One Thing Leads to a Lover (Love and Let Spy #2) - Susanna Craig Page 0,65

House and the green promise of Grosvenor Square beyond.

Kingston said nothing for a long moment. Langley was just on the point of repeating his question when he noted the inward curve of the lad’s shoulders, a familiar, self-protective hunch. So, instead of speaking, he merely stepped forward to take in the same view, crossed his arms behind his back, and waited.

“Is it awful, sir, that I don’t like to be called ‘Kingston’?” he asked a few moments later, without turning. “I always knew the title would be mine, one day, of course, but…”

“But you didn’t expect to inherit it when you were only—”

“Nine. No, sir. And even after all this time, when people speak to ‘Lord Kingston,’ I find myself hoping my father will answer them.” He shot a sudden glance Langley’s way. “Don’t, please, think I’m mad. It’s only—”

“Only natural, I should say,” Langley reassured him. “And even if it isn’t, you’ll get no judgment from me. Names are a tricky business.”

The boy’s shoulders eased into a more natural posture, as with the exhalation of a long-held breath, relief at hearing words of understanding. “Yes, sir.”

“How do you wish to be addressed? In private, I mean. In public, I’m afraid, I will be bound to observe the usual proprieties.”

A wry sort of smile lifted the boy’s mouth. “That’s all right, then. We never go anywhere.” He turned and extended a hand, as if they were meeting for the first time. “I’m James, sir. Mama and Pip call me Jamie, and you may too, if you’d like.”

Langley wasn’t sure whether the invitation to use a familial nickname was precisely a gesture of trust, not when the lad’s title so obviously pained him. Then again, perhaps it was only Langley’s own occasional twinges of guilt that made him hesitant to claim something he’d not earned.

After all, he had tupped the boy’s mother against a door last night.

But whatever it was, the lad seemed to have overcome his initial hesitation toward Langley, and Langley was prepared to return the feeling. He accepted the handshake, then waved an arm toward the table in a silent suggestion they sit down for what came next. “Well, then, Jamie. What was it you wanted to talk with me about?”

As Langley pulled back one of the unforgiving, undersized wooden chairs—whatever the subject, this was destined to be an uncomfortable conversation—Jamie swerved past him, to the door of his bedchamber. “One moment.”

If Langley angled his head just so, he could see into the boys’ room. Beside his neatly made bed, Jamie dropped down on one knee and fished his arm beneath the mattress, withdrawing a small, flat package. With his chin tucked too low for Langley to meet his eye, he returned to the schoolroom and laid the paper-wrapped package on the table. “It’s this, sir.”

“And what is this?”

“A book.”

It could, of course, have been any book at all. An adventure story the boy had been forbidden to read. Or something more salacious still.

Nevertheless, Langley’s thoughts darted in another direction. Anticipation vibrated through his chest, like a bell that could not be un-rung. But how ridiculous of him to imagine…

“What sort of book?”

“You can see for yourself, sir,” the boy said, poking the package toward him with a fingertip. “The wrapping’s torn.”

Slowly, Langley drew it the rest of the way across the table, afraid to hope. As he peeled back just enough of the paper to reveal what was inside, he fought the impulse to close his eyes. It was extraordinarily unlikely for Jamie to have somehow laid his hands on…

“A—a cookbook?” He struggled for something like a tone of mild curiosity. “How did you come by this?”

“I found it in Lord Dulsworthy’s phaeton. The other day, when he took us for a drive. Before—before you came.”

Certain his hands would tremble if he dared to thumb through the codebook, Langley carefully laid it on the table in front of him. Think, think. What did he most need to know?

“And you were so…alarmed by the discovery that your guardian had purchased a, a cookbook that you”—thank God—“took it from him?”

“Well…it isn’t just any cookbook.”

Langley’s heart stuttered and nearly stopped. “Oh?”

“No. The man—the one who came to the house, asking for it—he said it was quite valuable. Oh, I’m not doing a very good job of explaining, am I? You see, not quite a week ago, my mother went out and bought a book. I’m not sure what it was, but later that day a chap came from the bookshop