Free Fool Me Twice by Meredith Duran

“What are you doing to these books?”
    A hand caught her arm. He was pulling her to herfeet. Dragging her toward the door. But her eye had caught on something. Good heavens, it couldn’t be.
    She ripped free and lunged across the room, lifting away a copy of Leviathan and Don Quixote in the Spanish, to uncover . . .
    She held it up, balancing it on the flat of her palms, suspended between awe and rage. “This,” she whispered, unable to remove her eyes, “is Newton’s Principia . An original edition .”
    Silence.
    She looked up and her heart tripped. He was towering over her, his face thunderous. He had not finished buttoning his shirt. His collar sagged apart to expose a generous triangle of skin, and— heavens above, his left nipple lay exposed to her sight.
    She clasped the book to her chest and goggled. She had seen a variety of male torsos in her life, most of them belonging to adolescent country boys who cast off decorum at the sight of a fishing pond. None of them had looked like this . He had hair on his chest. Who could have guessed it?
    “Have you a death wish?” he snarled. “Or have you, perhaps, lost the ability to understand English?”
    She backed away from him, angling toward the door. He matched her step for step, prowling like a lion on the scent of a lamb—not a comfortable analogy. But these innocent books. She was stumbling over them, gilt-edged, calfskin-bound, priceless . She must save them from him.
    She had one foot out the door when she caught sight again of the illustrated manuscript. She could not abandon it here. The poor darling! She lunged forward and snatched it up.
    “Put that down!” he roared.
    “You may keep them all ,” she cried. “Move the entire library up here, but you will not keep them on the floor !”
    She hopped backward and pulled the door shut in his face.

CHAPTER FIVE

    “I need two bookcases from the library.” Olivia took a seat opposite Jones’s desk. “At once. I don’t . . .”
    She leaned forward to take a better look at the newspaper beneath Jones’s elbow. No, she was not imagining the headline: BERTRAM’S BID PROVES VICTORIOUS.
    “This cursed matter of the truffles!” Jones rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I have reviewed an entire month’s worth of meals. We certainly did not use them. None of the dishes required them. And I’ve spoken with every member of the kitchen staff. Nobody claims to know—”
    She cleared her throat. “ I will find out. Only give me two strong footmen to move the bookcases first.”
    He frowned. “What? Where do you wish them moved?”
    She knew very well how he would respond to her truthful reply. “Just give me the shelves, and I will solve the case of the truffles”—she snapped her fingers—“quicker than Scotland Yard.”
    “I don’t think Scotland Yard cares much formissing truffles.” Jones sounded mournful. “Besides, I have already spoken to everyone who might have accessed them.”
    Her eyes strayed again to the newspaper. In what had Bertram proved victorious? A glorious death, dared she hope? “Give me the bookcases,” she said absently.
    He sighed and shut the ledger. “Very well. Have Bradley and Fenton move them.”
    “Thank you.” She rose. Just walk away. Don’t torment yourself. “Are you done with that paper?”
    He glanced toward it. “Oh—yes, indeed. Do you follow the news?” He smoothed a fond hand across the newsprint. “Time was, I ironed four newspapers a day. His Grace had a prodigious appetite for them. But now he refuses to read a one. Were it not for me, nobody in this house would have a use for them.” He grimaced. “But the fashion magazines, Mrs. Johnson—and the racing sheets, and cheap novels—you should see the rubbish that goes into the bins each week.”
    She made a sympathetic noise. “I’m a great reader, myself.”
    Jones handed the paper to her. “Of course, I must admit that the news does not always make for pleasant reading.” A click