July, 1814
Devizes, Wiltshire
The sleepy afternoon silence of the Davey Lending Library ended abruptly with the harsh jangle of the doorbell and rushed footsteps crossing the room. Winifred Moore turned from the bookshelf she was filling with new books in time to glimpse a dark shape disappearing behind the bookshop counter.
Fearing a thief had designs on the day’s meager takings, Winifred hurried to protect her father’s business interests, holding a tome before her as a weapon.
“Please, pretend I’m not here,” a deep, masculine voice rumbled up from the vicinity of the floor. “I shall inconvenience you just a few moments.”
Winifred rounded the corner of the counter and spied a dandy lying on the shop floor. Quite unused to such a dubious honor, the widow took a moment to memorize the image for her later fantasies. Dark, windswept hair, greatcoat open to expose the expensive tailoring of his superior class. Matching sapphire cravat pin and signet ring identified the owner of the piercing, blue eyes as the favorite son of the Duke of Devizes. His heir.
Winifred stepped back. “My lord, you should not be upon our floor.”
Tristan Greene, Viscount Ramsbury, propped himself on one elbow and flashed a cheeky grin. “My dear Mrs. Moore, I am exactly where I wish to be.”
Winifred glanced at the dusty floor, sorely in need of sweeping after a long day of business, and shuddered. “Have a care for your consequence, Lord Ramsbury, or you risk becoming quite unpresentable.”
The viscount laughed. “If I am indeed in Mr. Davey’s Lending Library on High Street, then my consequence will be utterly preserved.”
Winifred glanced toward the door, longing for her father’s early return from his book-buying trip to Bristol, or any other timely interruption that would banish this foolish delusion. After several moments, when no parental guidance or visiting custom intruded, she pinched her hand to return to sanity. Unfortunately, Viscount Ramsbury still adorned her dusty floor. Only one logical explanation occurred to her. “Are you foxed, my lord?”
Ramsbury straightened his greatcoat about his legs. “Oh, would that I were, but during times such as these a man must keep a level head upon his shoulders else he’ll run afoul of a fiendish plot.”
Winifred slid her book to the table. “Are you in danger, Lord Ramsbury?”
“Danger of the most perilous kind,” he murmured, glancing about him unconcerned. “But the shelter of your premises is the most perfect foxhole a desperate man can hope to find. I am most grateful to you.”
Clearly, the viscount had lied about his consumption of spirits. “Grateful?”
Ramsbury flashed another smile she felt all the way to her toes. A warm flush swept over her skin as his gaze skimmed down her body. Then, he tipped his head toward the front of the shop. “Yes, grateful that Miss Claribel Wheaton prefers not to read.”
Puzzled, Winifred glanced out the window and spied Miss Wheaton across the road. The young woman seemed most comical today, peering into all the Devizes’s shop windows with great enthusiasm, dragging her companion forward by the arm. Suddenly, a whisper Winifred had overheard and had discounted as ridiculous gossip explained the viscount’s actions.
She smiled. “I believe I begin to understand your dilemma, my lord.” Winifred chuckled, and then quickly suppressed the unkind thoughts swirling through her mind about Miss Wheaton’s designs to become the next Lady Ramsbury. “Indeed you are quite correct in your assessment of your safety. Miss Wheaton does not visit the lending library often.”
The viscount sat up. “Do you mean to say she does come into this establishment?”
“Only when forced to by a visiting relation. At present, I believe she is without the company of her extended family. You are safe for now.”
