One Night with a Duke (12 Dukes of Christmas #10) - Erica Ridley Page 0,22

library.” He placed three leather volumes on the counter next to her work.

She picked up the first one. “A Geologist’s Guide to Igneous, Sedimentary, and Metamorphic Rock.”

“Dull, isn’t it?” He made a face. “I could read it to you at night so that you fall asleep faster.”

The thought stole her breath and painted a picture far more appealing than she dared to let on.

“The guide is about jewels, you beast.” She pointed at her chest. “Jeweler?”

His nose wrinkled. “Perhaps if it were more of a masked-villains-steal-the-Crown-Jewels-and-escape-in-a-floating-barrel sort of plot...”

She picked up the next book and a smile broke out over her face. Before her uncle had become a sought-after traveling preacher, he had read tales to her from this volume.

“Oh, dear,” said Mr. MacLean. “How are you going to ignore me properly if the mere thought of that one makes you giddy?”

Splendid point.

She set it aside and picked up the third and final book. It was a collection of songs and dance music, written and compiled by Ignatius Sancho.

“I have a dreadful singing voice,” Mr. MacLean warned her. “But you did say you liked noise. Is Mr. Sancho a famous British musician?”

She pressed the book to her bosom. “You don’t know who Ignatius Sancho is?”

“Plays the pianoforte?” he guessed. “Flute? Tin whistle? Or is he more of a bagpipes-and-lute sort of fellow?”

This was why she could indulge no flights of fancy toward Mr. MacLean. It had nothing to do with her work commitments, or him being a passing tourist. They were too different.

“Ignatius Sancho was born into slavery in the middle of the sea on a crowded slave ship. He learnt to read and later became a butler, a composer, an actor, a shopkeeper… and an important leader and source of knowledge for abolitionists, due to his many writings about the atrocities of slavery. He was the first Black man known to vote in our parliamentary elections. I have a two-volume copy of his collected letters, if you’d like to read them.”

“I think I would like to,” Mr. MacLean said, surprising her. “Thank you.”

“Everyone should read them. You’ve traveled extensively. In how many places have you seen fair and equitable treatment of Black people?”

“I’ve only traveled Scotland and England,” he answered, his eyes serious. “And I can’t say that those are the words I would use to describe what I’ve seen.”

She inclined her head. At least he was honest.

“London is likely both the best and the worst,” he mused. “Outside of aristocratic circles, there’s a fairly large population of free Black people, as well as people from any number of countries and cultures. But beyond London, I’ve not seen many thriving communities, much less many examples of coexisting in a way I’d claim resembled ‘fair and equitable.’ Abolition is the only ethical stance, but of course just the beginning.”

Angelica handed back the books. She respected Mr. MacLean for not only being able to see the truth, but to say it. One did not always like the things the truth exposed.

“My relatives cannot stand that I live so far away,” she confessed. “There are other people of African descent here in Cressmouth, but of course not as many as London. Until they came to visit, my family didn’t believe me when I insisted my fellow villagers generally treat us with the same respect they’d give any other neighbor. We’re not just welcome here. Cressmouth belongs to all of us.”

Mr. MacLean tilted his head in speculation. “What about the tourists?”

“Many of them are wonderful.” They delighted in her creations and lined her pockets with gold. “Some of them treat all of us like quaint menagerie specimens, regardless of color.” But their coins spent just the same as any other. “As for the rest...” She lifted a shoulder. “The bad ones aren’t any worse than the knaves you’d find anywhere else.”

“That seems a low bar to clear,” he murmured. His gaze held hers. “Are you happy here?”

Happy? What was happy? She hadn’t been happy in London, and she was too busy to worry about such things here. She was happy once a year, when her family came up to spend Yuletide in the castle.

She’d be with them now if it weren’t for all this work. An hour or two with her cousins and nieces and nephews in the evenings before falling into bed exhausted wasn’t nearly enough time.

Soon, she promised herself. She’d be finished with her responsibilities by Christmas and could enjoy her family until Twelfth Night.

“Read aloud from whichever one you like.”