Free Poetic Justice by Alicia Rasley Page A

challenging eyes. His dark hair was gilded with gold—a sailor was ever in the sun, she supposed. "It was acknowledged, then, their fraternity?"
    "Oh, no. The apothecary raised him as his own. Never noticed, as far as anyone knew. My mother used to marvel at that. She said the two boys were always together, and everyone else could see the resemblance. Not Mr. Manning. But they must know, the two of them."
    Now that she thought of it, Jessica realized it made perfect sense. Of course he was the bastard son of a lord. Where else would he have gotten that elegant manner, the interest in finer things, the impeccable taste an art consultant needed?
    But the circumstances of this man's birth were not important, except that, perhaps, they had made him something of a maverick. And, for the plan that was half-born in her mind, a maverick might come in quite handy.
    She rose and shook out her skirts, smoothed her hair back, straightened the pearls around her neck. "Ada, do hurry. I want to be presented to the princess. And soon, before he walks away!"
    Sir John Dryden's eyes glinted ironically as the introductions were performed, as if he knew that she had come to meet him. Jessica put up her chin proudly. He had been the one who had challenged her to do this, watching her in that intent way. The orchestra struck up a waltz, and, as she knew he would, he asked her to dance. They left Ada and the princess smiling, as if they had engineered this themselves.
    The waltz was no longer a scandalous dance, and Jessica, in three London seasons, had learned not to blush at being held so closely by a man. But this felt more intimate than she remembered. That was absurd, of course. She had often waltzed with Damien, and that should have been more intimate, for she had known him most of her life. She knew John Dryden not at all.
    But somehow, even before he took her in his arms, she knew that his hand under the white glove would be hard and capable, that his arm around her waist would be taut, that she could look up and see her own image in his oddly reflective gray eyes. Instead she looked straight ahead, at the sapphire pin in his cravat, and told herself that this eerie familiarity resulted from her secret knowledge of his birth, his past, his connection to the world of rare books. It was a bit unnerving, to know so much about him, and he still a stranger. More unnerving still was the sense that he knew more about her too than he had any right.
    No matter. What counted was his unusual expertise, and his knowledge of the rare books trade. Casting about for an opening, she recalled the little notice that appeared in the Times last week, of an addition to the royal library. "I understand you recently procured the Jerusalem Manuscript for the Regent. I thought that had been destroyed during the Inquisition."
    This was not, perhaps, the usual waltz patter, and it certainly captured his attention. "You have an interest in antiquarian books, Miss Seton?"
    She took pains to persuade him that she hadn't merely studied up in hopes of impressing him. "I hope to inherit a library soon. Perhaps you've heard of it. The Parham Collection."
    He gave it a moment's thought, then replied, "Yes, I think I have heard of it. Quite a selection of Bacon memorabilia, I believe? But I understand that the library is permanently closed, and so of little moment to a dealer such as I, or to scholars either."
    She heard the implied rebuke, and knew with some despair that she would have a hard job to restore the Parham's stature in the antiquary community. Perhaps, though, she could use his disapproval of the current policy to entice him into an alliance. She looked up at him, watching for a change in his carefully neutral expression. "Yes, Bacon is the center of the collection. He was a particular passion of my grandfather's, you see. But there is much, much more, mostly English, but also a few Continental items." There it was: a flicker of interest, just a slight narrowing