The Belle of Belgrave Square (Belles of London #2)(13)

“I can’t believe that. Her writing is generally a cut above the others.”

“Aye, so it is.” The clerk followed after her, with Mary not far behind him. “But a bad review puts people off. Don’t matter the quality of the story. If word gets out that a book’s rotten, we can’t move it.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Julia examined first one book and then another. She didn’t know what she was in the mood for. A romance, certainly, but not one featuring brutish husbands, self-sacrificing damsels, or even secret babies. She wanted something a bit more hopeful, with a heroine she could believe in and a hero worthy of the name.

Replacing yet another book onto the shelf, she returned to the front of the shop. A round wooden table was arrayed there, holding multiple copies of the same novel—a slim volume bound in dark green cloth.

It was Mrs. Marshland’s new book.

Julia picked up a copy, examining the title stamped in gold on the spine. The Garden of Valor. “What is it about?”

“A knight come home from the wars,” the clerk said.

“It’s medieval?”

“Indeed, full up with swords and jousts and unrequited love.”

“Unrequited? But I thought it was a romance. Romances are supposed to have happy endings.”

“So it does, eventually. Too happy for the Heliosphere. The reviewer didn’t like the romantic elements. Compared them to treacle.”

She frowned as she flipped through the pages. Tripe. Treacle. “The reviewer must have been a man. Only a man would describe a romance in such a way.”

The clerk nodded. “He is, miss. He goes by the name of Bilgewater.”

Her mouth quirked. “Gracious. Is that a nom de plume?”

“Expect so. He wouldn’t want any angry authors coming after him. Not after some of the things he’s written about their books. Marshland isn’t his first victim.”

“Poor Mrs. Marshland. I’m sure she doesn’t deserve such censure.” Julia tucked a copy of The Garden of Valor under her arm. Impulsively, she selected three more.

Mary approached, curious. “Four of the same book, miss?”

“One for me, and one for Lady Anne, Miss Hobhouse, and Miss Maltravers.” Julia crossed the short distance to the wood counter near the shop’s front window. She set the books down on it in an untidy stack. “It will be my gift to them when they return to London.”

It wasn’t completely altruistic. Julia was in the mood for a bit of treacle. If she could support a lady novelist while she was at it, so much the better. Besides, she liked to discuss books with her friends, and how could she discuss The Garden of Valor if Anne, Stella, and Evelyn hadn’t read it?

The clerk beamed. “Excellent, excellent.” He darted behind the counter to tally her charges.

As Julia fumbled in her reticule for the coin to pay for her purchases, the shop bell rang, signaling the arrival of another customer. She cast a distracted look at the door.

And then she froze.

Captain Blunt did the same. He stood inside the entrance, his black hat in his hand. His usually unreadable expression betrayed a faint flicker of surprise.

If not for that flicker, Julia might have suspected that he’d followed her here. That he hadn’t respected her wishes at all. That he was continuing to pursue her despite the objections she’d voiced to his suit.

But no. The sight of her had set him back on his heels.

He recovered quickly. “Miss Wychwood.”

“Captain Blunt.” She stared at him for a long moment, her heart thumping with an odd mixture of anxiety and excitement.

The clerk gave a discreet cough. “That will be one pound six, miss.”

“What?” She turned back to him, flustered. “Oh yes. I beg your pardon.” She pushed a one pound coin and six shillings across the counter to him.

“Shall I wrap them, miss?” he asked.

“Please.”

Captain Blunt approached the counter. His gaze dropped to her stack of books. A strange stillness came over him.

“Yes, I know,” she said. “They’re for me and my friends. We’ve enjoyed Mrs. Marshland’s work before.”

“Have you.” His voice was peculiarly flat.

She sensed judgment in his words. “You sound as though you don’t approve of her.”

“On the contrary.” He leaned against the counter. He was wearing a black three-piece suit, impeccably tailored, but plain to the point of austerity. A faded gold pocket watch chain glinted at the front of his single-breasted waistcoat. “Marshland’s prose can be very affecting.”

“Then you’ve read her? And liked her?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. “But I’d be interested to know your thoughts on the novel once you’ve read it.”

“Of course. I daresay I shall finish it before this evening.”

His mouth curved. What might have been a smile in another man appeared more like a snarl because of his scar. “So quickly?”

She managed a sheepish smile in return. “I’ve never been successful at postponing my pleasures.”

“I trust it will be a pleasure.”

“I have reason to hope. The plot points the critics complained about are the elements I like best.” She paused, explaining, “The romance.”