One Night with a Duke (12 Dukes of Christmas #10) - Erica Ridley Page 0,18

made a fine leg for the cat anyway. “Pardon my insolence, Your Grace.”

The cat hissed its displeasure, then retracted his claws and sauntered away.

Jonathan hoped it wasn’t an omen for his upcoming meeting with Nottingvale.

The young woman was still staring at Jonathan’s cravat with about the same amount of suspicion as her cat.

“Er,” he said brightly. “Is there a custodian or librarian?”

“No,” she answered, and tilted her head. “But we’ve the latest Minerva Press Gothic novel on the third shelf in the second cubbyhole to your right.”

“Oh, no,” he said with a little laugh. “It’s not for me. I—” He blinked. “Did you say, the latest Minerva Press novel?”

He had been obsessed with the genre ever since he’d stumbled across The Mysterious Hand, in which the hapless protagonists faced a handsome yet diabolical villain who was at once an inventor, an athlete, and a poet—and definitely not to be trusted when confined together in a hot air balloon.

But how had this woman known Jonathan delighted in Gothic drama? Did her cat smell it on him and give her a secret sign?

“It’s not for me,” he said again. “It’s for Miss Parker, the—”

The young lady spun on her heels without explanation, selected what appeared to be three random books from shelves on three different walls, and placed the leather-bound stack in Jonathan’s hands.

“—jeweler.” He tried to figure out what was happening. “Since she won’t rest, I thought I’d take the respite to her, in the form of a book. Like these. In my hands.”

The young woman was not interested in his explanation. Before he’d finished speaking, she had already turned and disappeared into an adjoining room.

“Very well, then,” Jonathan muttered. “We’ll start with these three and see how it goes.”

He read the titles of the books in his hands. One appeared to be religious parables of some sort, another was a compendium of songs and dance music by Ignatius Sancho, and the third a geologist’s Field Guide to Igneous, Sedimentary, and Metamorphic Rock.

Not precisely the topics a fiction-lover like Jonathan might have chosen, but if the not-a-librarian had scented his love of Gothic horror without any hints, perhaps her divination skills would be just as accurate for Miss Parker.

He tucked the volumes into his leather satchel, left a small pile of coins in the newly created blank spaces on each of the three shelves, then made his way down the marble stairs to the castle’s great dining hall.

Jonathan wasn’t just going to deliver books. He was also going to deliver Miss Parker her luncheon.

Much like the circulating library, Marlowe Castle’s busy kitchens offered free hot meals to local visitors and tourists alike, whether or not they were renting one of the many guest-chambers upstairs.

Although the hour was too late for breakfast and too early for dinner, many of the tables were full of smiling, chatting patrons, some enjoying all manner of sumptuous refreshments, and others clearly hoping to encounter neighbors, without contending with the spitting snow and blustering wind.

Jonathan very much approved.

He introduced himself to anyone whose eyes met his as he passed, and was delighted by the number of locals who invited him to share a meal or a bit of conversation.

“Next time,” he said, surprised to discover he hoped it was true. He forced himself to continue on until he found a member of the staff who might pack a meal for two.

Despite the impressive menu, the moment the words “Miss Parker” had left Jonathan’s lips, the staff had known immediately what should go in the parcel. Apparently, when she wasn’t impossibly busy, Miss Parker took many of her meals here in the castle. In fact, according to one of the maids cleaning tables, it was unusual indeed for Miss Parker not to be present when her family was here for Yuletide.

Family. Jonathan didn’t know if he loved or hated that word.

So as not to analyze it overmuch, he changed the topic at once, and applied himself to attempting to pay for his meals. When the staff could not be bent on this score, Jonathan settled for tipping each of them extra vails for their trouble.

“Are you off to Miss Parker’s now?” asked a ruddy-cheeked maid with white curls.

“Aye,” answered Jonathan, then changed his mind. “I may pick up a few biscuits from the bakery on the way.”

“Ah,” said the maid. “See how Stephen’s foot is getting along.”

“Is Stephen the baker?” Jonathan asked.

The maid laughed. “Hardly. Stephen’s his eight-year-old son. Sledded his foot into a tree yesterday, trying to