Page 1 of No One's Bride
ChapterOne
Chadwick’s Auction House
Broad Street, Bloomsbury
Miss Ailsa MacTavish stood before the vast oak doors as if expecting to see an ancient Roman god standing guard. Janus was the keeper of keys, custodian of the metaphorical gateway between the present and the future. A symbol of beginnings and ends. His image was that of two faces. One gazing into the past. One staring towards one’s destiny.
Change was on the horizon.
Ailsa felt it deep in the marrow of her bones.
Whatever happened behind these doors today would likely see the end of a friendship, albeit a strained and somewhat antagonistic one. Lord Denton meant to win the rare copy of Thomas More’sUtopiaand didn’t care who he trampled over in the process.
A love of old books was the only thing they had in common, and perhaps a steely determination to succeed. Indeed, while her parents had returned to the Highlands, Ailsa had remained in London for one purpose: to purchaseUtopiafor her private collection.
Like her Scottish forbears, she would need to hold steadfast against an English invasion. Few men tolerated a woman reading, let alone owning such a valuable antiquity.
Inhaling deeply to bolster her courage, Ailsa turned to her chaperones, Mr and Mrs Daventry. “We have five minutes until the auction begins. Hopefully, the men have taken their seats and I can sneak in unnoticed.”
It shouldn’t be difficult.
After a terrifying incident at her come-out ball five years ago, blending into the background had become an acquired skill.
“At least we know there’ll be one man amongst them who will offer you a seat,” Mrs Daventry said, the frustration of many browbeaten women evident in her tone. “They will answer to me if they attempt to throw you out.”
Ailsa smiled to herself. When a lady had married the most intelligent, most dangerous man in London, she could afford to be bold.
“I dinnae care if they give me the cut direct as long as they permit me to bid on the book.” Being a Scot and a spinster, insults rolled off her like rain on a new umbrella.
“I registered your name personally,” Mr Daventry said, confident she would not encounter a problem. “Mr Murden raised no objection and is expecting you to place a bid.”
He gestured for them to mount the stone steps and held the heavy door open before following them inside. With dark wood panels and paintings of dour men lining the walls, the large hallway was an inherently masculine space that smelled of musty coats, stale sweat and cheap cologne.
Ailsa could barely feel her legs as she climbed the stone staircase to the first floor. Her heartbeat thumped loudly in her ears. Entering a room full of grouchy men was difficult enough. Knowing Lord Denton sat amongst them added to the growing tension.
The door hinges creaked as she entered. One man turned in her direction, the lively hum of conversation dying when thirty others followed suit.
The air proved stifling.
The groans and grumbles were audible.
“Doubtless she’s suffering from a megrim and has lost her way,” said a thickset gentleman with bushy white hair. “Someone should see her out before she swoons and delays the auction.”
“It’s the MacTavish chit,” a well-groomed man sneered. “She bid on Lady Ingram’s diary last month before Denton won the memoir.”
“They’ll not let the Scots own More’sUtopia. It would be tantamount to treason. The devils will probably use it for kindling.”
The exuberant Mrs Daventry placed a reassuring hand on Ailsa’s arm. “Don’t let them intimidate you. I met my husband at an auction and had to battle against theton’s contempt. So you see, Miss MacTavish, we are similar in many ways.”
Hardly. The lady’s vibrant red curls enhanced her womanly appeal. Ailsa had fastened her copper locks in a tight knot hidden beneath a simple poke bonnet.
Mr Daventry met the gaze of the studious gentleman behind the lectern and gave a curt nod. “Find a seat, Miss MacTavish. We’ll wait outside until the auction is over. Mr Murden won’t tolerate distractions.”
“What?” she whispered. “Ye’re leaving?”
“We’ll be within earshot,” Mr Daventry assured her.
Mr Murden cleared his throat and peered at her through crooked spectacles. “Come forward, Miss MacTavish. Time is against us. We must begin the proceedings posthaste.”
