“Forever grateful. I like the sound of that.” He grinned, and her insides flip-flopped.
The proprietor ambled back, dragging a crate of books behind him, and Ford shifted away. Mr. Young nodded toward him. “I don’t know what sort of foreign book you’re looking for, milord, but you may have anything in here for a shilling.”
“Anything?” Violet asked.
“Take your pick. My son Thomas found these in the attic—never been up there myself. Must’ve been there since before I bought the shop—from the looks of them, before that curious ceiling even went in,” he added, his grin revealing the missing tooth. “Tom wanted to get rid of them, seeing as we don’t deal in foreign titles, but I cannot seem to find it in me to throw away books.” He dusted off his hands. “If you’re not wanting anything else, then, I shall leave you to look.”
With a nod, he walked off. They heard him stop and talk to the children, a soft murmur followed by their high-pitched giggles. Apparently the shop had no other customers, which suited Violet perfectly. She turned to the shelves, her heart swelling as it always did when she was in the presence of books.
Ford crouched on the floor and began absently sifting through the crate. “What would Rose like?”
“Anything, really, except perhaps philosophy or science.” The two subjects she and Ford would want for themselves. She smiled at that thought as she peered at the titles on the shelf.
Choosing a slim brown volume, she slipped off her spectacles, the better to see up close. She set them on a ledge and began to flip pages without really reading. She could still smell the scent of Ford’s skin, feel the slight tickle of him playing with her hair.
“What is that called?” he asked without looking up.
“Aristotle’s Master-piece.” It looked promising, though she was surprised to find a book about or by Aristotle that she’d never heard of before. “I think I shall inquire about the price.”
“Here, I’ll hold it for you while you look some more.”
She handed it to him, and he set it on the floor, on top of two volumes he’d apparently chosen for Rose. She could understand why the bookseller would let them go for a shilling. Even without her eyeglasses, the foreign editions looked like they hadn’t been opened in decades.
Still crouching by the crate, Ford began humming a soft tune as he searched. A lullaby, if she didn’t miss her guess; she wondered if he sang to Jewel. She slipped another title off the shelf. The clicks of checkers told her the children were miraculously staying put. Though their voices were a bit louder than she would have liked, they didn’t seem to be bothering the proprietor, so she decided not to let it bother her, either.
She’d added two more likely books to the growing pile when Ford sat down with a thud, clutching a book in both hands.
He looked like he’d seen a ghost.
TWENTY
“WHAT’S WRONG?” Violet asked. Sitting on the floor, the viscount looked as pale as her father’s prized lilies. “Ford?”
“Nothing.” He glanced around uneasily, as though he expected someone to pop up and steal the book out of his white-knuckled hands.
She couldn’t help but notice those hands were shaking. The book was small and looked old. No, make that ancient, she decided after she’d reached for her spectacles and slipped them back on. It was handwritten, and the pages sounded brittle, crackling when he gingerly turned them.
“Another foreign title, is it?” Even with the eyeglasses, she couldn’t read a word. “Do you expect Rose would like it?”
“No.” Still trembling, he stood abruptly. “Not this one.”
“Can you read it? Is it French or Dutch?”
“It’s no language I’ve ever seen. Will you get those?” he added distractedly, gesturing to the books on the floor.
As she knelt to collect the volumes they’d chosen, he hurried away to talk to the proprietor.
“Yes, only a shilling,” Mr. Young was saying when she joined them a minute later. Gazing down at the book, he lazily flipped a few pages. “It’s not English or Latin, though, and difficult to decipher, handwritten as it is. Can you even read it?”
“Well, no.” Ford raked his fingers through his hair—not the smooth, thoughtful gesture Violet had become used to seeing, or even the quicker one that indicated frustration. This motion was jerky and convulsive instead.
What was wrong with him?
“I have a friend, an expert in languages,” he said. “I thought he might enjoy the challenge.” He held out his hand, and she could almost hear him willing the shopkeeper to give him back the book.
The man handed it over, gesturing dismissively. “A shilling will do, then. Truth be told, I feel guilty taking money for the thing at all.”
“Appreciate it.” Ford turned to Violet, taking the books from her arms. “Add these to the total, please.” He passed them over to Mr. Young and started digging out his pouch.
“I brought money,” she protested. “I cannot accept a gift from you. It wouldn’t look right.”
“Rubbish. You’ve already accepted the spectacles, haven’t you?”
Her hands went to her face protectively. “These were different. You made them.”
“They’re just books, Violet.”
Mr. Young looked at each book, scribbling their prices on a scrap of paper, preparatory to adding them up. He paused when he came to Violet’s first choice. “Are you certain you want this, my lady?”
“Aristotle’s Master-piece? Yes. Unless…is it very expensive?”
Frowning, he blinked his pale blue eyes. “No, not particularly.”
“We’ll take it.” Ford selected a few coins and pressed them into the bookseller’s hand. “Jewel? Rowan? Are you done with your game?” He looked to be in a terrible rush.
“One more minute, Uncle Ford.”
He shifted from foot to foot while they finished playing, then took Jewel by the hand to pull her from her seat. With a distracted “Thank you” called over his shoulder to Mr. Young, he waved Violet and Rowan through the
