“And all their reviews are marvelous,” Mom added. “Gillie would love to have you. She said she doesn’t have time to go through all the rubbish in the attic at Camden House, not with how busy they’ve been and now that it’s Christmas rush. But she’d give you free access to whatever you needed.”
Clara looked from her mother to Robbie and back, the idea still floating just out of reach. “This is crazy.”
“A flight leaves tomorrow at noon.” Robbie looked up from his phone. “Which gets you to Carlisle’s Lake District Airport before breakfast.”
“Book it, Robbie.” Mom answered before Clara could even put words into a sentence in her mind. “Use the business card.”
“Tomorrow?” Clara pushed herself to a stand and forced words into motion. “Fly to England tomorrow?” She stretched her palms forward as if one of them might come to their senses. “Tomorrow is… tomorrow.”
“How very clever of you, dear.”
And her mother was usually so sweet. “I need to pack and plan. And I need to go through some of our book inventor—”
“There is nothing you need to do that we can’t communicate through email, if at all.” Robbie waved his phone at her. “I’ve handled Christmas here before, Clara. Years of it. I’d advise you to get to your room right now and start packing, if you’re so worried about it, since I just confirmed your flight.”
“This is crazy.” Maybe if she kept repeating it, someone would believe her.
“You said whatever it takes to find that deed, right?” Robbie reminded her.
If looks had power, Robbie’s hair would be on fire.
“Exactly.” Mom chuckled. She took Clara by the shoulders and directed her toward the stairs that led to her room. “Now go pack. You’ll feel better doing something instead of sitting around here worrying about it anyway.”
Clara stiffened at her mother’s prodding but couldn’t deny the truth of her words. If making a crazy, spontaneous trip to England helped save Blackwell’s and gave Clara a focus in rescuing this family heirloom and securing her mother’s financial future, then maybe insanity proved the best option?
Because despite good numbers for the bookshop over the past few months, Uncle Julian was right. They didn’t have the money of heiresses to fix the past if they couldn’t locate the deed to Blackwell’s.
And just maybe…the secrets to Sadie’s past lay in Oliver Camden’s.
Chapter 11
Mrs. Vanderbilt ordered me on at least three days’ rest, which Victoria interpreted as daily afternoon tea with her, and by his own invitation, Oliver. As much as I attempted to remain indifferent to the charming Englishman, he made it practically impossible.
When I insisted that I shouldn’t join them for tea in rooms used for guests, Oliver used his effervescent charm to persuade Mrs. Potter into letting the two of them join me in the servant’s dining hall, where he engaged in conversation with anyone from Mrs. Cox, the cook, to Mr. Leeds, the gardener, as if he didn’t belong on the posh side of the green baize door. It became almost expected to hear his laughter in the below-stairs hallways. And conversation after conversation, a tremulous acceptance weaved its way into my hesitations with the frail hope that perhaps impossible things may not be as impossible as I’d imagined.
No! Even contemplating a relationship with Oliver placed me on an inevitable path of heartache and unemployment. I had an obligation to Mrs. Vanderbilt, though the very idea of Oliver with Miss Withersby irritated like a novel with the wrong ending.
With a little help from Mrs. Vanderbilt, I orchestrated an afternoon stroll between the two of them in the walled garden and watched them disappear across the library terrace, an early autumn breeze rustling the trees along their path.
My work had accumulated during my convalescence, but with only one available arm, returning books to their places in the two-story library took much longer and more energy than usual.
“I see you need a…” Oliver appeared in front of me and surveyed my arm. “Left-hand man to help with those books.”
I nearly dropped the ones I held cradled in my right arm. “What are you doing here?”
He leaned close, his lips teasing a grin. “Well, in case you don’t remember, I’m a guest, but please don’t hold that against me.”
Then, with his usual charm, he swept in and began helping me replace the books.
“You are supposed to be on a stroll with Miss Withersby.”
“Oh no, my dear.” His face flushed with false innocence as he placed a palm to his chest. “Mr. Dasher happened by, and I mentioned the theater.”
“What?” The word burst out on a laugh.
“Didn’t you know that Mr. Dasher is a lover of the theater?” He placed another book on the shelf above my head, his shoulder touching mine. “And Miss Withersby is not for me.”
His attention dropped to my lips for the briefest touch, and my throat constricted as if he’d breached the distance. Did he want to? Could he want to? His gaze returned to mine and I suddenly realized I wanted him to want to.
I quickly shifted my attention to the books in my hands.
“But”—he continued, clearing his throat—“Mr. Dasher is morose enough to love theater and Miss Withersby is dramatic enough. So I think they may be a perfect match.”
Despite my best attempt, my lips slipped into a grin. “You’re not the theatrical sort, Mr. Camden? I find that somewhat surprising.”
“Sarcasm?” He stood so close I could almost feel his smile spreading. “Now I know you’re relaxing from all this pomp and stuff.”
I raised my gaze to his.
“Don’t give me that innocent shocked bit. You’ve lathered our conversations with plenty of sarcasm the past few days, so I won’t allow you to resort to your shy servant role. Or do you want me to take you for the dramatic sort too?”
I scanned the empty room and lowered my voice. “I’m supposed to be invisible to you.”
“Impossible.” He tugged another book from my arm and studied the nearest shelves. “Besides
