Love Is a Rogue (Wallflowers vs. Rogues #1) - Lenora Bell Page 0,66

may be used in fair weather by the Duchess of Ravenwood for training ladies in the art of self-defense. My sister-in-law, Mina, will also be helpful in that department. And we will have a lending library replete with books of interest to females, with particular attention paid to female authors.”

“Bravo,” said Lady Henrietta.

“The property comes with a jovial and competent housekeeper who thinks tea cures all ails and is under contract through next year but will most likely wish to continue her employment,” Beatrice continued. “As well as a rather dour octogenarian man of all work who, I may gently suggest, might be past the age for a well-compensated retirement to the countryside. There’s only one obstacle to our plans, ladies, and it’s a large one.”

“There’s always an obstacle to a lady’s goals,” observed Lady Henrietta.

“A London builder and developer named Foxton wants the property. He owns the buildings on either side and plans to join them into a manufactory. He visited the shop while I was there and was most unpleasant. He’s been quiet lately but I don’t trust his silence. He’s plotting something.”

“We won’t let him take it from us,” said Isobel.

“We’ll find a way to keep it,” Viola agreed.

Beatrice rose from her chair. She raised her wineglass in grand elocutionary style. “It’s utterly imperative that we don’t allow Foxton to win. I own the bookshop. He can’t have it. He’s a symbol, that’s what he is. A symbol of every man that’s ever stood in our way, denigrated our goals, told us to stay home, or tried to take away our freedom.”

“Huzzah,” the ladies cried, rising to their feet and raising their glasses.

The meeting concluded shortly thereafter due, in no small part, to the wine running out.

Beatrice offered to give Viola a ride home in her carriage.

“Have you guessed the secret meaning your aunt was hinting at in her letter yet?” Viola asked.

“I still haven’t. Her language was so odd. She wrote, ‘I hope you will divine my meaning and that this Revelation of Love helps you to be brave, and not hide yourself away.’ Revelation and love were capitalized.”

“Like the title of a book.”

Beatrice stared at her friend. “What did you say?”

“Capitalized as if they were the title of a book.”

“Viola, that’s the answer. There’s a fourteenth century manuscript that’s gone missing. We know about it because there were copies made in the seventeenth century. The title was Revelations of Divine Love. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it until now.”

“Perhaps it was the wine.”

“It was you, Viola. I must visit the bookshop.”

“What, now?”

“It’s only half-nine. My mother won’t be home for hours. I can’t wait to find out if my theory is correct. I don’t know why my aunt would keep such a treasure hidden, but she must have had her reasons.”

“I’d go with you, but father has been feeling ill lately and he’ll worry if I’m not there to prepare his medicines.”

Beatrice squeezed Viola’s hand. “Don’t forget what we said in the meeting. You’re always taking care of everyone else and never finding time for yourself.”

“It’s all right. I’m used to it. Are you sure it’s a good idea to visit the bookshop? Won’t Mr. Wright be there?”

“I doubt it. After finishing his work he likes to share a libation with his sailor friend at a dockside tavern. Don’t give me such a suspicious look. I’m not going there for kisses, I’m on the hunt for an ancient manuscript.”

Beatrice let herself in with her key.

All was dark and quiet in the shop. Coggins didn’t answer the bell. He must have already retired for the evening and was probably snoring soundly.

She hung her cloak and bonnet in the entrance hall. Removing her gloves, she lit the candle in a small lantern to carry with her as she moved through the darkened house.

Ford had been busy since her last visit. She could barely remember where the shop counter used to be. He’d laid new flooring seamlessly over the entire room, the oak gleaming like honey in the candlelight.

She imagined the spacious room as it would look when it was the clubhouse’s central meeting place. There’d be a table large enough to gather around, with stately high-backed chairs for each member. She’d place cozy velvet armchairs by the fireplace, for reading and fireside chats. It would be warm and welcoming, and filled with books and laughter.

All was quiet on the stairs. Just as she’d suspected. Ford was out carousing with Mr. Griffith and the lads,