The Librarian's Spell by Patricia Rice (reading eggs books TXT) 📕

family. But their superior intelligence was seldom limited by their inability. Wealthy people could hire all manner of people to read for them.

She had the pages written by the time Mr. Ives finally found her. She’d thought about it and decided she simply wasn’t good enough at deception to hide her existence plus Mr. C’s condition. So she’d have to see how he would react to a female as Mr. C’s assistant.

After Mr. Ives’ comments about women and magnetism, Lydia awaited his response when he entered. He’d obviously bathed. He smelled of pine soap and that male scent all his own. She didn’t feel physically drawn to him as a nail to a magnet, but he was an admittedly attractive man.

Given her own size, she appreciated a big man. He wasn’t burly, by any means, but broad of shoulder and muscled like a man accustomed to physical activity. His gold satin waistcoat fit elegantly over a flat abdomen. His black suit was rumpled. So was his hair. His attire certainly wasn’t his attraction—it was his air of suppressed energy.

He gazed around the office as if suspecting it hid secrets, but then homed in on her. His eyes widened—they were a rather startling topaz. She didn’t meet many men, so she wasn’t certain if that look meant approval or disdain or just surprise at discovering a woman in a man’s lair.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion, Miss—?” He waited expectantly.

“Lydia Wystan, Mr. Cadwallader’s assistant. How may I help you?” She used a higher, more direct voice than the husky one she used when imitating her employer.

He kept a wary distance. “Miss Wystan, pleased to meet you. Is there any chance I might have a word with Mr. Cadwallader?”

“No. He sometimes spends days with his research. Apparently you have requested information he asked me to transcribe for you.” She held up her sheaf of papers. “It appears to concern this tower. Should I read it to you? I do not understand all the terms.”

“Yes, if you would. May I?” He indicated the chair furthest from her.

Trying not to feel like a pariah, Lydia nodded and began reading. He translated the Gaelic for her and frowned at the mathematics.

“The circumference of the tower is less than its volume? That’s not quite possible, is it? Is he saying the center holds up the exterior? Odd, but workable. Does this mean Mr. Cadwallader would like me to take a look at the tower foundation?”

Ever cautious, Lydia had not dared make that leap, but she reluctantly agreed. “Yes, I believe it is so. Marta has all the keys. You’ll find her in the kitchen.”

Did the library actually need saving? A rolling pencil did not necessarily mean much. She should probably inspect the foundation herself to verify the problem. Really, she was giving this stranger too much credit just because she liked his mother.

Mr. Ives didn’t leave but rested his elbows on the chair arms, clasped his fingers over his torso, and fixed her with that penetrating stare she felt certain measured and weighed and found her lacking. She had the urge to see if her hair had come undone, but she resisted.

“Did he mention that my son will arrive shortly? I hope he will be welcome.”

“Of course. Our staff is limited, so there is no nursery, but a cot can be brought to your room. Will you be staying for a while?” Did he mean to repair the foundation was her real question. He’d seemed in a hurry to leave for Burma, wherever that was. She waited anxiously.

Uncertainty didn’t suit his strong features. He smoothed them into a smile. “A cot is perfect, thank you. I am curious about these notes. If I can find a solution to the foundation problem, I may linger longer than anticipated. Did Mr. Cadwallader mention that I need to preserve my privacy?”

Lydia prayed to all the powers that be that Mr. Ives could avert the disaster of having to move books. In hopes that all would be well, she very nodded, making mental apologies to Lady Agnes and adding mental limitations to her promise. “I follow Mr. C’s orders. As long as he approves of your requests, I am at your disposal.”

A grin briefly flitted across his curved lips. He rose. “You should word your offer more carefully, Miss Wystan. Not all men are gentlemen. I promised Mr. Cadwallader my journal. It is incomplete. Is there any chance you might take dictation?”

Lydia had no mind for nuance or insinuations and didn’t grasp his warning. She fastened on the question that held her interest. “Mr. Andrew Blair has kindly sent us his version of the new typewriter machine. I’ve been training myself to use it. I can try typing your dictation if you go slowly.”

His heavy dark eyebrows arched in surprise. “A typing machine? I’ve missed a great deal in my travels. I will be honored to experiment. I am not terribly gifted, and you’ll find I have little to contribute to the library. I will attempt to keep my dictation to what may apply to others like me and not take up too much of your time. Would before or after dinner suit best?”

Lydia’s heart pounded a little faster at the thought of spending hours in the company of an exceedingly attractive man. It would be safer if she could do so as Mr. C but not reasonable. “Dinner is served early so as not to waste too many candles or oil. Afterward, perhaps?”

“I’ll pay for as many boxes of candles and barrels of oil as needed, of course. Would it be possible to work in a room larger than this?” He rose from his chair but lingered in the doorway while waiting for her answer.

What an odd question. But the promise of candles and oil overcame any of Lydia’s objections. It had become increasingly difficult to pay the bills as the small sums she was able to access dissipated. Mr. C was too frail to travel to his banker and