Page 39 of Every Day of My Life

“Have you accused her of the latter?”

“Once,” Jamie said uneasily. “’Twas a mistake.”

Oliver would have laughed, but he had no desire to stand between a writer and her methods, so he thanked Jamie for the offer of something hot in the kitchen later, then soon found himself standing at the open doorway of the lady of the hall’s inner sanctum.

Elizabeth smiled and waved him inside. “I won’t yell at you and no, you weren’t interrupting.”

“I’ve been properly warned,” Oliver admitted.

Elizabeth put her finger to her lips. “It’s the only way I get a decent nap. I’m assuming you’re here for something to read.”

“As long as it’s short.”

“I’ll just bet. Let’s talk subject first. I think you’d be bored with any of the thrillers I keep here for Jamie when he’s taking a break from his more esoteric studies, but I have some time-travel romances you might enjoy.”

He tried not to wince. “That’s a bit too close to home, don’t you think?”

She laughed a little. “I suppose so. Maybe a ghost story instead? Patricia could loan you a blanket for comfort if you get scared.”

He shot her a look, but she only smiled. “Do you need an early reader for your next book?” he asked. “What’s the set-up?”

“Oh, it’s just a little cozy mystery series,” she said, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m afraid you’d have the culprit identified by the second paragraph, though you know I’ll definitely be asking you later for opinions on possible murder weapons.”

“Just not pistols small enough to be conveniently tucked beneath the bench of a phaeton pulled by a set of matched ponies, I beg you.”

She laughed. “It sounds like you’re pining for a few Regency delights, actually, so I have just the thing for you.”

He followed her across what he had to admit was a lovely library. She stopped in front of one of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases there, then pointed to the middle shelf. It was stocked with a collection of very thin books, which was a relief.

“Regency era romances full of duels, debutantes, and debauchery,” she said, “but very light on the debauchery. There’s always a little mystery involved, but again, that might be boring for you.”

“They look short,” he noted.

“Theyareshort,” she said dryly, “but just packed to the brim with period goodness.”

Oliver could only imagine. He hunched over to look at what a quick estimate told him might be a hundred books, then almost landed on his arse in surprise. He felt his way down onto a wee step-stool, then looked up at his hostess in shock.

“The author is Constance Buchanan?”

“Have you heard of her?” Elizabeth asked in surprise.

“Just rumor,” Oliver managed.

“Well, she should have been the absolute queen of Regency romance in her day, but somehow she just missed that boat.”

“What a pity.”

Elizabeth shot him a look that made him smile, then patted a handful of her collection. “They’re actually very good, so it might be. I have the complete set—well, Ihadthe complete set. I’m missing number eight-two.”

“What’s the title?” he asked, though he suddenly suspected he already knew.

She took out the last book and flipped through the first couple of pages. “There’s a list of the whole series here… and it’s number eighty-two,The Duke and the Kitchen Maid.”

Of course it was. “Exciting,” he said hoarsely.

“Well, it was a nail-biter for me when I was a teenager and had swiped it from my grandmother’s bookcase, that’s for sure.”

“Were these hers, then?”