Cary leaned against the counter. “I’d tell you, but then you might visit me.”
His lordship sniffed, then turned to the clerk. “You there! I’m looking for some idiotic rubbish called Kubla Khan. The assistant is too stupid to help me, and I’m rather in a hurry.”
The clerk answered as smoothly as he could with Abigail crouched at his feet. “I regret to inform your lordship that Mr. Coleridge has not yet published his famous fragment. It will be out in the next few months, I believe.”
The Viscount was infuriated. “But I am Lord Dulwich, man. I want it now.”
“The man can’t pluck a book out of thin air,” Cary Wayborn pointed out reasonably.
“This is no concern of yours, Wayborn,” his lordship snapped. “But that’s you all over, butting in where you don’t belong. Have you no conduct?”
“That’s rich, coming from you,” Cary said. “When I just saw you knock a girl to her knees in Piccadilly without so much as a ‘Pardon me.’ If that’s your idea of conduct—”
“What girl?” said Dulwich, with a sneer marring his aristocratic features. “A pet of yours, perhaps? I daresay she’s been knocked to her knees before and will be again.”
Abigail stifled a gasp. Never in her life had she heard such rudeness.
“As a matter of fact, the young lady is my cousin,” Cary said coldly.
“I beg your pardon,” said Lord Dulwich, without so much as a hint of regret. Indeed, he sounded rather proud that his insult had pricked its mark. “You should tell your cousin to watch where she’s going. The stupid chit stepped right into my path. It was her fault entirely.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Cary said hotly. “I saw the entire disgraceful incident. You shoved her in the back, and, let me tell you, when I bring the matter up at White’s—”
“You wouldn’t tell the Club!” said his lordship, a whine entering his haughty voice.
“You sniveling toad,” was the only reply his lordship received.
“What do you want, Wayborn?”
“I want an apology, Pudding-face,” said Cary. “My cousin don’t wish to see you, of course, so it will have to be in writing.”
Mr. Eldridge was very prompt in providing writing materials for his lordship at no charge. To Abigail’s astonishment, Lord Dulwich offered no protest.
“What’s her name, this cousin of yours?” he inquired testily, dipping the pen in the well.
“I’m not telling you her name, Pudding-face,” Cary said scornfully. “Write this: ‘The odious Lord Dulwich humbly extends his profoundest and most sniveling—!’”
“Look here!”
Cary ignored him. “‘Most sniveling apologies to the young lady whom he so savagely assaulted in Piccadilly this afternoon. By his failure to offer any apology or assistance to her on that occasion, he has forfeited his right to call himself an English gentleman. Furthermore, his lordship does hereby attest and affirm that he is in fact the most feculent lout ever to disgrace the British empire. Yours in utter moral failure, et cetera, et cetera.’”
“Look here!” Dulwich protested. “Can’t I give her ten pounds instead? Twenty?”
“In my family, we don’t exchange currency for insults,” said Cary. “I need hardly tell you how the members of my Club will react if I tell them what you did. Besides, where would you get twenty pounds? Your father’s cut off your allowance, or so you said when you asked me to hold onto a certain I.O.U. just a little longer.”
“For God’s sake, lower your voice!” Dulwich snarled.
“Now sign and date it, if you please.” Cary took the scrap of paper from the Viscount, inspected it briefly, then seemed to forget all about the matter. “I’m looking for Tom Jones, my good fellow,” he pleasantly told the clerk. “Would you be so kind as to direct me to it?”
“I was here first,” Dulwich objected. “I want Kubla Khan, and I want it now.” He rapped on the counter with his stick, and the unhappy Mr. Eldridge offered to put his lordship’s name on the waiting list. “List?” the Viscount demanded. “What list? Who’s on it?”
“Quite a number of our best customers, my lord,” Mr. Eldridge replied. “Indeed, the demand has been so high that the publisher has already called for a second printing.”
“Very well. Put me on your beastly list,” said Dulwich impatiently.
“I’d no idea you were such a devotee of Mr. Coleridge,” Cary remarked.
“I’m not,” his lordship growled. “I despise all poetry, and all poets too. But, unfortunately, my betrothed is rather excitable on the subject.”
Cary laughed shortly. “Don’t tell me you’re engaged. Who is the poor creature? I should like to send her my condolences on black-edged paper.”
“The lady is well aware of her good fortune,” his lordship coldly replied. “Look here, you fool! If the book arrives before January the Fourteenth, I shall buy it. If not, never mind.”
“And what, pray, is the significance of January the Fourteenth?” Cary asked.
“That is my wedding day,” Dulwich replied, “not that it’s any business of yours. I’ve no intention of wasting money buying my own damn wife a silly book.”
“Very sensible of you,” said Cary. “And you say the lady is aware of her good fortune? Capital. Allow me to wish you joy. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man so deeply in love. Why, you’re positively radiant.”
Dulwich’s face turned nearly black with fury. “I am not in love with her, you ass,” he hissed. “I want her father’s money, and she, I suppose, wants to be a viscountess. When we marry, I shall be able to settle all my debts, including that little bet of ours. Look here, Wayborn, if you start spreading it around that I’m marrying for love, I shall have to call you out.”
“Steady on,” said Cary, stifling a laugh. “I shan’t tell a soul you’re after her money. After all, if you don’t get her money, I may never get mine.”
“What are you doing there, you damn fool?” his lordship suddenly snarled.
Abigail nearly jumped out of her skin. But Dulwich had not discovered her hiding place; he was addressing Mr. Eldridge. “Imbecile! You’re putting my name at the bottom of the list. Who is entitled to come before my Lord Dulwich? The Misses Brandon? I think not.”
As Mr. Eldridge watched in dismay, his lordship seized the book and proceeded to cross out the Misses Brandon in order to insert his own name at the top of the page. “I shall make all my friends aware of the staff’s impertinence,” said Dulwich, jerking on his gloves, “and I predict that Hatchard’s will be out of business in a month’s time!”
He paused, as though waiting for Mr. Eldridge to seek to detain him, and then Abigail heard the doorbell ring as his lordship left the shop. A moment or two passed before she felt safe enough to lift her head. Mr. Wayborn was leaning across the counter looking down at her. “You can come out now, monkey,” he said lightly. “The nasty man has gone away.”
Abigail climbed to her feet. “I daresay you think me rather childish,” she stammered, “but I simply can’t bear scenes. It would have been so very embarrassing to see him.”
Cary took her hand and led her around the counter. “I think you did exactly right,” he said. “I only wish I had the courage to run and hide whenever I see the old Pudding-face.”