Chapter Six
‡
“Where are you off to?” Jane asked.
“Knightsbridge,” the professor replied. “I don’t suppose you’d like to come with me?” He posed the question casually, without much hope of an affirmative response. Jane was a pragmatic soul, and toddling about London hardly amounted to a productive use of her time.
Jane straightened the folds of his cravat, which were forever getting wrinkled into the creases of his jacket and waistcoat.
She took down a bonnet from the hooks beside the porter’s nook. “Hold still.”
Next, she extracted a nacre hatpin from the bonnet, repositioned the trailing ends of Phineas’s cravat—he could never tie the damned things correctly—and used her hatpin to put his linen in order.
“Thank you.”
She remained where she was, a woman no longer young for all she was still handsome and had a fine figure. Phineas wasn’t young either, and he hoped Jane regarded that as a point in his favor.
“One doesn’t want to presume on Dora’s memory,” she said. “But I can’t have you going out in public looking half dressed.”
“Mrs. Peebles left me to dress myself,” Phineas said. His late wife had left him very much to his own devices, particularly after Philomena had arrived. Theirs had been a mésalliance, an act of rebellion on Dora’s part, a fit of lunacy on his.
He’d not been able to keep her in the style she deserved, and she’d not been able to hide her disappointment.
“What is your errand in Knightsbridge?” Jane asked.
“I was not satisfied with my interrogation of the Eagan brothers. They professed to have no knowledge of the Liber Ducis de Scientia. I had occasion to press Mr. Handley for details regarding his confreres, the Eagans, and he reiterated his tale of old manuscripts and secret potions.”
Jane passed Phineas his hat, which he’d been known to leave the house without. “You think a pair of scheming shopkeepers have found a manuscript that has eluded your lifelong search?”
“I don’t know what to think. Why would they come up with this notion now, Jane? Why, when my retirement is imminent, should anybody profess to have found even a single page of the document?”
Jane tied her bonnet ribbons in a soft bow. “My cloak, if you please.”
Phineas obliged by draping her cloak over her shoulders, though he would not have assumed such familiarity was welcome. Jane was a grown woman, capable of asking for assistance when she needed same. She turned and raised her chin, as if Phineas was to…
He fastened the frogs of her cloak and, for a moment was distracted trying to recall a Latin word for the color of Jane’s eyes. Periwinkle-ish with a hint of gentian was as close as he could come in English.
“Your gloves,” Jane said, passing Phineas a clean pair. “We can cut through the park and enjoy some greenery while we’re out, but when we get there, you let me talk to these shopkeepers, Phineas. You’ll lecture them straight into the arms of Morpheus.”
Jane took Phineas by the arm and led him into the bright midday sunshine. He’d not invited her to walk out with him in all the years they’d shared a household, which was remiss of him.
The birds sang more sweetly, the breeze blew more benevolently, and the city was more cheerful with Jane by his side. Why was it he never appreciated the women in his life until it was too late?
*
Philomena had spent too many hours—too many days—shut up in the confines of Hephaestus’s will. Her mind buzzed with secondary meanings and literary allusions, while her head ached.
But her heart… her heart was caught up in the possibility of actually finding the Duke or at least a portion of that great manuscript. Reading through the will’s cramped, complicated writing, she had a sense of negotiating a briar patch. If only she were careful, if only she paid relentless attention to every detail, she’d find the ripe fruit of a clue, a hint, a solution to the mystery the Duke had posed for ages.
And every morning, when she arrived to Ramsdale’s library, another sort of fruit awaited her—a bright gold sovereign, reverse side up on the desk blotter, so that even her remuneration included a few words of translation.
Honi soit qui mal y pense. Shame upon him who sees wrong in it…
Philomena saw no wrong in parting Ramsdale from his coin, just the opposite. She gloried in knowing that her years of study were worth bright, shiny coins, that her skills were not only admirable but valuable.
She loved the idea that she need not entirely rely on her aging father for security. The possibilities were heady, a whole new dictionary’s worth of meanings and opportunity.
Why shouldn’t a woman’s mind merit the same respect as a man’s?
Why shouldn’t a woman find the Duke?
Why shouldn’t a woman kiss whom she pleased to kiss, rather than waiting for the fellow to take the notion to kiss her?
So in the privacy of Ramsdale’s office, she kissed him the way she’d longed to, slowly, savoringly. As she had rendered Hephaestus’s ramblings into coherent English, Ramsdale’s steady regard had been working a similar transformation of her, from bluestocking spinster daughter to a woman of highly trained abilities, a lady both admirable and desirable.
And she desired him.
Ramsdale was sentimental about a cat. His mind was drawn to beautiful landscapes, the movements of the heavenly bodies, and Latin poetry.
His body was poetry. His arms stole about her, and Philomena relaxed into an embrace both secure and cherishing. She could shelter in his strength and glory in her own. Ramsdale was far above her touch, he was not above her passion.
Philomena pressed nearer and realized that Ramsdale was growing aroused.
“We should stop,” he whispered, the words tickling her neck.
She put her lips to his ear. “We should lock the door.”
Ramsdale drew back to rest his forehead against Philomena’s. “If we lock that door, what follows will have consequences, Philomena. Serious consequences, and I do not take that step lightly.”
He was so wrong, so innocent of Philomena’s reality. If Professor Peebles’s plain spinster daughter stole an interlude with a wealthy earl, nobody would know, nobody would care. Philomena was not like her cousin, one of polite society’s pampered darlings, raised in a gilded cage of manners, gossip, and pretty frocks.
And Philomena would never again be simply a plain spinster daughter.
“I would take that step with you.” Philomena had never been tempted by passion before, never had more than an idle curiosity about erotic intimacy. She would trade everything—trade even the Duke—for this chance to become Ramsdale’s lover.
Ramsdale looped his arms around her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “So be it.”
He remained entwined with her for a lovely moment, then he put the cat out and locked the door. The cat’s expression had been indignant, while Ramsdale’s smile was lovely—intimate and naughty, a lover’s smile.
And Philomena smiled right back.
*
So be it.
Ramsdale had plighted his troth, and like everything else about his relationship with Philomena Peebles—soon to be Lady Ramsdale—the proposal had been unconventional and the acceptance more unconventional still.
Perhaps he was his uncle’s nephew more than his father’s son—or he was both.
“We have options,” he said, surveying his office with new eyes. “My desk, for one, upon which I will likely spend the next fifty years tending to correspondence. A memory made with you there would shine through that entire half century.”
Philomena looked at him as if he’d spoken in the lost Etruscan tongue.
Not the desk, then. “Perhaps the reading chair,” he said, “which—given your literary interests—has a certain appropriateness.”
“The chair seats only one, my lord.”
My lord was not good, though Ramsdale would soon show her how that chair could accommodate two very agreeably.
“The sofa is a bit worn, but I’ve dreamed many a dream there nonetheless.” Perhaps they’d conceive their firstborn on that sofa, in which case, the battered old thing would become an heirloom.
“I bow to your choice in this,” Philomena said, “and I would like to bow to it soon.”
Her gaze drifted over his face, his shoulders, down, down, down, and then back up. He thought she might have lingered particularly on his hands, which were at his sides, or possibly…
“We’ll improvise,” he said, the notion striking him as appropriate for the couple they were about to become. He was not the typical earl, and she’d be a magnificently different countess.
He spread the afghan from the reading chair over the rug before the hearth and followed with the pair of quilts from the sofa. Next, he sent several pillows sailing to the makeshift nest on the carpet, while Philomena’s expression became bemused.
“The floor?” she said.
“I’m told the chair seats only one. On the floor, we’ll be comfortable with room to spread out. The carpets in this house are kept spotless, and I promise I’ll do all the work.”
“If there’s work involved, we’ll share it. Does one undress?”
She was adorable. “Two do, unless you’d rather not.”
Philomena advanced on him as if he’d threatened to steal her favorite Latin dictionary. “If we’re to be lovers, then I want to be lovers, Ramsdale. Deal with me as you would any other woman to whom you’ve taken a fancy. I’m not a schoolgirl, and I intend to be very demanding.”
Which, of course, made her blush, stare at her hands, and settle herself on the hassock more regally than a queen.
Ramsdale wanted to assure her that this was no mere fancy. Instead, he stowed the pretty words and knelt at her feet.
“Boots off,” he said, gesturing toward her hems.
Philomena inched her hems up to just above her ankle. “They’re worn. Practical. Not elegant.”
Her self-consciousness might have a little to do with her boots, which were indeed far from new, but Ramsdale knew what she wasn’t saying.
He’d trysted with any number of perfumed and proper ladies who would allow him to roger them witless for the space of a quadrille, but who’d be horrified at the thought of him seeing them in a pair of old boots. In unlit parlors, such a lady would lift her skirts and pant in his ear like a winded hound, but heaven forbid that a cat hair should touch her bodice.
Ramsdale pitied those women, and he spared a bit of pity for himself, rutting and panting right along with them, then stuffing himself back into his satin knee breeches in time for the supper waltz.
What an ass he’d been. “My field boots are the most comfortable footwear I own,” he said, undoing Philomena’s shoelaces. “I’d wear them everywhere, except that would cause a scandal.”
She brushed his hair back from his brow, and he knew why Genesis purred.
Ramsdale drew off her boots and set them aside, then reached under her skirts to untie her garters.
Philomena surprised him by drawing her skirts up to her knees—but then, he suspected she’d frequently surprise him. Still, he denied himself more than a glance. The feel of her ankles and calves clad in nothing but silk…
“Are you always so…?” She fell silent as Ramsdale undid the left garter.
“Behold, my lady is already at a loss for words. My confidence swells apace.” His confidence—among other noteworthy articles.
He drew off her stockings and tossed them in the direction of her boots. To unhook her dress and unlace her stays, he moved to the reading chair.
The pencil protruded from her chignon, and Ramsdale knew himself to be a man in love. He silently slid the pencil free and tossed it to the desk—a memento to be treasured in years to come.
Philomena’s nape required some kisses, as did the soft flesh where her neck and shoulder joined. Ramsdale rose from the chair, the better to indulge himself, and she turned, pressing her cheek to his thigh.
“I’m in a hurry,” she said.
Ramsdale stroked her hair, which he’d soon free from its pins. “Afraid you’ll lose your nerve? You’ll have nothing but pleasure from me, Philomena, as much pleasure as I can give you.”
She peered up at him, as inscrutable as the cat. “And if you lose your nerve?”
His falls were about to lose their buttons. Ramsdale pushed aside that pleasant urgency to consider her question, because Philomena’s queries mattered.
They would always matter.
He knelt before her, so they were face-to-face. “If you shout erotic Latin poetry when at your pleasures, I will answer in Middle French. When you publish your first treatise on alternative translations of the Magna Carta, I will buy a hundred copies to donate to universities the world over. Your brilliance doesn’t intimidate me, your sense of focus sparks only my admiration. If your father’s colleagues or students feel threatened by your capabilities, that’s a reflection on their petty conceits, not on you. I can’t wait to play chess with you.”
He’d given her plain truths, and he’d upset her, for Philomena—who could glower at the same curmudgeonly document for hours—wiped a tear from her cheek.
“I like chess,” she said.
Ramsdale enfolded her gently, cursing Peebles for a dunderhead, cursing all the learned men whose cowardice and bigotry had tried to crush a bright spirit. The lot of them were purely frightened of her, and someday, she’d see that.
“If you get me out of these clothes,” he said, “we can play chess naked.”
Philomena started on his cravat, and even that—a mundane, almost impersonal assistance—fueled his arousal. His sleeve buttons and watch went next, and from there, matters accelerated, until Philomena stood in her shift and Ramsdale in his breeches, their clothing strewn over the sofa in a merry heap.
“Now what?” She ran a hand over his bare shoulder. “You are quite fit.”
He captured her hand in his own. “To the blankets.”
She sat and drew her knees up, and Ramsdale came down beside her. He’d locked the door perhaps ten minutes ago, but they’d been a long and self-disciplined ten minutes. In fifteen seconds flat, he had Philomena on her back amid the blankets and himself arranged over her.
When they had their clothes back on, and he could again form a coherent sentence, he’d offer her a proper proposal—bended knee, pretty words, the promise of a ring.
Now, the time had come to make love with his intended.
*
Phineas was a surprisingly companionable escort, once Jane got him away from his treatises and tomes. He set a sauntering pace through Hyde Park, which was reaching its full summer glory, and he’d spared Jane any exhortations regarding his infernal Duke.
Jane hated that Duke, which was very bad of her. “Does any part of you look forward to retirement, Phineas?”
He tipped his hat to a pair of schoolgirls out with their governess. “Yes and no. Being able to settle here in Town, rather than haring up to Oxford or Cambridge, will be welcome. The best collections are here. Many of my colleagues are here.”
“But?”
They came to a divergence of the footpath, which ran parallel to Park Lane, though beneath the towering maples of the park itself.
“But Lord Amesbury is here.”
“What has his lordship to do with…?”
Phineas had spoken literally. Amesbury was driving a high-perch phaeton down the nearest carriageway, his daughter at his side. His lordship either did not see or chose not to acknowledge his brother-in-law.
Lady Maude was chattering at a great rate, exuding the forced gaiety of a young woman who had only her papa to drive out with.
“Every time,” Phineas said quietly, “I see that strutting dunderwhelp with his pretty little barmy-froth of a daughter, I grow angry. The marquess might have done something for Philomena, might have eased her way. Now she’s to be a spinster, no household of her own, no children. All of the scholars and lecturers I’ve paraded before her haven’t gained her notice, nor she theirs. Amesbury hasn’t lifted so much as a gloved finger.”
The words vibrated with indignation, also with veiled bewilderment.
“You have written countless letters of recommendation for your former students,” Jane said. “You’ve invited younger professors to serve as guest lecturers. You will read a draft treatise for any colleague. Your nature is kind and generous. Amesbury wasn’t given your charitable spirit or your intellect. I suspect he’s been waiting for you to ask for his help, Phin.”
The phaeton disappeared around a bend in the path.
“Waiting for me to ask? Waiting for me to ask Philomena’s only titled, wealthy relation to toss her a crumb of recognition? To invite her to a family gathering at the holidays? A house party or a musicale?”
Jane drew him gently along the walkway. “Does Philomena have a wardrobe that would allow her to attend those entertainments in style, or would she be shamed by comparison to her cousin?”
“Philomena has frocks.”
“So does that nursemaid,” Jane said, nodding in the direction of a young woman in brown twill leading a small boy by the hand. “If you don’t know the state of Philomena’s wardrobe, how can her uncle know? If she was asked to play a tune on the pianoforte, could she oblige without stumbling over the keys when earls and baronets were in the room rather than schoolboys and scholars?”
Phineas remained silent as they crossed from the park into Kensington. That he was annoyed on his daughter’s behalf was a pleasant surprise. That he hadn’t done anything to address the problem was to be expected. Amesbury was a marquess, and his neglect of his niece shameful.
“The Eagan Brothers’ Emporium makes a good impression,” Phineas said as they approached a sparkling shop window. Dried bouquets, groupings of patent remedies in colorful bottles, and artfully displayed herbals and sachets all enticed passersby to drop in.
“And what on earth are they advertising?” Jane asked.
For in the middle of the window sat a placard lettered in an extravagant hand: Secrets of the Ages! Your Heart’s Desire, from the Long Lost Duke’s Book of Science! Found by Wisdom’s Handmaiden Right Here in London!”
“The flat-catching, bat-fowling scandaroons,” Phineas spluttered. “They lied to me!”
“They’re lying to every customer they can fleece,” Jane replied. “But if we’re to learn anything beyond the obvious about their swindling, then you will wait right here until I come back.”
Before Phineas could gainsay her, she marched up to the shop and swept through the door.
*
The time had come for Philomena to take her first lover—very likely her only lover, ever, for Ramsdale engaged not only her curiosity and her desire, but also her esteem. He’d said he did not embark on this interlude lightly, and neither did Philomena.
However much regard Ramsdale brought to this lovemaking, Philomena brought more.
Nonetheless, she had no applicable experience.
“Do we resume kissing?” she asked. “Or is there something more?”
Ramsdale was braced above her, the sight of him shirtless making her itch to touch his arms and chest.
“There’s more of whatever brings you pleasure, Philomena.”
Certainly, there was more of him. He’d fit himself against the juncture of her thighs, and his weight felt good—and frustrating.
“When will you remove your breeches?”
Ramsdale closed his eyes, as if taking a moment for prayer. “Would you like me to tend to that detail now?”
Getting him naked was not a detail. “Yes.”
His weight was gone, and then his breeches were sailing across the office to join the pile of clothing on the sofa. He stood over Philomena, a dark version of the aroused masculine ideal viewed from an interesting perspective.
“Boni di.”
“You resort to Latin,” he said, resuming his crouch over her. “Was that a happy ‘good gods,’ or a dismayed—?”
Philomena lashed her arms and legs around him, wanting to envelop him bodily. She hushed his prattling with an openmouthed kiss, because the sight of him—fit, strong, and aroused—sent a wild boldness singing through her.
She—boring bluestocking, entirely unremarkable—was to have a lover, and such a lover.
Ramsdale laughed against her mouth and tried to hold himself away, but Philomena had locked her ankles at the small of his back, so he took her with him.
“Now, Ramsdale,” she said. “Immediately. You promised me pleasure, and I’m holding you to your word.”
“This instant? Where is the woman who will spend an hour noting every possible meaning for an obscure term? The woman who becomes so absorbed in the possibilities of the genitive case that she forgets to eat?”
“She’s here, and she’s absorbed with you.”
Ramsdale hitched delectably close—why did that feel so lovely?—then brushed Philomena’s hair back from her brow. “This is too important to rush. Please trust me, Philomena.”
Trust him. He was in complete earnest, almost grave, when he’d been laughing a moment ago.
And he was right. This moment was important, not in the sense of ridding Philomena of virginal ignorance, though she was happy to be free of it, but in the sense that the experience should be savored, and Ramsdale knew better than she how to go about that.
“In this, I trust you.”
He shifted so he was more over her, all around her, a blanket of warmth and wonder. As he pressed soft kisses to her lips, brow, and throat, she closed her eyes and explored him with her hands.
She learned textures—smooth, bristly, crinkly, velvety, silky—and tastes. A touch of salt, a hint of lavender. His palms where callused—Ramsdale was a noted equestrian—and his hair was thick and soft.
And she learned a new vocabulary. Ramsdale let her know that he liked her fingertips gliding over the slope of his back, liked her teeth scraping his earlobe. He sighed, he growled, he laughed, and when she glossed her hand down his belly, he drew in a swift breath, but made no move to deter her.
So she learned him, there, where he was most masculine and most vulnerable.
He bore her exploration silently, his head bowed, his mouth open against her shoulder, until Philomena positioned him against her sex.
“There’s more,” she said. “I know there’s more you would show me, but Ramsdale, I cannot be patient. Not in this. Not any longer.”
He shifted to meet her gaze. “My name”—he pushed forward the first inch, and the union was begun—“is Seton.”
Seton. My Seton. My lover Seton.
Philomena might have made up a whole glossary of singular possessive endearments, but sensations crowded her intellect into silence. The intimacy was strange and new, the pleasure complicated. To join this way was an exquisite relief. Ramsdale somehow knew the tempo, the touches, the everything to satisfy her bodily cravings.
When to slow down and kiss.
When to gather her close and sink deep.
When to go still for a moment, so Philomena could revel in the intimacy and swallow past the lump in her throat.
And then he turned his attention to her breasts, and simmering desire became a wildfire of need. His hands were diabolical, until Philomena began cursing in a low, steady stream of French—modern French, which was all she could manage.
He answered in the same language. “Hold on to me, Philomena. Stay with me.”
To hear that silky, sinuous tongue rendered in Ramsdale’s night-sky voice destroyed the last filament anchoring Philomena to reason. She became pleasure, an incandescent spirit where a quiet, bookish woman used to be.
The physical experience was beyond words and ebbed barely short of too much. Philomena sensed Ramsdale’s consideration in that intimate mercy, for the emotions flowed on unchecked even as he withdrew and spent on her belly.
Joy and tenderness swamped her, as did an inexorable undertow of sadness. She would have these moments with Ramsdale, but that’s all she could have—moments.
Precious, wild, unimaginably intimate moments. The inspiration for poetry that endured for millennia, but still, for her there could be only moments. She could give Ramsdale her whole heart, and likely already had. She could love him without limit, but eventually—he was a peer, he needed legitimate heirs—she would have to let him go.
“I can feel that great, elegant brain of yours pulling you back to the damned library,” Ramsdale growled. “I account myself proud that for all of twenty minutes, I could tempt you away from your quest.”
Twenty minutes that would change the rest of Philomena’s life, and she was not sorry.
She ruffled his hair. “Our quest. I feel as if an idea lurks in the shadows of those codicils, an insight that refuses to come into the light.”
He rested his cheek against her temple. “A pattern that won’t emerge. I know what you mean. Hephaestus is laughing at us. Don’t move.”
He was on his feet and rifling the pile of clothing in the next instant. Philomena lay on her back amid pillows and blankets, her shift undone and bunched beneath her ribs.
“What a glorious picture you make,” he said, using a handkerchief to swab at himself. He was matter-of-fact about the whole shockingly personal business, handling his own flesh with brisk familiarity.
While Philomena felt as if she’d been reborn in another woman’s skin. I know so many languages and so little that matters.
Without putting on so much as a shirt, Ramsdale knelt beside her and used the handkerchief on her belly, then tugged the shift down over her thighs and gave her a pat between her legs.
“Lest the sight of you tempt me to excesses my conscience forbids. Take a soaking bath when you get home tonight, please. I was not as restrained as I’d hoped to be. Next time…”
His gaze traveled over her, and a world of passionate possibilities blossomed in the silence. Philomena stretched up and kissed him.
He kissed her back, gently cupping her right breast, and a few of those possibilities crept nearer.
A soft scraping sound at the door intruded.
“I will make the damned beast into a pair of gloves,” Ramsdale said, going to the door and opening it an entire six inches.
Genesis strolled in, tail held high, nose wrinkling.
“‘A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast,’” Philomena quoted, “‘but the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.’ I doubt Proverbs contemplated such a creature as Genesis.”
Ramsdale pulled a shirt over his head as the cat stropped itself against his bare legs. They’d clearly done this often—the man donning clothing with the cat in casual attendance—and Philomena was jealous of that cat.
“I’m sure my breeches are somewhere…”
Philomena rose and passed Ramsdale his breeches. “Why did Hephaestus name his cat Genesis?”
Ramsdale took the breeches, shook them once, and stepped into them. “Because that cat is the originator of all mischief, perhaps? Perhaps he’s the runt of a litter of seven, all of whom were named in alphabetical order. I don’t suppose you could locate—”
She passed him his waistcoat, and with each piece of clothing, Philomena yielded a little more to the pull of the library. Her heart wanted to linger here, where she and Ramsdale had become lovers. Her mind sought the safety of the linguistic challenge Hephaestus had bequeathed her, because she needed a refuge from her emotions.
“Your hair,” Ramsdale said when the pillows and blankets were all put to rights and he was dressed but for his coat. “Your coiffure has been disarranged.”
Philomena looked over at him between lacing up her left boot and the right. “By the wind, perhaps?”
Ramsdale slung his cravat about his neck and blew her a kiss. “By a mighty tempest.”
Hephaestus had prosed on in several places about tempests. With the flame of a devouring fire, with scattering, and tempest, and hailstones, was his favorite quote.
“Was Hephaestus particularly religious?” Philomena asked as she tied Ramsdale’s cravat.
“Hardly. Uncle had contempt for what he called the pious hypocrites of proper society. I want you again already, Philomena. I thought if we indulged our passions, I might have a prayer of—”
She kissed him and ran her fingers through his hair, which the tempest had also left sticking up on one side. “We have work to do, your lordship. Why so many biblical references from a man who disdained religion?”
Ramsdale caught her hand and kissed her palm. “Am I already back to being a lordship, Philomena?”
That one small kiss caused inconvenient, lovely stirrings. “When we leave this office, you will most definitely be a lordship, and I will be a Miss Peebles, sir. On that topic, I will brook no discussion.”
He kept hold of her hand, leaned back against the desk, and drew Philomena between his legs.
“‘She is more precious than rubies,’” he said, kissing her knuckles this time, “‘and all the things thou canst desire are not to be compared unto her.’”
Some of the most beautiful words in the Bible, and Ramsdale looked like he was about to offer her more lovely quotes.
Philomena wanted to hear them, but later, because her imagination chose then to leap upon a potential connection.
“That’s it,” Philomena said. “The biblical allusions. Hephaestus uses them frequently, more than any other reference, almost to the exclusion of any other reference. For a learned man to limit himself to a single source of literary comparisons makes no sense.”
“Philomena, might we discuss dear Uncle and his daft—?”
“Come along, Ramsdale. We must list every biblical reference in the will, because if I’m right, this could be a clue to the Duke’s whereabouts.”
The cat resumed his place on the hassock, and Ramsdale pushed away from the desk. “To the library, then, but let me see to your hair first.”
Her—Philomena put a hand to her head—hair. Her thoroughly mussed hair. “Of course. I’m as bad as my father.”
A gallant lover would have argued with her. Ramsdale smiled, tidied up her braid, and escorted her to the library.