Suddenly You(19)

“Miss Briars,” he said quietly, giving her a welcoming bow, “what an honor it is to make your acquaintance. I am Mr. Oscar Fretwell. And this”—he gestured to their bustling surroundings with unmistakable pride—“is Devlin’s. A store, circulating library, bindery, stationer, printer, and publisher, all under one roof.”

Amanda curtsied and allowed him to guide her to a relatively sheltered corner, where bundles of books had been placed on a mahogany counter. “Mr. Fretwell, in what capacity do you work for Mr. Devlin?”

“I am his chief manager. Occasionally I serve as a reader and editor, and I bring unpublished novels to his attention if I discover they have merit.” He smiled once again. “And it is my good fortune to be of service to any of Mr. Devlin’s writers, whenever they require it.”

“I am not one of Mr. Devlin’s writers,” Amanda said firmly.

“Yes, of course,” Fretwell said, clearly anxious not to offend. “I did not intend to imply that you were. May I express what great pleasure your work has brought to myself and our subscribers? Your books are constantly on loan, and the sales are quite brisk. For the last one, Shades of the Past, we could not get by with an order of less than five hundred.”

“Five hundred?” Amanda was too startled by the figure to conceal her amazement. Books were luxury items, too dear for most people to afford, and therefore, her sales of nearly three thousand volumes had been considered exceptional. However, she had not realized until this moment that a large percentage of her sales could be attributed to Devlin’s support.

“Oh, yes,” Fretwell began earnestly, but paused as he became aware of a minor disturbance at one of the counters. It appeared that a clerk was perturbed by the return of a book in poor condition. The subscriber, a lady covered in heavily applied face paint and perfume, was vigorously protesting the charge that the book had been damaged. “Ah, it’s Mrs. Sandby,” Fretwell said with a sigh. “One of our frequent subscribers. Unfortunately, she likes to borrow a book and read it at the hairdresser’s. When she returns a volume, it is usually caked with powder and the pages sealed together with pomade.”

Amanda laughed suddenly, glancing at the woman’s old-fashioned pile of powdered hair. No doubt she—and the novel—had spent a great deal of time at the hairdresser’s. “It appears that your attention is required, Mr. Fretwell. Perhaps you should settle the dispute while I wait here.”

“I shouldn’t like to leave you unattended,” he said with a slight frown. “However…”

“I’ll stay in this exact spot,” Amanda said, her smile lingering. “I don’t mind waiting.”

While Oscar Fretwell hurried to smooth over the situation, Amanda gazed at her surroundings. Books were everywhere, lined neatly on shelves that went from floor to ceiling. The ceiling was two stories high, with an upper balcony that provided access to a second-floor gallery. The dazzling array of red, gold, green, and brown bindings was a feast for the eyes, while the wonderful smells of vellum, parchment, and pungent leather almost caused Amanda to salivate. An exquisite waft of tea leaves lingered in the air. For anyone who enjoyed the pursuit of reading, this place was surely paradise.

Subscribers and purchasers waited in lines at counters laden with catalogs and volumes. Wheels of cord and spools of brown paper turned constantly as clerks wrapped orders. Amanda appreciated the clerks’ expertise as they quickly bound smaller stacks of volumes in paper and string. The larger orders appeared to be packed in fragrant old tea chests—ah, the source of the tea smell—and then carried out to carriages and carts by attendants.

Oscar Fretwell wore an expression of rueful amusement when he rejoined her. “I believe the matter is settled,” he told Amanda in a conspiratorial whisper. “I bade the clerk to accept the book in its current condition—we’ll do our best to restore it. However, I did tell Mrs. Sandby that she must try to take better care of our books in the future.”

“You should have suggested that she simply leave off the hair powder,” Amanda whispered back, and they shared a quick laugh.

Fretwell crooked his arm invitingly. “May I escort you to Mr. Devlin’s office, Miss Briars?”

The thought of seeing Jack Devlin once more gave Amanda a strange rustling of pleasure mixed with anxiety. The prospect of being in his presence made her feel curiously alive and agitated.

She straightened her shoulders and took Fretwell’s arm. “Yes, by all means. The sooner I deal with Mr. Devlin, the better.”

Fretwell glanced at her with a puzzled smile. “It sounds as if you don’t like Mr. Devlin.”

“I do not. I find him to be arrogant and manipulative.”

“Well.” Fretwell appeared to ponder her words carefully. “Mr. Devlin can be a bit aggressive when he sets his mind on a particular goal. However, I can assure you there is no better employer in London. He is kind to his friends and generous to all those who work for him. Recently he helped one of his novelists to purchase a house, and he is always willing to arrange for theater tickets, or locate a specialist when one of his friends is ill, or help them in any way to resolve their personal difficulties…”

While Fretwell continued to offer praises of his employer, Amanda mentally added the word “controlling” to the list of adjectives she had applied to Devlin. Of course the man did his best to make his friends and employees feel indebted to him…then he could use their own feelings of obligation against them.