One Golden Ring. Cheryl Bolen

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      Chapter 3

      As he and Fiona settled into the carriage, Trevor swiped snowflakes from his greatcoat and screwed his face into a pout worthy of a spoiled princess. “Perfectly odious man, that bookseller! Offering you a piddly five thousand for your pere ’s library. Daresay it’s worth at least fifty thousand.”

      “It wasn’t my father’s library, actually,” Fiona said with a shrug. “At least not originally. My grandfather’s the one who built the collection, but remember, Trev, he was buying new. Since the books are no longer new—though I daresay most of them have never been opened—their value, quite naturally, plummets. And the bookseller has to make his money.”

      Trevor folded his arms across his chest and stomped his expensively shod foot. “You simply cannot give the books away to that thief.”

      “I won’t unless I’m forced to,” she said. “Tomorrow we’ll see how much Mama’s jewels will fetch.”

      “Nowhere near twenty-five thousand, I’ll vow.”

      “You’re likely right.”

      Her family coach, which should have been replaced a decade earlier, turned onto Cavendish Square and screeched to a halt in front of Agar House. The afternoon sun had almost shed its brilliance. Fiona sighed. Another day gone, and she was no closer to raising the money to save Randy. “Come help me draw up a list of well-to-do bachelors,” she said as they disembarked.

      Trevor grumbled his dissatisfaction while he trailed after her.

      Fiona swept into her house, then stood deadly still upon its marble entry hall, stunned. Bouquets of sweetly pungent flowers crowded the entire hallway. Roses reposed on the sideboard—six vases of them, each sprouting roses of a different color. Fat arrangements of marigolds and daisies graced the first half dozen steps of the iron-railed staircase. Colorful posies were strewn across the floor like a fragrant carpet.

      “What the devil?” Trevor exclaimed.

      Fiona’s gaze flicked to the butler. “Pray, Livingston, whatever is going on?”

      “I couldn’t say, my lady. A stream of urchins has been delivering these for the past hour.”

      “Did the urchins say who engaged them?” she asked.

      He thought for a moment, then strode to the sideboard where he extricated a letter from beneath a vase of pink roses. “This note was delivered with the first batch.”

      She eagerly snatched the now-damp missive and nearly tore the page in her haste to read it. The note was short:

      My Dear Lady Fiona,

      I hope in some small way these flowers will express my high regard for you more eloquently than can my abominable tongue, and I beg that you will consent to see me when I call upon you in the very near future.

      Sincerely,

      Nicholas Birmingham

      Trevor’s impatience to read the note outweighing years of instruction in the art of good manners, he peered over her shoulder as she read. “Very nice, utterly masculine penmanship, don’t you think?” he asked.

      She turned and glared down her aristocratic nose at him. “I hadn’t thought at all about the man’s handwriting!”

      Trevor effected a contrite expression—for all of ten seconds, then his gaze circled the hallway. “You can’t say Birmingham doesn’t have a flair.” His glance lit upon a basket of flowers all in hues of purple and lavender: pansies, violets, lavender, orchids, periwinkles, and primroses. “I declare, this primrose is positively blue!” He withdrew it from the bouquet and inhaled it deeply. “I ask you, my lady, have you ever seen a primrose this color?”

      She beat down the impulse to laugh. Trevor was surely the only man of her acquaintance who knew every flower by name. Her heart caught as she remembered Randy taking a stab at naming a rose. “It’s got thorns, must be a rose!” her brother had exclaimed dubiously, anxiously watching his sister for confirmation.

      “I refuse to discuss primroses or penmanship with you, Trevor,” she snapped. “We’ve more important inferences to draw.”

      His expression suddenly less demented, he bent to her ear and spoke in a low voice. “Shall we repair to the library where we can speak in private?”

      She slipped her arm into his. “An excellent plan.”

      Once they were in the library—which unlike Windmere Abbey’s library, contained very few books—they dropped onto a fern-colored sofa.

      “I perceive that Mr. Birmingham means to offer me the twenty-five thousand pounds again,” she said.

      Trevor’s mouth puckered in concentration as he got up and went to pour himself a glass of wine. “Madeira would do your nerves good,” he said, turning toward Fiona.

      She favored him with a smile. “I believe I would like a glass.”

      He poured the two glasses and returned to sit beside her. “Daresay you’re wrong about Birmingham.”

      “I’m rarely wrong about men,” she argued. “My perceptions of men come from having an older brother and a younger one, neither of whose behavior ever surprises me.”

      “Be that as it may,” Trevor said, his fingers flicking away lint from his golden breeches, “you’ve missed the mark this time.”

      She set down her glass and faced him. “What makes you think so?”

      “The flowers.”

      Her brows lowered. “I don’t follow you.”

      “A man don’t send flowers when he plans to give away his money.”

      “Then?” Suddenly, Fiona understood. A man sends flowers when he is courting. God in heaven, did that mean Mr. Birmingham was going to accept her pathetic proposal? She spun to Trevor. “Surely you don’t think . . .”

      His slender hand holding the stemmed glass, his pinky finger extended, Trevor swished the wine around in his mouth. “Methinks the man has changed his mind СКАЧАТЬ