Seducing the Viscount (11 page)

The bookstore was precisely the same as every other bookstore that Ian had ever entered (not that there had been many). The air was ripe with mildew and the scent of aged leather, while the endless stacks of books threatened to topple and crush the unwary. Even worse, there was a thick layer of shadows cloaking the long room that made a suspicious man wonder what was hiding among the dusty shelves.

On this afternoon, however, Ian had a pleasant purpose for his visit, and, ignoring his natural distaste for his surroundings, he concentrated on the wiry gentleman with a ferret countenance and threadbare coat. His brows lifted as his gaze lowered to the badly patched leather shoes. Obviously peddling books did not offer a particularly luxurious existence. A knowledge that Ian tucked away.

“The Byzantine Empire, you say?” the ferret-faced man demanded, dry-washing his hands as his gaze darted about the cramped shop.

“Yes, any books that you feel are written by a reputable scholar.”

“I do have a few in the back,” he said, his expression one of wary apology. “I fear that it is not a subject that is often requested.”

A small smile touched Ian's mouth. Of course his wood sprite would choose an obscure empire to study. Her tiny rebellions were all that kept her magnificent spirit from being crushed.

His smile threatened to fade at the memory of her soft yet poignant confession of a future filled with nothing but cold duty. What sort of parents would make such a demand of their only child? And to do so in the name of love?

The devil take them, it was entirely their fault that Mercy had been driven into the arms of a renowned rake. If they had allowed her to have the normal flirtations of a young lady, she would no doubt be properly wed with a pack of children. Certainly she would not be so desperate for intimacy that she would put herself at such risk.

Not that he was blameless, he wryly acknowledged.

Despite his promise to ignore her blatant offers, he had given into lust readily enough. Why else had he gone to her chambers when he had been bosky and incapable of denying his need? Still, he found his guilty conscience was not enough to dim the fierce pleasure he had found in her arms.

Or the realization that he intended to be in her arms once again.

Suddenly aware that his thoughts had drifted, Ian cleared his throat and met the worried gaze of the bookseller.

“No, I suppose not.”

Seeming to take heart in Ian's absent agreement, the man cleared his throat. “Now, the Roman Empire or even the Ottoman . . . well, they were great moments in history.”

“Perhaps, but my interest lies in the Byzantine. Do you have anything?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” With a nervous step, the bookseller headed toward one of the distant shelves. “If you will just come this way?”

With a grimace at the dust that was bound to ruin the gloss on his boots, Ian obediently followed the man to the distant shelves, inwardly wondering how the devil anyone could make sense of the haphazard shelves and stacks of books that nearly consumed the narrow shop. The place would be a good deal improved by a tinder and spark as far as Ian was concerned.

Coming to the shelf against the back wall, the bookseller bent down to peer at titles that were nearly obscured by thick layers of grime.

“Is there a particular interest that you have in the Byzantines?” he demanded.

“Anything related will do, although I would be very pleased if you could dredge up anything regarding the Empress Theodora.”

The man blinked in an owlish fashion. “You want to read of a woman?”

Ian peered down the long length of his nose. Of course he did not bloody well want to read of the woman, but Mercy did and he would not have her interest derided by anyone.

“Hardly an ordinary woman.”

The man paled at Ian's soft, dangerous tone. “No. No, I suppose she was not.”

“And really, what could be more fascinating than to research our fairer sex?” he pressed, not at all certain why he was bothered by this twit's badly hidden disdain for Empress Theodora and the Byzantine Empire. “Some would claim that a wise gentleman would make it his life's purpose.”

“Oh . . . quite.” The man swallowed and with hasty movements gathered three books from the shelf and straightened. “Here we are, then. Allow me to wrap them. They are rather dusty, and I would not have you ruin your attire.”

Ian smiled sardonically as the man made a hasty dash toward the counter at the front of the store. The poor man seemed oddly terrified at having an actual customer within his walls. Or perhaps it was Ian who terrified him.

“Thank God,” he muttered as he made his way at a much more dignified pace.

Wrapping the books in brown paper and tying it with string, the man handed the bundle to Ian and managed a tepid smile.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Yes.” Ian reached beneath his jacket for his leather purse. “Could you direct me to the Swan's Nest?”

“The Swan's Nest?”

Ian frowned at the man's startled expression. “I believe that was the name. There is such a pub, is there not?”

“Oh, certainly. 'Tis east of the big castle near the Wey River, but it is not at all the sort of place for a gentleman of quality.” The bookseller shuddered with delicate horror. “Nothing but ruffians and gin swills gather there. You would be far more comfortable to find a nice tavern on Stag Hill.”

Ian gave a sharp bark of laughter. “I appreciate your concern, but since I have always been more a ruffian than gentleman of quality I can only presume I shall feel quite at home at the Swan's Nest.” Opening his small purse, he pulled out a handful of notes and tossed them onto the counter. “Here you are. I hope this will be enough to cover the cost of the books and the trouble of digging them from obscurity.”

His companion momentarily struggled to breathe at the sight of Ian's generosity.

“Yes, sir,” he rasped. “Very kind of you, I must say.”

“If you hear of any other books to be found regarding the Byzantine Empire, I would appreciate you sending word to me.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. It would be my pleasure.”

Ian hid a smile. He was a true gambler, who never overbid his hand. With just a few pounds he had ensured that this poor bookseller would scour the shops from here to London in search of more books to please him. Meaning Ian had seen the last of musty shops.

“You can send your message to Rosehill Estate.”

The owlish eyes widened. “Lord Norrington's home?”

“Yes, are you acquainted?”

“Oh my, no.” The man was shocked by the mere suggestion. “At least not personally. It is only that I have heard that he possesses one of the finest libraries in all of Surrey. You are extraordinarily fortunate to have access to such bounty.”

The memory of a lonely little boy sitting in the middle of that vast library hoping to catch a glimpse of a father who never appeared flashed through his mind before he could savagely thrust it aside.

“Oh yes, my fortune is quite extraordinary,” he muttered, tucking the books beneath his arm. “If you will excuse me?”

“Good day to you, sir.”

Leaving the bookstore, Ian stashed his treasure in his saddlebag and urged his horse down High Street. It was not a difficult task to catch sight of the crumbling ruin of a castle on the hill south of him. Although it had once been a royal residence for Henry III, it was now little more than a shell that spoke of grander days.

Angling toward the river, he ignored the assessing stares from the local merchants and the ragged boys who followed him from the shadows of the narrow alleys. They would soon discover he was no addlepated dandy should any of them be foolish enough to attempt to cull him. He was as comfortable in the gutter as he was in the finest drawing rooms of Mayfair.

At last discovering the whitewashed pub tucked between a butcher shop and blacksmith, Ian rode through the stone arch that led to the inner courtyard and allowed one of the numerous young urchins to take the reins. Vaulting from the saddle, Ian paused long enough to whisper a word of warning into the lad's ear before striding across the cobblestones to the door of the pub.

He had no fear that his mount might mysteriously disappear during his brief stay. Not when the boy was quite convinced that Ian would hunt him to the pits of hell if the animal were not treated as royalty.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, Ian was prepared for the rank scent of stale ale and smoke. He didn't even flinch at the oppressive noise of the dozen roughly dressed men who filled the tables. It was all a great deal more familiar than his elegant, cold chambers at Rosehill.

With a firm step and hard gaze that warned he was not to be trifled with, he headed toward the windows that overlooked the road. His gaze scanned the tables until he caught sight of the silver-haired man with a pronounced stoop and weathered countenance.

Although it had been years since he had last seen Tolson, there was no mistaking the faded blue eyes that twinkled with kind amusement or the ears that stuck out like bat wings.

He had worked in the gardens of Rosehill for nearly forty years, first as an under-gardener and then head gardener before retiring to live with his oldest daughter in Guildford. If anyone were to know of his father's hidden sins, it was this man.

The question, of course, was whether or not he was willing to share those sins.

Tolson was one of the few people in the entire world that Viscount Norrington truly respected. The two had spent hours together as his father's vision for his extensive gardens was slowly realized. The old servant's loyalty was unquestionable.

Ian could only hope that the man could be lured into revealing some hint of past scandals.

Reaching the table, Ian took his seat and smiled as the older man inspected him with a fond gaze.

“Why, if it ain't little Ian, as I live and breathe,” Tolson murmured, shoving aside his tankard of ale.

Ian gave a soft chuckle. “Not so little anymore, Tolson.”

“Ach, well, I will always think of you as that scrawny brat who was up to some mischief or another.”

Ian's smile widened. Unlike his father, this man had always encouraged Ian's reckless adventures, even going so far as to assist in hiding the evidence of his mishaps when necessary. Ian would never forget his kindness.

“I fear that I may have grown in stature, but my habit of finding trouble has not changed. I seem to manage it with remarkable ease.”

Tolson waved a hand gnarled by years of hard work. “Only natural for a young man of high spirits. Never trusted those pious souls who are always spouting the evil of others.” The man turned his head to spit on the floor. “More often than not they have done deeds that would turn your hair white.”

“Somehow I doubt that my father would agree with you, old friend.” Ian smoothly directed the conversation in the desired direction. “He would have far preferred a son with more piety and less of the devil in his soul.”

The blue eyes softened with a ready sympathy. “Never you mind, son. Lord Norrington is a good man, but there are some that have no liking for children. 'Tis not their nature to be comfortable around young uns.”

Ian struggled against his surge of frustration. Why the devil did everyone always rush to acquit his father of blame, as if he had no control over treating his only child like an unwelcome intruder into his home?

“Then it begs the question of why he would have brought me to Rosehill at all,” he said, his voice bitter. “I am just a bastard. He could easily have dumped me in an orphanage, or, if he was squeamish of having Norrington blood mixed among the filth, he could have handed me over to one of his endless tenants. With the promise of a few quid, any of them would have been pleased to take me in.”

The old gardener heaved a rueful sigh. “The master has always been very particular in his notion of duty. Especially when it comes to his family.”

Duty. A word he was beginning to hate.

“Yes, that is true enough.” With an effort, Ian gathered his composure. The devil take him. He was no longer a five-year-old to pout when his father forgot his birthday. “You knew him as a youth, did you not?”

“Oh aye.” A reminiscent smile curved Tolson's lips. “He was no more than eight or nine when I became an under-gardener at Rosehill. Even then he knew the name of every flower that was planted and how they should be cared for.” He chuckled at an ancient memory. “More than once I thought MacFinney, the old head gardener, would throttle the lad. He didn't like to have the boy know more of his job than he did.”

Ian could just imagine. His father was as stubborn as a mule when it came to his flowers, and he never suffered fools gladly. Poor old MacFinney had no doubt felt besieged by a toddler.

“But you did not mind his companionship?” he teased, earning a wistful smile from the older man.

“Nay.” Tolson scrubbed his fingers through his short gray hair. “He was a quiet and rather shy lad. And to be blunt, I felt sorry for him. He was terrified of his father, the previous viscount, poor little bloke. I can't say how often I found him hiding in the hedge maze to avoid being noticed. I didn't mind keeping me lips closed when there was a search made for the boy.” He pointed a finger toward Ian. “Just as I kept me lips closed when you tossed a rock through the parlor window.”

Ian gave a shout of laughter as he recalled the gardener's steadfast refusal to confess who had shattered the window.

“I will have you know that I did not toss that rock. I hit it with my cricket bat,” he corrected with a pretense of wounded pride.

Tolson snorted. “Mayhaps, but the window was shattered just the same.” Tilting his head to the side, the old man regarded Ian with a knowing gaze. “Why did you wish to meet with me, son? It can't be to recall long-gone days.”

Ian arched a brow, caught off guard by the man's perception. Obviously age had not dimmed his shrewd mind.

“Could it not be that I wished to visit with one of the few people who made my life in Surrey bearable?” he demanded.

“Could be, but 'tis not.” Folding his arms on the warped wooden table, Tolson leaned forward. “Tell me what you would have of me, Ian.”

Ian gestured for the barkeep, ordering ale to give himself the opportunity to consider his answer. Awaiting the tankard, Ian at last drew in a deep breath.

“I recently lost a very dear friend, and I suppose it has made me reminiscent,” he said slowly, his words not a precise lie. “I felt the need to return to Rosehill and heal some of the wounds of the past. Unfortunately, time has not eased the strain between myself and my father. I hoped if I knew more of what made him so . . . distant, I might be capable of bridging the gap between us.”

Tolson clicked his tongue and reached to pat Ian's arm. His gentle soul could not abide the thought of anyone being unhappy. It was a weakness that Ian felt a surprising pang of guilt in exploiting.

“'Tis not your fault. As I said, his lordship was never intended for children.”

“Because of his own father?” he demanded, refusing to waver despite his odd unease.

“In part, although he never expressed a desire to wed or produce offspring even as he grew into a man.”

Ian shrugged. “Perhaps some maiden broke his heart and he still pines for her.”

Tolson pondered the question a long moment. “If that is so, he kept the maiden a secret. It did not matter how many ladies the old viscount would invite to Rosehill, your father refused to dance attendance upon any of them.” The old man grimaced. “Not that I entirely blame him. Can't be pleasant to be paraded before a crowd of mares like a stallion on the block.”

“Or perhaps he simply preferred the sort of woman he could tumble and leave behind,” Ian pointed out as he thought of his own mother. “He no doubt cut a swathe of destruction among the female servants.”

“Nay.” Tolson appeared genuinely shocked. “He was never like many nobs who thought any woman forced to become a servant was easy prey. The maids were always happy to serve at Rosehill.”

“My mother is proof that he had interest, if only transitory, in at least some maids.”

The blue eyes held something perilously close to pity. “It could be he cared for her, Ian,” he said softly. “The heart can be a fickle thing.”

Ian was suddenly struck by the memory of his father's tender expression as he confessed his love for Ian's mother. He had seemed so . . . sincere.

Christ. Could it be that the man had never wed because he was still in love with the woman who had given birth to Ian?

With an unwitting shake of his head, Ian accepted that there was nothing more to be discovered with his current questioning. If his father's secret had something to do with a woman, it was so well-concealed not even his most loyal servant knew of it.

Obviously it was time to change tactics.

“As you say,” he murmured. “What of his acquaintances? I assume that he must have possessed some friends as a youth?”

“Not many.” Turning his head, Tolson regarded the pedestrians that cluttered the narrow street. For the moment, an inviting sunshine spilled over the town, encouraging the citizens to be about their business before the inevitable rain returned. “As I said, he was a solitary sort, preferring the gardens to the local gatherings. But there was one . . . Ach, what was his name?” Tolson wrinkled his brow as he struggled to shift through his memories. At last he gave a snap of his fingers and turned back to Ian. “Summerville, that was it.”

The name meant nothing to Ian. “Is he a neighbor?”

“Nay, an old school chum who used to spend his school vacations at Rosehill.” The old man chuckled. “Two peas in a pod, they were. Nigh on inseparable for years.”

Ian choked back a disbelieving laugh. The mere thought of his father being a young boy with a devoted friend dashing about the frozen marble of Rosehill was as absurd as him picking up a shovel to make an honest living.

“I have never heard my father mention this Summerville,” he murmured.

“Ah, well, your grandfather took a dislike to him. Never understood it myself. Seemed like a decent enough young man, always polite and well-behaved, but the old man did take queer starts. One day he simply had the boy's bags packed and ordered him from Rosehill.” Tolson shook his head, a sadness rippling over his weathered features. “Of all the disappointments your father suffered, I believe that affected him the most deeply.”

Well, this was a bit more promising. Did the two lads hock the family silver to pay their gambling debts? Had they used the picture gallery for target practice? Did they murder old MacFinney and bury his body in the rose garden?

Ian leaned forward, his eyes narrowed.

“And you have no notion of why he was banned? Did he lure my father into some mischief?”

“Not that was spoken of.” The old man paused as the barkeep returned to slap two tankards of ale on the table. “So far as I know, his lordship simply took a dislike to the boy and ordered him from the estate.”

Ian lifted the tankard, grimacing at the bitter drink that slid down his throat.

“My grandfather sounds like a rotter.”

Toslon grimaced before he could disguise his reaction to the previous viscount.

“He did have a nasty temper and a habit of bullying those who sought to stand against him.” He shuddered. “Not an easy man.”

Ian battled that unwelcome sympathy for his father. Damn, he did not want to imagine Norrington as a frightened boy cowering in the garden to escape his father's wrath. He was here for a purpose. A purpose that was growing increasingly difficult to recall.

“Do you know where this Summerville lived?” he forced himself to demand.

Tolson took a swig from his tankard, obviously immune to the bitter dregs that soured Ian's stomach.

“From London, I believe.” He wiped the foam from his lips with his threadbare sleeve. “His family had no lands, although I believe they were wealthy enough.”

Ian frowned. “Were they Cits?”

“The word was not used in my hearing, but . . .”

“But it might have been something my grandfather discovered and held against this Summerville?”

“Aye.” The gardener shrugged. “He was proud enough to be offended by those who smelled of the shop. It was all a very long time ago.”

Ian heaved a sigh. It was becoming obvious that Tolson either had no notion of the scandal that had caused his father to pay Dunnington to keep silent or was refusing to confess the truth.

Either way, there was little point in beating a dead carcass.

“Yes, it was,” he grudgingly conceded. “Let us turn our attention to the present. Tell me how you go on.”

It was near an hour later before Ian could politely excuse himself and leave the pub.

Stupidly he found himself anxious to return to Rosehill as he gathered his horse and urged the restless mount into a steady trot. It was a sensation that was as astonishing as it was unexpected. Certainly he had never experienced it before.