Blame It on Bath Page 0,105

and follow his urging to take similar liberties with his. Or hold him so tenderly.

“How did she look?” His voice sounded distant.

Carter applied the iron bar to the lid of another crate. “She looked quite well.”

Damn. She wasn’t lying awake at night, as he was? She wasn’t ready to rip out her hair in frustration from being separated, as he was? He should be glad she was well; instead, selfish bastard that he was, Gerard wished she’d evidenced some sign of longing. She hadn’t sent a note to him back with Carter. He was almost glad of that, for his guilt at not writing to her would have been almost unbearable if she had.

In other words, he was content to sort Nollworth’s rubbish, cowardly relieved that his wife, who loved him, hadn’t written to him, thus proving herself far too good for the likes of him.

“Bloody hell,” he said suddenly. “I’m sick of this.” He grabbed the edge of the crate Carter had just pried open and heaved it up. Astonished, but realizing what he was about, Carter took hold of the other side and together they toppled the crate onto its side with a great smash. Straw flew everywhere, and a pair of chickens ran flapping and squawking out of the stable. On one knee, Gerard pawed through the things that tumbled out of the crate. “Find any books,” he said to Carter. “We’ve wasted too much time looking through letters and other meaningless rot. A notebook or register is all I care for. Just leave the rest.”

“As you say.”

Abandoning any semblance of delicacy or care, they plowed into the rubbish in the stable, searching it as roughly as a pair of thieves. Crockery broke. Carter stepped on a hoe buried in the straw, and the handle flew up to smack him in the face. Gerard cracked his head on the sloping loft as he climbed over piles of ruined furniture to reach things stored high. A loose trunk latch scraped across his arm and ripped his sleeve almost off as he rooted through the straw that covered everything. But finally, at long last, he spied a small writing case hidden up in the eaves. The surface was stained with water, but when he hauled it down and broke the lock to open it, the contents were dry.

“Carter.” Carefully Gerard lifted out one slim volume. It looked more like a betting notebook than a church register, but when he carried it to the light and opened to a random page, what he saw recorded within made him shout in triumph. “Carter!”

His friend clambered through the mess to his side. “Is that it?”

“Perhaps,” muttered Gerard, paging gently through the book. The ink had faded to near invisibility, but by squinting, he could just make it out. “Married this tenth day of February, Henry Potts, bachelor, and Jane Ellis, spinster . . .” He closed the book. “I’ve had enough of picking through this rat’s warren. I’m taking these and going back to Bath.”

“Excellent news,” said Carter fervently. He touched the swelling on his cheek where the hoe had struck him. “I was beginning to fear for our lives.”

He retrieved the rest of the books from the case, eight in all, and carried them to the house with Carter at his heels. Nollworth met them at the door. “Eh, found something useful, have you?” he crowed, when he spied the books.

“Perhaps,” said Gerard levelly. “Perhaps not. But my patience has run out, and this is your last chance to strike a bargain.” He held up the notebooks. “Eighty pounds for these, and these alone.”

Nollworth’s brows descended. “One hundred fifty pounds!”

Gerard leaned closer and fixed a grim stare on the man. “Ninety pounds, and I won’t burn down your miserable storeroom.”

“What is this?” cried Mrs. Nollworth, hurrying up behind her husband. Her eyes lit on the books Gerard held. “Are those what you were seeking, sir?”

“I believe so, madam,” said Gerard before Nollworth could speak. “I trust ninety pounds will compensate you for the loss of these.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Ninety—! Why, that is very generous, sir—”

“Go back to your washing, woman,” snarled her husband, his face red. “I’m dealing with these gentlemen.”

“I will be glad to send back any books that have no meaning to my family,” Gerard added, watching the wife’s face. She at least had some trace of decency.

“Ninety pounds,” she gasped again, fanning herself with one hand. “Why, yes, certainly you may borrow them for ninety pounds. I’m