Leo propped his elbows on the arms of his chair and linked his fingers. He extended his legs and studied the toes of his boots. "I have a friend who does suffer from just that affliction. I wonder if Dr. Cox could help him."
Tazewell's bushy brows scrunched together. "No harm in trying, I suppose."
"Do you happen to have the doctor's direction?" "Keeps a small shop off Moss Lane." Tazewell frowned. "Bloody damned difficult to find the place. Don't know how the man manages to stay in business."
"There is_a, great deal of money to be made in the treatment of impotence, I understand."
"True." Tazewell's brows snapped together in sudden concern. Then a look of dawning sympathy lit his eyes. "I say, Monkcrest, this friend of yours who suffers from a weak member ... ?"
"What about him?"
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"You were not referring to yourself by any chance?" "Of course not."
"No need to be embarrassed, y'know," Tazewell said kindly. "After all, you must be approaching forty. Not exactly a young man anymore, eh?"
She was being followed.
Beatrice caught the flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye just as she was about to enter Hook's bookshop. She turned her head slightly and used the wide brim of her parasol to conceal the direction of her gaze.
There could be no doubt about it. The man with the curly blond hair and gold-rimmed spectacles had just crossed the street. She was sure that he was the same one she had seen watching her when she emerged from Lucy's shop a short while earlier.
He was a slender, handsome man in a well-cut blue coat, yellow waistcoat, and buff trousers. His cravat was tied in an elaborate, fashionable style. His spectacles gave him an earnest, studious air.
He was definitely sauntering in her direction, looking everywhere but directly at her.
As if he realized that she had seen him, he paused abruptly and made a pretense of examining some gloves on display in a nearby window.
A shiver went through Beatrice. Leo had not gotten a clear glimpse of the man he had chased through the trees the previous day. The only things he had been able to discern were a dark cap and the sleeve of a shirt. But clothing could be altered all too easily.
She realized that some of the maids and footmen who were hanging about on the benches outside the bookshop were watching her curiously.
She snapped her parasol shut and went through the door. She made her way through the crowded establishment to stand in front of a bookcase.
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She pretended to study the latest novels on display, one of which, she noticed, was her own, while she kept an eye on the street. With any luck she would get a close look at the blond man when he walked past the window.
But instead of moving off down the street as she expected him to do, he boldly entered the bookshop. Beatrice nearly dropped the novel she had plucked at random off the shelf.
Frantically, she tried to decide whether it would be more useful to ignore the bespectacled man or to speak to him. Something told her that Leo would strongly prefer the former course of action. He would arrive soon, in any event. She could point out the mysterious person to him.
But what if the man left the shop before Leo arrived? There might not be another opportunity to confront him and demand an explanation.
The situation called for action. Setting the book back on the shelf, she turned and walked straight to the counter, where the stranger stood conversing with the proprietor. She listened as he finished placing an order for some novels.
"Have them sent to 21 Deeping Lane, please," he concluded.
"Mr. Lake?" Beatrice interrupted brightly. "It is Mr. Lake, is it not? You do remember me, I trust. Your sister and I were such good friends."
"What?" The man jerked as if he had been stung. He swung around so abruptly that his elbow struck a book on the counter. "Damnation."
He made a grab for the volume and managed to catch it before it hit the floor. Unfortunately, when he straightened, he banged his head against the overhanging edge of the counter. He winced.
"Oh, dear," Beatrice murmured. "Are you all right, Mr. Lake?"
"Yes. Thank you." He pushed his spectacles more firmly in place onto his distinguished nose and gazed at Beatrice
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with deep chagrin. "But I most sincerely regret to tell you, Mrs. Poole, that I am not Mr. Lake. I only wish I could claim that honor."
He looked genuinely devastated, she thought, amused in spite of the situation. She also noticed that he was even more attractive up close.
His blond curls, cropped in the manner of Byron, framed a fine forehead and intelligent, somewhat bashful, blue eyes. She estimated that he was very close to her own age, perhaps a year or two younger.
"My apologies for mistaking you, sir," she said.
"No, no, it's quite all right," he assured her hastily. "Unfortunately, my name is Saltmarsh. Graham Saltmarsh.' He bowed his head. "At your service, Mrs. Poole."
"If I do not know you, sir, how is it that you know me?" Graham sighed. "This is going to be rather difficult to explain." He glanced around the busy shop and then took a step closer to her. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Please forgive me, Mrs. Poole, I know who you are.-
"Obviously. We have already established that fact. But as we have never been introduced, would you care to explain how you learned my name?"
He took another look around and moved even closer. "Your printer's apprentice," he said out of the side of his mouth.
It was Beatrice's turn to stare. "The apprentice?'
"I confess, I bribed him. But I assure you that he did not sell the information cheaply."
Suddenly everything fell into place. "Good heavens, sir, do you mean to say that you really do know who I am?" "'Yes. I am aware that you write the most wonderful hor-
rid novels under the name of Mrs. York." His eyes gleamed with open adoration behind the lenses of his spectacles. "Please allow me to tell you that I would walk upon hot coals to read your books. Your imagination is inspired. Your
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stories are the most thrilling I have ever read. You cannot begin to know how much pleasure your novels give me."
A mix of dread and delight brought a sudden warmth to Beatrice's cheeks. She told herself that she had feared this moment of revelation for five years. But in truth, it was rather pleasant not to have to pretend that she was not Mrs. York.
"Mr. Lake, I do not know what to say." "Saltmarsh. Graham Saltmarsh."
"Yes, of course. Forgive me, Mr. Saltmarsh. I am somewhat taken aback. No one outside my family and a very close friend knows that I write novels."
"On the contrary, Mrs. Poole." He smiled ruefully. "I fear any number of people know your secret. There is your publisher and the printer-"
"And the printer's apprentice and no doubt the printer's wife." She grimaced. "You're quite right. I had not stopped to consider that someone might drag the information out. of one of them."
"I doubt that anyone other than myself would be tempted to try," Saltmarsh assured her. "I do not think it likely that your secret will ever be widely known. Please believe that I will never tell a soul."
"Thank you, Mr. Saltmarsh. I shall sleep better knowing that you will not breathe a word of this to anyone."
A fervent look appeared in his eyes. "You may depend upon my discretion, madam."
"May I ask why you followed me here today, sir?"
He turned red. "I confess, I noticed you earlier when you went into the modiste's shop. I could not resist the opportunity to be in your presence for a while. You are my muse, Mrs. Poole."
"Your muse?" Beatrice was delighted. "Do you mean to say that you are an author?"
"I have not yet been published, but I have a manuscript
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which, when it is complete, I intend to submit to a publisher."
"I wish you the very best of luck, sir."
"Thank you. I can only hope that someday I shall be half as capable of producing the sort of extraordinary sensations in my readers that you create in yours. I know of no one who even approaches you in your ability to elicit the darker passions and horrid atmosphere."
Beatrice blushed. "Why, thank you, sir."
"In addition to reading your novels for inspiration, I have spent several hours in Mr. Trull's museum. The exhibits often provide me with wonderful ideas for my story. Are you acquainted with the establishment?"
A flicker of familiarity ruffled the edges of Beatrice's memory. She knew that she had recently come across a reference to Trull's Museum, but she could not quite place it. -1 am not familiar with the place."
"You really should pay it a visit." Saltmarsh glowed with enthusiasm. "The collection consists of the most amazing artifacts. All of them are directly related to supernatural and metaphysical matters. The very sight of them heightens one's powers of imagination."
"It sounds fascinating." Beatrice suddenly recalled where it was that she had seen a reference to Trull's Museum. She started to ask more questions, but at that moment the bookshop door opened. A tiny frisson of awareness touched the nape of her neck.
She glanced across the room and saw Leo enter. He was not looking at her, however. The full chill of his icy attention was centered on Graham Saltmarsh.
"Thank you for telling me about Mr. Trull's museum, Mr. Saltmarsh." Out of the corner of her eye she saw Leo bearing down on them. "I shall make it a point to plan a visit very soon."
"An authoress possessed of your exquisite sensibilities
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would no doubt find it very inspiring." Graham was oblivious of the approaching storm. "Perhaps you would allow me to escort you. I could point out the most fascinating exhibits. Trull even has a mummy in his museum."
"She will not require your escort." Leo came to a halt beside Beatrice. His voice was dangerously even. "A lady of Mrs. Poole's intelligence would be highly unlikely to have any interest whatsoever in Trull's ridiculous museum."
"Really, Monkcrest." Beatrice glared at him. "There is no call for rudeness. Allow me to present Mr. Saltmarsh. Mr. Saltmarsh, the Earl of Monkcrest."
S altmarsh looked as if he had just been confronted by a large beast of prey. "Sir."
"Saltmarsh." Leo said the name as if sampling it to see if it would make a tasty meal.
"As it happens, I am quite intrigued by the notion of a visit to Mr. Trull's museum," Beatrice said smoothly. Saltmarsh threw her a grateful look.
"It would be a complete waste of time." Leo eyed the younger man for a moment longer and then, apparently satisfied that Saltmarsh had been successfully intimidated, he switched his attention to Beatrice. "I paid the place, a visit a couple of years ago. It is filled with frauds and fakes designed to thrill those who are inclined toward such nonsense."
"As it happens, I am inclined toward such nonsense," Beatrice said. "I quite enjoy a good thrill now and again." Leo frowned. "I cannot imagine why. I assure you, the
few artifacts in Trull's Museum that are genuine have no great significance."
"Nevertheless," Beatrice said coolly, "I am much indebted to Mr. Saltmarsh for telling me about the establishment."
Saltmarsh cleared his throat. "Thank you, Mrs. Poole. I cannot tell you how much it means to me to know that I have been of some small service."
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"Indeed, sir." Beatrice saw Leo's hard mouth curve in a smile that would have chilled the blood of many a strong man. She positioned the point of her parasol over the tip of his booted toe and leaned heavily on it. "You have been most helpful, Mr. Saltmarsh."
Leo uttered a low grunt and quickly removed his foot from beneath the point of the parasol.
Saltmarsh glanced uneasily at him. "I must be on my way. Got an appointment at my tailor's. If you will excuse me, Mrs. Poole?"
'Of course." Beatrice gave him her warmest smile. Saltmarsh bowed his way out of the shop.
Leo contained himself until the man was gone. Then he turned on Beatrice. "Hell's teeth. What were you trying to do with that parasol? Amputate my toe?"
"You were being extremely unkind to a very polite gentleman."
"How do you come to be acquainted with him?"
"We met in passing," she said airily. "A mutual interest in horrid novels."
"I see. Not a proper introduction, then."
She was amused. "I did not think you the sort to be overly concerned about social niceties, my lord."
"What was all that chatter about Trull's Museum? You cannot be serious about wanting to visit the place." Beatrice looked thoughtfully toward the door where
Saltmarsh had just disappeared. "On the contrary." "Why? I told you, it is filled with fakes and frauds."
"I want to view Trull's collection because Uncle Reggie went there two or three times before his death."
That gave Leo pause. His gaze sharpened. "Are you certain?"
"Yes. He noted his visits in his appointment diary. I had not thought them important until Mr. Saltmarsh described the type of artifacts that are in Mr. Trull's collection."
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"It makes no sense. There are no important relics whatsoever in Trull's establishment, let alone anything so valuable as the Forbidden Rings."
"Something drew him to the place more than once." "Perhaps he wanted to get an opinion on the Rings," Leo said slowly. "If so, he wasted his time. At one time Trull was considered something of an authority on antiquities. But several years ago he was exposed as a creator of fraudulent artifacts. His reputation was destroyed. No seriousminded collector has paid any attention to him since the scandal."
"Nevertheless, I believe I shall have a look at his collection."
"If you wish to waste your time, that is your business." Leo's eyes gleamed. "But if you are serious about pursuing more worthwhile clues, I have one that may interest you." That got her attention. "What clues, sir?"
"I have the location for the shop of the elusive Dr. Cox. I thought you might like to accompany me when I pay him a visit this afternoon."