Free Poetic Justice by Alicia Rasley Page B

of his eyes, a moment's cessation of breath. "If—when I inherit, I mean to do a full catalogue, and make it available to scholars. I hope then I shall have the wherewithal to begin acquiring more books. There have been no additions, you see, since my father died."
    "The collection is concentrated on English books, you say? Have you any Elizabethan artifacts?"
    "Oh, not very many. The collection was begun in 1611, but I think my ancestor hadn't any love for his contemporaries, and left them quite alone. That's a great gap, in fact, that I hope to remedy. We do have a few of Jonson's books, but they are a bit later, I think, the first from 1616," Jessica said, closing her eyes and envisioning the shelves for the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Her list perforce was a random one, for Mr. Wiley wasn't one for shelf maintenance. "A Coverdale Bible. Hakluyt's Voyages. Cawdray's little dictionary. A delightful little book of herbal medicines, illustrated, very primitive. An unattributed translation of Petrarch's sonnets. I think the Earl of Oxford is responsible, for my grandfather bought it from his estate. You know about the Bacon selections. And two First Folios, of course, but those are kept separate in the vault."
    "That's all you have of Shakespeare, two Folios?"
    The music ended as she opened her eyes to the sharp disappointment on his face. Defensively, she said, "The two Folios are quite good specimens, actually. And we have some Globe Theatre memorabilia, and an early playbook of Twelfth Night . But you know, much was lost when the theatre burned. There remains little to be had."
    Sir John noticed that they were standing on the dance floor while everyone else headed for the supper tables. and started to lead her back to Ada. Suddenly she thought she might lose him forever, this man who seemed to possess just the right combination of intellect, skill, and amorality to suit her purpose. "Wait! It is so hot in here." It was a deeply stupid remark. For all the three hundred people were dancing here, and for all the hot red silk draped everywhere, this was the chilliest ballroom she'd ever known. Most of the ladies were clutching their shawls around them, and the men were slipping off into the cozier cardrooms.
    But there was no sense in calling attention to the mistake by correcting it. She just forged onward, all too aware of what sort of invitation Sir John must imagine this to be. "Perhaps we could walk out onto the terrace? I hear there's a lovely view."
    Sir John kept a creditably courteous expression, neither lustful nor displeased. "As you wish."
    Just in case he had misinterpreted her intent, she said, "I would like your advice on some obscure items in the collection that I might sell if—when—I inherit."
    "Obscure?" There it was, the gleam of interest. Now she knew. Curiosity must be his great weakness. "Obscurity" was all she needed to draw him out the French doors.
    Even with the salt-tinged breeze off the channel, the night air was warmer than the ballroom. Sir John stopped for a moment on the garden steps and raised his hand to test the wind. It was almost an automatic gesture, and Jessica was reminded that he was, before aught else, a sailor.
    Once out in the fragrant night, he took charge, guiding her down a dark pathway towards a broad flagstone terrace overlooking the sea. Here they were sheltered from a view by narrow tall yew trees, and the noise and music of the ballroom were far away.
    She glanced back at the house, wondering whether their absence would be noticed. It would be a novelty, at least, Jessica decided, to be gossiped about for doing something improper like taking to the gardens with an outlaw. Her name was already a May game in the London clubs, for a crime no worse than getting and having to refuse a clutch of marriage proposals.
    At the least this man was a most unusual outlaw. As they passed a bank of rose bushes, he stopped to touch a petal with a gentle finger, then tested the