Master of Love (3 page)

And then she recalled his eyes as he surveyed his collection. Had they shone with the same excitement she felt about every new volume that came into her hands? He was supposed to be a dissipated rake! Surely he couldn't care about these books as she did?

The man was a puzzle, but one that was none of her concern. No doubt someone with such a stunning face came to rely on a roué manner in all his interactions with women. Why, he probably couldn't help but flirt! She'd simply have to make very clear that she was unmoved and uninterested in such interaction. Once she had made him accept that fact, surely they could deal well enough together. It was little different than house-training a new puppy:
We'll have none of that behavior in here, if you please.
The more difficult challenge might be ensuring that her own control over her emotions and wayward senses never wavered.

But the real puzzle was how in the world she was going to organize the scattered piles and open trunks of the eleven thousand books for which she was now responsible. The challenge both terrified her and, strangely, made her happier than she'd felt in a very long while.

Unbidden, the thought arose that Lord Rexton might pose the same challenge to a woman.

Goodness.

The thought chased her all the way back to work.

Chapter 2

L
ord Rexton was bowing over some older lady's hand when Mr. Danvers escorted Callista into the drawing room an hour later. Bowing and smiling that wicked, devastating smile, to the lady's apparent besotted delight.
He really does flirt all the time!
Callista harrumphed to herself.
Not that it's any of my business, of course
.

She turned away briskly and scanned the room. About a dozen people milled about, all talking animatedly. A few ladies were present, but the guests were mainly older gentlemen: a little rumpled, rather portly, not at all at the forefront of fashion. One man with an untamed shock of gray hair spilled his sherry as he gesticulated grandly about a wonderful essay on the philosophy of love by an anonymous author known only as Amator Philosophiae, or the Lover of Philosophy, in the latest issue of
Philosophers' Quarterly
. Another trod on the foot of his neighbor, apparently oblivious to all but his own intent argument. Callista allowed herself an inward sigh of relief.
Gentlemen-scholars!
Such as they, she knew how to handle. Lady Barrington moved graciously from group to group, playing hostess. Determined to avoid her, Callista caught the eye of Mr. Claremont and started toward him with a polite nod.

Before she could cross the room, however, Lord Rexton took leave of the woman he'd been greeting, swept two crystal glasses of sherry off a footman's tray, and intercepted Callista in her path.

His opening volley took her by surprise. “I'm having Danvers amend our contract.” He handed her the sherry before she could decline.

Distracted, she took the outstretched glass. “Why is that? Is there a problem?”
Please, let there not be a problem
.

“It's come to my attention your footboy isn't receiving compensation from me for his work here.”

“I wasn't expecting a separate payment for Billy. He's my servant and I'm responsible for his wages.”

“I pay my employees, Miss Higginbotham.” He arched a dark-golden winged brow and made it sound a point of honor.

“I'm not suggesting otherwise, my lord. It's simply that I consider Billy's payment included within the fees we've already negotiated in my contract.”

“Well, I don't,” he answered shortly. “Danvers will show you the new contract and have you add your initials. Graves will pay him along with the other footboys.”

She thought it a somewhat unusual arrangement and not at all necessary. However, if his lordship chose to make this generous gesture in Billy's favor, it wasn't for her to refuse the boon.

“As you wish.” She inclined her head and took a small sip from her glass. It was even smoother than the stock she kept in Bloomsbury, some of the last remnants of her father's once-excellent cellar. “A fine sherry, my lord. Thank you.”

“I'm glad you approve.” Another one of those annoyingly amused smiles began to curl the corners of his full lips.

Surely he didn't
rouge
them, did he?
How on earth could a man's lips be so red and lush and—and inviting?
The word popped into her thoughts before she tamped it down with a calming breath. Yes, his teasing grin was definitely back, and his dark gaze was settling intent and smiling and focused—on her.

With a little fluster of panic, she frowned and took a fortifying sip of the sherry as she cast about for a safe topic. “Lord Rexton, we should discuss how you want the collection organized. Do you have a preference?”

If anything, his grin widened. “You are the expert, Miss Higginbotham. What do you recommend?”

Was he mocking her? She drew herself up and launched into a brisk lecture. “From what I can tell, your present library system seems a combination of arranging the books by general topic, sometimes alphabetically by author, and often haphazardly, perhaps according to when they entered your possession. Of course, collections often have no organizing principle at all. Do you realize many aristocrats' libraries are arranged simply by color and size of volume, so they may all look pretty lined up on the shelf?”

He widened his eyes in mock horror. “My word, how shocking!”

She set her glass stiffly on a nearby table, casting her eyes down at her worn but polished boot tips. “I see it amuses you to make fun of me, but I make no apologies for taking my work seriously.”

“Come now, you sounded so scandalized, I couldn't resist teasing a little.” He refilled her glass from a nearby decanter and handed it back to her, forcing her to look up. “It's just my shallow, pleasure-driven way of being, I'm afraid,” he said, waving a hand airily.

She cocked her head, trying hard to figure him out. “Books are a very serious matter, and you are now in possession of a truly stunning collection. There are some treasures in that library; I found the most gorgeous hand-tooled and illuminated Spanish Bible just this morning. It must be three hundred years old. All this poses a significant responsibility, both for me to do the collection justice and for you to care for it into posterity.”

“We shall each have to ensure the other remains committed to the task, although I am most certain that you, my dear”—he bowed toward her—“would never waver from your responsibility.” He traced a quick finger along her cheekbone and ended with a tap on her nose. “You have the look of responsibility all over you.”

She pursed her lips into a disapproving line and stepped back.

A mistake, apparently, as it seemed to lure him in closer—close enough to lean in and murmur in her ear, “Who are you, Miss Higginbotham?”

“As you well know”—she kept her gaze firmly fixed across the room—“I am a book dealer and, by arrangement at the moment, your librarian. Certainly no one of any particular interest to you.”

“Odd; I find you quite fascinating.”

A quick sideways glance caught him smiling at her over the rim of his glass. She felt her face grow hot. “My lord, I am here to carry out a commission. I can permit nothing, including your reputation, to jeopardize my successful completion of this task.”

“To what reputation do you refer?”

“Your life path of seduction is rather common knowledge,” she replied tartly. “Although lamentable, it is, I suppose, only to be expected that a man with your particular physical endowments and the leisure of your class would find no higher calling than to dedicate himself to a life of pleasure.” She took a small self-congratulatory sip after that little speech.

His eyes narrowed and his tone turned lazy. “What fine sanctimony, Miss Higginbotham. But on what basis, may I inquire, would a respectable spinster librarian such as you judge my ‘physical endowments'?”

“My lord, this game is beneath you,” she said, her words clipped. “Surely you have far better hunting among the ladies of the bon ton
.
”

“Actually, I find they have little to offer.”

“Compared to them, I have nothing to offer and far too much to lose.” She turned fully toward him, trying hard to hang on to her pique like a shield. “I am not a . . . a light-skirt, sir. People depend upon me. I cannot let them down.”

“I think you underestimate your charms, my dear Miss Higginbotham. But you have nothing to fear from me. I'm no seducer of lambs, nor do I compromise the help.”

It was a deliberate insult. She couldn't help her sharp intake of breath but worked to gather herself quickly behind a rigid façade. “Of course, my lord.”

Lady Barrington came up and laid a manicured hand on Lord Rexton's arm. “Miss Higginbotham, how went your little labors with the books this morning?”

Callista clenched her glass stem and greeted her with a small nod. “Well, my lady.”

“Excellent. Rex and I,” the lady said, patting the viscount's arm, “will be at the Duchess of Worchester's ball this evening. I'll be sure to let her know about your services. I expect she'll be most
interested
in learning of your work here. Her Grace enjoys reading those lady writers' novels and might well have a commission for you.”

“Thank you. Your ladyship is too kind.” Kind indeed, to waste no time in starting the rumor mill to churn.

“Not at all.” Lady Barrington's lips curled in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. “Some of the ton might be a tad shocked, I'm afraid, and rather old-fashioned about such things as the working classes and young women keeping to their proper places. But I'll explain that girls like you are more forward-thinking these days.”

Luckily, Callista was spared a further cut-and-thrust session with her hostess when Mr. Claremont stepped up to their group, bringing along two other gentlemen, whom he introduced to Callista as fellow members of the British Philosophical Society. It turned out the luncheon crowd was the organizing committee for the society's upcoming conference, to be held in late May in Edinburgh in conjunction with Scottish counterparts from the Royal Society of Edinburgh. Present also were several philosophy tutors and a junior instructor from the University of Cambridge's Trinity College, the aristocratic college from which the previous Lord Rexton had graduated and where the current one had apparently spent time as well. She soon met more gentlemen than she could keep track of, along with some of their wives, all interested in the new library that was making Lord Rexton the talk of the Philosophical Society. Although they were outwardly respectful of their host and patron, Callista gathered Lady Vaughnley wasn't the only one wondering what use the Master of Love could make of such a collection.

Graves announced luncheon, and Callista accepted the escort of the aptly named Mr. Plumptre, the society's rotund treasurer, as they headed downstairs to the dining room. “I hear Lord Rexton's new books have wonderful breadth across the full range of philosophy,” he wheezed beside her. “Do you plan to organize the collection by subject matter?”

“Lord Rexton and I were just broaching that point, Mr. Plumptre.”

To her surprise, Callista found herself, over oxtail soup, at the center of a most interesting discussion about the great libraries of the world and the principles of organization behind them. Although Lord Rexton continued to watch her far too closely for comfort, by the time the sole in anchovy sauce arrived to table, she began almost to relax. She couldn't remember the last time she'd dined at such a bountiful table with the congenial company of book lovers. Certainly not since her father was alive and they'd all lived in Paris.

“I find a broad division by subject matter best,” Mr. Plumptre said around mouthfuls of boiled bacon cheek dressed in spinach cream sauce. “That way we can easily find our philosophy volumes.”

“True,” Callista replied, “but it's not always clear in which subject area a book should be placed. The classification system most often used was proposed two centuries ago by Francis Bacon. He believed there are but three branches of knowledge: history, which derives from memory; poetry, deriving from imagination; and philosophy, from reason. According to that system, all the books being published today in the new sciences of biology and chemistry and such should be placed in philosophy, under the subcategory of philosophy of nature or experimental philosophy. But such books are so different from Plato or Aquinas, the kind of philosophers who interest you gentlemen”—she gestured down the table—“that I wonder whether this categorization is still useful today in the nineteenth century, when there is now such an explosion of new knowledge.”

“Excellent point, my dear.” Mr. Claremont nodded, waving over a footman for more of the pease pudding. “What if instead of trying to keep up with more categories, you simply used fewer? When I did research at the Vatican Library, they divided everything up into either ‘sacred' or ‘profane.' ”

Luncheon continued almost pleasantly, with the guests trading stories of libraries and ideas for the new collection. Lord Rexton, Callista noticed, sat mostly silent throughout the meal, contributing little from his position at the head of the table.

Mr. Thompson, the Trinity College junior instructor, a pale and thin young man, jumped in as the tartlets and Trocadero cake were served. “Before coming to Cambridge, I served as tutor for Lord Shelton's two sons, and one of my tasks was to reorganize his library. He'd had a classification system when he started his collection years earlier, with a big catalog recording shelf numbers where books were located. But by the time I showed up, he'd added so many new volumes the shelves overflowed and books were pushed off to other shelves that were supposed to hold a different category. The numbers in the catalog book were scratched out and written over so many times that none of it made any sense.”

“That, Mr. Thompson,” said Callista, laying down her fork from an excellent rhubarb tart with ginger cream, “is exactly the problem with a catalog-book-and-fixed-location approach. It's the reason I cannot advocate it for Lord Rexton's library. Such a system really only works if you plan never again to add another book to your library!”

Mutters of agreement ran around the table over the ridiculousness of
that
notion.

“But is it not true, Miss Higginbotham,” inquired Lady Barrington, “that the library of the British Museum, the most splendid library in all the land, uses fixed location and numbers all its shelves? I seem to remember my husband speaking of such, as he frequently conducted research for his books there.”

“Quite true, my lady,” said Mr. Plumptre, still chewing heartily and reaching for the French plums. “Quite true—shelf 78B and 121A and such.”

“Surely you don't set yourself up as a greater authority than the British Museum?” The lady threw her challenge down the table.

All eyes turned to Callista, and she clenched her napkin into a wadded ball on her lap. “The British Museum library struggles with these issues as well. My father knew the head catalog clerk there, who often mentioned their difficulty in keeping the record and shelf labels accurate. Because we have the option of starting afresh with this new collection at Rexton House, I'm thinking of trying something quite different here.”