“I can, indeed,” Frederick said as Griggs placed the stack on the counter and handed over the first volume. Frederick took it, opened the cover, then arched his brows and shot Griggs a look. “A thesis?”
Griggs nodded and hiked himself back onto his stool. “Seems some university library was wanting to thin their shelves. My contact couldn’t believe his luck.”
“Hmm.” Frederick turned the pages with care. The discards of learned institutions had supplied a goodly number of the most valuable volumes in his collection. The thesis in his hands concerned Hellenic composers of the fifth century and focused on musical forms created for stringed instruments. Closing the book, he nodded. “I’ll take this one.” He reached for the next book on the pile.
He worked steadily through the stack, selecting three volumes to add to his hoard, then settled to haggle with Griggs. After they’d reached an accommodation satisfactory to both, Griggs rehid the books Frederick had rejected and, taking his selected three, retreated through a curtained doorway into the private area of the shop to wrap and tie the books.
Frederick picked up a recently released tome on Romanian music. He was flipping through it when the shop door opened, setting the bell raucously jangling. A second later, the door closed, then light footsteps sounded and skirts swished as someone—some lady—made her way to the counter.
About to set aside the book, Frederick froze. It couldn’t be—could it?
“Griggs? Are you there?”
He recognized the voice and turned to face Stacie as she stepped out of the central row of shelves.
She met his gaze, and although her brows rose, he saw no hint of real surprise. She dipped into a graceful curtsy. “My lord.”
He bowed. “Lady Eustacia.” Back to formal address; they were in public, after all.
Instead of remaining focused on him, her attention deflected toward the curtain as Griggs came lumbering out, the wrapped package of Frederick’s books in his hands.
At the sight of Stacie, Griggs’s face lit up to such an extent that Frederick blinked and stared.
“Ah—it’s you, my lady.” Griggs beamed. “Come to check on that order, have you?”
“I have, indeed.” Stacie returned the old man’s smile. She’d been following Frederick, biding her time, wanting the perfect location in which to approach him yet again; she’d been delighted to see him going into Griggs’s, allowing her to use her entirely genuine connection with Griggs to conceal her determined pursuit. Or at least confuse the issue. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance the book’s arrived?”
“Sadly, it hasn’t, my lady.” Griggs set down a package of books on the counter in front of Frederick. “But my man in Paris says he knows just where to get it. A week or so, and it should be here.”
She sighed. “I’ll just have to possess my soul in patience.” She looked at the package of books on the counter, then raised her gaze and met Frederick’s eyes. “What did you buy?”
He hesitated for an instant, but then replied, “A thesis on Hellenic stringed instrumentals of the fifth century, a guide to old Romany folk tunes, and a treatise on the Renaissance composers who performed at the Medici court.” Before she could comment, he asked, “What book do you have on order?” With a faint lift of his brows, he added, “Who knows? I might have a copy, either here in town or in Surrey.”
She let her smile deepen. “It’s Courvoisier’s Arrangements for Harp—a collection of works, French, from the Languedoc region.”
“I see. Sadly, I don’t number that volume among my collection. Do you play the harp?”
She laughed and shook her head. “Not nearly well enough. But these particular arrangements form the accompaniments to a collection of troubadour songs, and I do occasionally sing.”
Honest interest flared in his eyes.
“It’s my belief,” Griggs put in, leaning on the counter, “that we don’t hear enough of those old songs. Of course, most of them are long.”
Frederick nodded. “Troubadour songs generally tell a story—that was the reason they were sung—and that makes them significantly too long for modern audiences.”
“There’s the language as well,” Stacie said. “Most need to be translated, and that’s rarely done well.”
A three-way discussion ensued, one Stacie couldn’t have planned better had she tried.
But eventually, after they’d pulled apart the topic of the modern performance of troubadour songs until there was nothing left to be said, Frederick straightened and picked up his wrapped books. He c
aught her eye. “Is your carriage nearby?” When she nodded, he said, “I’ll escort you to it.”
Perfect. All she needed was a moment in which to gauge his direction vis-à-vis her proposition.
Gaily, she farewelled Griggs and led the way up the central aisle. She shifted aside and allowed Frederick to open the door for her, then stepped onto the pavement and paused.
After closing the door, he halted beside her. He studied her for an instant, then asked, “Do you always wear red?”