriage, but to pin her hopes and dreams on the likes of Mr. Gibbs, whose waistcoat probably cost more than her entire wardrobe, would be as pointless as wishing upon a star.

He belonged to a different world – one that would be as impossible for her to enter as it would be for her to step into one of her novels. But she would see him tomorrow. Briefly. After which she’d return to solid ground and accept the hand she’d been dealt.

* * *

It did not escape Anthony’s notice that his friends were gaping at him as though he’d sprouted horns.

“You want us to what?” Brody asked, the biscuit he’d been about to bite into seemingly forgotten.

“I realize the notion of writing a love story might be unpleasant, but please hear me out before you dismiss it entirely.” They were gathered in Anthony’s parlor once more, this time around the sofa table where three large plates filled with biscuits, cake, and sandwiches, had been placed for them to enjoy.

Stalling for a moment, Anthony topped up his coffee and took a quick sip. “From what I gather, Miss Austen’s books were very popular. They sold exceedingly well. And no current author provides the sort of stories she wrote.”

“Ones destined to fill women’s heads with nonsense?” Callum snorted. “Romance is the last thing anyone ought to consider when contemplating marriage.”

“I’ll grant you that convenience should factor in – that one should not be dismissive of class and upbringing or of the wealth each party provides.” Dropping his gaze, Anthony stared into his coffee while trying to marshal his thoughts. Miss Quinn was not of his class, yet he could not forget her or the connection he’d felt with her during their brief encounter. She’d…marked him, somehow. Glancing back up, he saw his friends’ curious gazes as they waited for him to say something more. He cleared his throat. “I think most people want more than that though. Personally, I’d want to marry a woman I like spending time with. Not just—”

“Hold on.” Brody was shaking his head. “Yesterday when we spoke, you were opposed to marriage.”

“Because the only incentive was money. But what if it didn’t have to be? What if we could marry for love or, at the very least, write about doing so?” He shifted his gaze between Brody and Callum. “People read novels in order to travel to faraway places, to go on adventures, to escape the drudgery of their everyday lives. And apparently there’s good money in it – enough, I believe, to get the three of us out of the trouble we’re in.”

“I don’t know,” Callum said. “Writing a novel will take a long time. I can’t wait years to earn an income, Anthony. I need funds now.”

“We all do,” Anthony agreed. “And I’ll admit that does pose a problem, though I have begun considering measures that I believe you’ll also benefit from.”

“Such as?” Brody finally took a bite of his biscuit. The caution with which he’d posed the question conveyed his fear of potential drawbacks.

“Although we may be short on currency, we’ve all got plenty of costly possessions.” Anthony cleared his throat. “I would suggest we liquidate a few in order to cover our current expenses. Just enough for us to get by from month to month until we’ve published our novel and started earning an income.”

“I don’t know,” Callum muttered. “We’re dukes with reputations to uphold. Our situation is embarrassing enough without it becoming public knowledge.”

“Agreed,” Brody said, “though Anthony does have a point. We’re living beyond our means. It’s actually quite ridiculous, how incapable we are of settling our debts. On paper, we’re all extremely wealthy, yet here we are, reduced to meeting at each other’s homes because we can’t afford going out.”

Callum nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I’m already arranging to sell one of my horses,” Anthony told them. “I’ve got six, which is more than I actually need, and the income will go a long way to helping my sisters prepare for their Season. They are my priority now. If I can ensure their futures, I might just forgive myself for bungling this duke business.”

“You were destroyed,” Brody murmured. “We all were. Getting over that kind of loss at an age when we depended upon our fathers to show us the way was rough on us all.”

This was true. The impact of the news they’d received had been crippling. But they hadn’t been children. As such, they should have been wiser. “The situation we faced does not excuse our stupidity.”

“You’re right,” Callum said. Leaning forward, he braced his forearms on his thighs and met Anthony’s gaze directly. “How long do you suppose it would take us to write this book you have in mind and get it published?”

“Hold on.” Brody stared at Callum, his eyes wide with surprise. “You’re not actually considering this idea are you?”

“Why not?” Callum transferred a piece of cake to his plate and stabbed it with his fork, scattering crumbs on the table. “I haven’t been able to think of a way for us to make money without either seeking employment or taking a chance at the races. Have you?”

Brody frowned. “No, but a love story? Really? Could we not write something like Treasure Island, Gulliver’s Travels, or Don Quixote instead?”

“Doing so would require extreme originality and a tremendous marketing effort. It would involve competing against the likes of Sir Walter Scott.” Anthony added a bit more milk to his coffee. “He has published a book every year since Waverly’s debut in 1814, which means he’ll soon be releasing another. So I say it’s better for us to write something different – something readers are currently missing – a novel intended to fit a vacant slot.”

Brody snorted. “As much as I’d like to argue, you make a compelling point. How the devil did you come up with all this?”

“I, er…met someone.” Anthony deliberately picked up his cup and proceeded to drink.

“Who?” Callum asked just before popping a piece of his cake in his mouth.

Anthony hesitated. He wasn’t quite ready to share his encounter with the delightful Miss Quinn. Or, more to the point, have his friends tease him about it. As they would likely do.

“A bookshop clerk.” Deciding to move on swiftly, he said, “Look, I realize it’s a bit of a challenge, but I do think we can get the job done if we work together. You asked about time, Callum. If we go about this the right way, it shouldn’t take more than a couple of weeks to write the first draft.”

“You’re thinking we’ll all write at the same time?” Brody asked.

“Precisely. Thirty pages per day between the three of us. Beginning, middle, and end. We’ll stitch everything together once we’re finished and smooth out the transitions.”

Callum straightened. “Has such a thing ever been done before?”

Anthony shrugged. “I’ve no idea, but it does seem like the most efficient way forward.”

“It’s certainly an interesting challenge,” Brody muttered with more excitement than he’d shown thus far. “How do we begin?”

Anthony stood and went to collect some blank sheets of paper and a pencil. “By coming up with an interesting plot, I should think.”