Page 1 of My Best Friend’s Earl (Bluestocking Booksellers #2)

Brush teeth

Eat something (remember Monday’s dizzy spells?)

Mend apron strap

Contact publisher regarding latest order of Blanche Clementine books

London, Spring 1816

I f her father had been a baron—or, God forbid, a duke—she’d have been ruined. However, as the youngest daughter of a modest bookshop owner, Constance Martin was merely notorious in a certain area of London.

Most days, she rather liked it. Being notorious was the opposite of invisible, after all.

Invisibility was an all-too-familiar sensation after a lifetime spent in the shadow of a damn near perfect sister.

It didn’t take long for her to learn that if you gave people something to talk about, they’d remember your name.

Your actual name, not just Betsy Martin’s twin sister, who, despite being nearly identical in looks, could not be more different in ability and temperament.

The implication being, that Betsy was a joy to her family, while Constance was… not.

“Inconstant Constance,” a woman in the map section of the bookshop whispered to her friend.

Their giggles inspired an eye roll at her cousin, Hattie.

Unfortunately, since Constance’s trip down the aisle—in the opposite direction from her groom—comments like these were common.

At least the women weren’t mocking her to her face.

A week ago, her cousin Caro asked if Constance would have made the same decision if she’d foreseen the damage her reputation would suffer after leaving Walter at the altar.

There’d been no hesitation in her answer. Yes.

Even if she’d known about the name-calling, obnoxious men in the neighborhood, and the whispering customers, Constance wouldn’t have gone through with the wedding. The alternative simply felt wrong.

Constance slipped the missive to Blanche Clementine’s publisher—or rather, Caro’s publisher, since their cousin had finally announced to the world that she was the famous writer—into the pile of outgoing mail, while avoiding looking at Hattie.

Hattie’s expressive face spoke volumes without words, and her eyes surely had things to say about the gossiping shoppers.

An inexplicable snort of laughter from Connie would only draw more attention.

Blowing a blond curl out of her eye, Constance searched for something else to do.

The ever-present stack of account books with their fine layer of dust silently mocked her, a clear reminder of everything she seemed unable to make time for.

With a grimace, she looked away. Something interesting to do , she amended.

“If you will stay out front, I’ll put on the kettle for tea,” Hattie said. “The damp is settling into my bones today.”

“You sound like an old crone,” she teased. “Go on, then. A cup sounds lovely if you don’t mind making me one as well.”

Saved from the account books once again.

Relief and guilt warred for a brief moment before Constance abandoned them to fiddle with the stack of bookmarks she’d embroidered last month.

Perhaps the literary quotes she’d chosen were too esoteric.

Silly little posies of violets, or something else equally insipid might have been a better choice.

Or perhaps customers didn’t appreciate the colors of embroidery thread she’d used.

Regardless, they hadn’t sold as well as she’d hoped.

As she arranged the bookmarks, the gossipy ladies moved toward the shelves of romantic novels, occasionally casting glances her way and whispering too low for Constance to hear.

Even though she knew better, the urge to defend herself to strangers pulled at her.

Given context, the women might understand the reasoning behind her most public social failure.

Going through with the marriage would have ensured a life that was…

boring. Days, then years, of the predictable, logical progression from one utterly monotonous life event to another.

A customer set his purchases on the counter, and she welcomed the distraction.

When he paid his gaze raked over her bosom, as if he could somehow see through her gown’s modest neckline, work apron, and linen fichu.

She clenched her teeth, then blew out a relieved breath when he left the store without additional comment.

Men were, on the whole, such ridiculous creatures. Some more than others.

Married life with Walter Hornsby would have been hell.

Especially because Walter didn’t lead an uneventful life.

They’d even postponed the wedding once because he’d been off mucking about with smugglers to avoid the Crown’s taxes on the goods he sold.

Did he include her in his adventures? No.

And when pressed, he’d made it clear she never would be welcome on his moonlit illegal jaunts.

The rat.

Also, despite a thriving merchant business built through routine, if illegal, acquisitions of fine French muslin, silks, and lace, Walter offered only a few scant yards of trimmings for her wedding gown. Her. Wedding. Gown. And expected thanks .

A rat, indeed.

Hattie appeared from the office, wiping her hands on her apron. “It will be a few minutes. Perhaps one of us should run to the shops for pasties and make a proper meal of it.”

Before Constance could answer, the two women approached the register. Pasting on a wide smile, Constance asked, “Did you find everything you were looking for?”

Beside her, Hattie stood stiffly, and Constance suspected she was fighting the urge to comment on what they’d overheard. “Hattie, would you mind checking the kettle?”

The water wouldn’t be boiling yet, but Hattie embraced the excuse to retreat until the ladies left the store. Once the shop was free of customers, Hattie returned with two cups in hand and a folded scandal sheet tucked under her arm.

“Extra sweet, ” Hattie said, handing one cup to Constance. “To combat the bitterness I feel on your behalf. And”—she held up the paper—“the latest society high jinks for entertainment.”

“Excellent. Let’s see if we recognize anyone.

” Blowing on the dark brew, she pulled the day’s to-do list from her apron pocket, and examined the remaining items while Hattie perused the scandal sheet.

Her stomach growled, causing a fleeting thought that perhaps they really should run out for meat pies.

However, she didn’t voice it before returning her attention to the list.

“Ooh, here’s one. ‘Lord H—recently examined by his peers and found wanting after being discovered reeking of spirits while sans breeches in the dark walk at Vauxhall.’ Goodness. There’s a gentleman who could have used the aid of Lord Bixby to snuff that story.”

Constance smirked. “That piece of gossip would be worth a pretty penny to the likes of Bixby. Maybe this Lord H doesn’t have anything London’s friendly neighborhood blackmailer needs.”

Lord Bixby’s barony suffered notoriously from generational debt, which led him to find— ahem —alternative means with which to secure his unwed sisters a place at the finest tables.

Blackmail.

The Duke of Holland, now married to their cousin Caro, had needed the man’s help to find his first wife’s lover. The lover was Bixby’s cousin. Since there’d been no love lost between the two, the baron had happily shared every bit of damning information he’d held on the man. And there’d been a lot.

Although they’d never laid eyes on Bixby, Constance and Hattie had been fascinated by him ever since learning of his existence.

“No matter how difficult the day, we didn’t begin it by waking up half naked in a public place,” Connie mused.

Hattie clinked their mugs in a silent toast. “Hear, hear. Offers perspective, I suppose, when I’ve been pouting over having finicky customers this morning, and no one to fob them off on because you were busy with your own.

I realize it’s not the same as ‘waking up to people laughing at your penis,’ but in the last hour I’ve endured impertinent questions about Caro’s career and marriage, disposed of a dead mouse your cat left us by the window, and gone on a wild goose chase for a man who saw a book last week, couldn’t recall the title, and now desperately needed to buy it. ”

“Let me guess, the book was blue?” Constance grinned, then stifled a moan of pleasure when she finally sipped her tea.

Thank God she hadn’t seen the mouse first. She and Hattie had a strict “you see it, you deal with it” policy when it came to Gingersnap’s gifts.

“Red, actually. You have the right idea.”

“Did you find it?”

“Of course not. He bought a sketch pad for his niece’s birthday though, so he didn’t entirely waste my time.”

Caro wrote salacious erotic novels and had the audacity to not only be a lowly clergyman’s daughter, but also be married to a duke in a rather public love match.

People were going to talk, no matter what.

Especially after everyone pieced together the clues and realized the Duke of Holland was her hero inspiration.

Aristocrats nattered on about one cousin, while the laborers fed on stories of another.

You couldn’t say the women in their family didn’t provide conversational fodder for the masses.

With the Duke and Duchess of Holland recently returned to London, the gossips were greedy for fresh information. Especially once it became known that the duchess was due to give birth to their first child very soon.

The bell over the shop door signaled another customer’s arrival, and the cousins turned to greet them.

A familiar blonde shook droplets of rain from her cloak and sent them a smile.

Miss Althea Thompson craned her neck as she looked around, as if expecting danger to spring out from behind a bookcase.

“Good morning. Connie, may we speak privately?” That was when Constance noticed that despite the welcoming smile, Althea stood stiffly, with her fingers knit together at her waist.