and then we’ll follow orders to wherever she’s wanted.”
“The HMS Boadicea,” said Lady Beatrice. “Named after the legendary Celtic warrior queen, I presume?”
“How romantic,” said Miss Beaton.
“Not very romantic, Miss Beaton. There will be hundreds of sailors living on that ship. With all of those men in such close quarters you can imagine the . . .”
“Odiferousness?” supplied Lady Beatrice.
“I was going to say challenges, Lady Beatrice. But yes, it doesn’t smell like a ship full of roses.”
“A navy man,” said Mrs. Kettle, pouring him more tea. “And so handsome. Are you married, Mr. Wright?”
“I’m not, Mrs. Kettle.”
“You should be.”
“You’re the second matron to tell me that today.” And he hadn’t changed his mind on the subject in the length of two hours.
“I don’t wish to be unmannerly, Mrs. Kettle,” said Lady Beatrice, “but I was told there was some scandal attached to the bookshop?”
“There’s nothing scandalous about our little shop, nothing untoward whatsoever. Isn’t that right, Mr. Coggins?” Mrs. Kettle glanced at Coggins, who stood beside the doorway studying the ceiling, his hands behind his back.
“Erm,” he replied noncommittally.
“So those double-sided, revolving bookcases don’t hide anything?” Ford had noticed some interesting shelves in the front room.
“Pardon?” Lady Beatrice caught his eye.
Mrs. Kettle poured more tea, her hand trembling slightly.
“Hidden bookshelves?” asked Miss Beaton. “How intriguing!”
“Nonsense. They’re just ordinary bookshelves,” said Mrs. Kettle.
“Shall we go and look?” asked Ford.
As the party rose from their chairs, Mrs. Kettle began fluttering around them, emitting reassurances that there was nothing to see.
Lady Beatrice entered the front room of the shop first. “I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.”
“I know a swiveling shelf when I see one.” Ford ran his fingers over the seams of the wood. “There.” He pressed a hidden button and the shelves began to swivel, revolving a full turn and presenting an entirely new set of shelves.
“We’re done for,” said Coggins with a fatalistic shrug. “He’s on to us.”
“More books?” asked Lady Beatrice, moving closer. “How clever. Twice the space for storage. Sins of the City. The Further Adventures of a Gentleman Scholar. Memoirs of a Madam. These aren’t antiquarian titles. The Dairy Maid’s Dilemma.” She opened the book.
He approached and bent his head over her shoulder. The illustration on the frontispiece left no doubt as to the nature of the book.
“Oh. Oh my. So it’s that sort of dilemma.” She slammed the volume shut. “Mrs. Kettle,” she said severely. “Please tell me what is going on here.”
Chapter Six
“I’ll be happy to explain what’s going on.” Ford pointed at the illustration. “This buxom dairymaid is attempting to choose between two virile young suitors, both of whom have the most enormous—”
“Not the illustration!” Lady Beatrice cut in. “The bookshop. Mrs. Kettle, what is the purpose of this bookshop? I was under the impression that it sold only antiquarian books and manuscripts.”
Lady Beatrice’s cheeks had gone scarlet again. That illustration had probably been the most scandalous thing she’d ever seen in her life. It was all well and good for a proper lady to study the etymology of off-color words, but to see them illustrated in garish detail—now that was something to make a lady blush.
And she did look so fetching when she blushed.
Mrs. Kettle groaned. “Oh dear, oh dear. We should have been rid of these titles but I couldn’t bear to throw them all out, not the bestsellers. We still have customers, you know. It’s only a very small and selective collection of popular novels.”
“Popular with lonely men,” said Ford.
“And some women,” said Mrs. Kettle. “Profits plummeted after Mr. Castle died, Lady Beatrice. We had to find a way to appeal to a new clientele since there are so many bookshops and book dealers nearby. Stocking these books meant enough profit to keep the shop open. Please try to understand.”
“Do you mean to tell me, Mrs. Kettle,” said Lady Beatrice, speaking very slowly and clearly, “that I have inherited some manner of . . . that is to say, a bookshop that secretly specializes in . . .”
Ford waited for her to supply the words. She was an etymologist, after all. When she just stood there, her cheeks stained with pink and her lips pressed together, he came to her rescue. “Obscene books. Naughty scribblings. One-handed reads.”
Miss Beaton giggled and Lady Beatrice glared at her. “Thank you, Wright. That will do.”
“It’s only a very small collection, and we only ever sold them to a small and discerning clientele who could never reveal the secret for fear of being exposed