Page 3 of The Honorable Rogue (The Notorious Nightingales #5)

CHAPTER THREE

S omething told Charles what he was doing with that woman was a secret, so no way did he want Mungo to see him.

But what was he doing?

“It’s not like you’ll ever know,” Charles muttered, heading down the lane in the opposite direction from where he actually wanted to go. The Scotsman was the least talkative person he knew.

Dismissing the conundrum of Mungo, Charles pushed him and the business with Cam aside and focused on what he needed to do. A birthday gift for his mother.

Flora had told him yesterday that it was high time he selected his own gift, as she was sick of doing it for him. So here he was, oblivious as to what he should be buying.

A sign stating Krupp’s Emporium for Knickknacks and Rare Books caught his eye. Surely that would have something suitable. After all, it couldn’t be that hard to select a gift. Plus, like him, his mother loved books. He walked up the rickety steps and pushed open the door.

The building smelled musty, with a myriad of scents hitting his nostrils from all sides. Trinkets were piled high on cabinets, and books lined the shelves.

“Good day to you.”

Charles took two steps to the right to see the owner of that voice behind a towering stack of books on the counter. The proprietor had thick, bushy brows and small dark eyes. On his head was a worn cap. His smile disappeared into a full beard.

“Good day,” Charles said.

“Please browse. If you need any help, just ask.”

“I will, thank you.”

He could get lost in somewhere like this for hours. The first book he picked up was The Beginner’s Guide to Astrology because his sister Madeline had told him that his half brother enjoyed the subject. Tucking it under his arm, Charles thought it could give them a shared interest, and he needed to make more of an effort with him.

Charles wandered for a while, and the pile under his arm grew, so he took it to the counter. So far, he had three books and two small trinket boxes.

“I’ll tally them for you,” the shopkeeper said.

“Thank you.”

“Do you have any Russian books?” Charles asked, for no other reason than he remembered what the bookshop girl had said. Her fiancé had wanted her to learn the language, and then he’d passed away. Had she?

He wondered, as he often did, where she was and if her grief was easing. He wanted that for the woman he’d met that day.

“Last row on the right, at the end,” came the reply.

Charles walked to where he was directed and looked at some titles he had no idea how to read. Pulling out books, he studied them before putting them back. He knew some of the Sinclair siblings spoke Russian. Perhaps he would get one of them to tutor him.

Learning Russian because of a lady you do not know—and likely never will—is not a sound notion.

And yet here he was in the foreign languages section.

Opening and closing several more, he studied each until he found what he thought was the oldest one and took that out. He based the age on the wear and tear. Why the oldest appealed to him, Charles had no idea, but he had always enjoyed looking at old books and wondering who had studied the pages before him. Opening the cover, he read the title. The language was unfamiliar, and some letters appeared reversed. He knew French well and a smattering of Italian, but this was… well, a foreign language.

“Good day to you, Mr. Thomas.”

“Mrs. Bradbury.” He bowed to the woman approaching. He only knew her in passing, as they both frequented society and attended the same social events.

“Found something of interest?” Mrs. Bradbury said, stopping at his side and pointing to the book he held.

“I have a friend who is learning Russian. I am purchasing this for her,” he lied because the truth would make him sound mad.

“A difficult language to learn, Mr. Thomas, I have a son who understands it, but I have never managed to. That book looks old. Perhaps something newer may suit?”

“She likes to be challenged.” He looked down at it once more. Running a finger over the inside of the cover as he studied the words, he felt a small ridge. It looked normal, but there was something there.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Thomas? Perhaps you should select another if it is broken?”

“No, this will do. Good day to you, Mrs. Bradbury.”

“Good day.”

Examining the edge as he walked back to the counter, he saw no opening. He wasn’t sure why he felt a sudden urge to pull back the inside binding, but he did.

Closing the book, Charles placed it on top of the stack he was to purchase.

“Are there any more like that?” Mrs. Bradbury had followed him and was pointing a finger at the Russian book.

“I’ve just returned from a buying trip, madam. Picked up a load of books in Ireland. This was the only Russian one I purchased,” the proprietor said.

“Would you mind if I looked at it, Mr. Thomas?”

Charles took it off the pile and handed it to Mrs. Bradbury. He then watched as she opened it.

“I love old books, don’t you?” she said, running her fingers over the inside cover.

“Yes, they are wonderful,” he agreed.

“I would really like this book for my son, Mr. Thomas,” she said, closing it.

Charles had no idea why he wanted to keep it, but he felt a sudden need to do just that. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bradbury, but my friend will love this book.”

“Perhaps your friend is someone I know, and I could approach them?”

“I will of course ask them on your behalf,” Charles said because he didn’t know the woman’s name, and she was definitely not a friend.

Her mouth tightened briefly and then slid into a smile as she handed it back to him. “Of course.” She bobbed a curtsey then went back to the rows of books.

Charles paid and left the building. He would examine his purchase thoroughly when he returned to Crabbett Close.

Reaching the end of the street, he turned, still thinking about the book, and collided with someone. She staggered back, shrieking. Dropping his books, Charles lunged, grabbing her waist to stop her from falling. With several maneuvers, he managed to ensure neither of them would land on the filthy hard street below.

Releasing the woman, he stared into a lovely pair of deep brown eyes.

“You should have been watching where you were going, sir!” she snapped, her mouth a thin line.

“I hardly think that fair, as you were not looking where you were going, either, or you would have seen me,” he protested. His youngest sister was always blaming him for things that were her fault; he was not taking it from a stranger, even if she was pretty.

She made a tsking sound. He grunted, then dropped on his haunches to pick up his books. Rising, he glared at her, wondering why she was still standing there.

Charles didn’t recognize her face, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t passed each other at a social event, if she was part of that world. He wasn’t good with faces, especially if he had not conversed with a person.

“Why do you have that book? Do you speak Russian?” She jabbed a gloved finger at the spine.

“No, I am thinking of learning,” Charles said, wondering why he was telling her this when he should just walk away.

He’d often found that beautiful women could be rude and ungrateful, clearly having an expectation that those around them should just be happy to be in their presence. He wasn’t and never would be.

“And you think you can learn with that book, which was written hundreds of years ago and is about the political chaos in Russia that was unfolding then?” She made a scoffing sound.

“I’m a fast learner, and what I do, madam, is of no concern to you.” It vexed him that she could read the title and he couldn’t. Charles would be rectifying that .

“How is it you came by it? It looks old and rare,” she added.

“Oh, so you can tell it’s rare with just a look?” Charles mocked her.

“I know books. Where did you get it?” She was leaning closer now, attempting to look intimidating, which wasn’t easy, as the top of her head came to his nose.

“I purchased it,” he snapped. “So, if you are thinking I stole it, think again, madam.”

He could see she wasn’t convinced and felt his anger rise.

“Is there a particular reason you believe me capable of stealing? We know nothing about each other, besides the fact you cannot look where you are walking.”

“Me?” The word came out a shriek, and Charles hid his smirk.

Two sisters had ensured he had plenty of practice annoying women.

“How like an arrogant man to believe a woman is in the wrong.” She then snapped her mouth together and leaned closer. Her top lip had a bow shape to it, and Charles felt interest stir inside him. He pushed it aside. The woman was a shrew.

“Miss Althorp, are you all right?”

She pulled back to look at the elderly lady walking their way.

“I am, thank you, Miss Dabbers. Just assisting this gentleman, as he is lost and”—she pretended to whisper the words—“not quite right in the head.”

“Ah,” Miss Dabbers said, stomping closer to stare at Charles. “I can see that in the eyes.”

Miss Althorp then turned back to look at Charles with a wicked gleam in hers. He no longer thought them lovely.

“If you will just walk that way, sir, you will come to your destination.” She pointed to the right. “I’m sure there are others along the way who will assist you should you need it.” The words were spoken slow and loud, as if he were not only a simpleton but hard of hearing.

He then watched her walk away and hated that she’d had the last word, even if he had to admit it was exceedingly well played on her behalf.