Finally something that might compel him to give the novel a chance if he had nothing else to read. “Who’s the author?”
“Her name has only recently been revealed as Jane Austen. She’s also written Sense and Sensibility, Mansfield Park, Em—”
“Mansfield Park sounds familiar.” He tried to recall where he’d head that title before. “I believe one of my sisters may have read it.”
“You have sisters?”
He grinned. “You needn’t sound so surprised. Yes. I have two. Twins, actually, though not identical in the least. They’re sixteen years of age.”
“Ready for their debuts,” she murmured, a distant look in her eyes.
Provided he could afford the expense. He shook his head. There was no avoiding his duty. Somehow, he’d have to scrape the funds together. As regrettable as it was, he had no choice but to part with some of his assets. He’d already determined that his horses would help him pay the most immediate bills. And if he sold only one at a time, it was unlikely anyone would take much notice.
“These should be ready for you by three o’clock tomorrow afternoon,” Miss Quinn said. “I realize this is irregular but we don’t accept credit, so you’ll have to pay up front when you come to collect the books. One pound, four shillings will be your total.”
Anthony glanced at the note where she’d boldly written the sum he owed. He nodded and slipped it into his pocket. The time had come for him to leave. His friends would be arriving soon. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss Quinn. I look forward to seeing you again.”
A shy smile graced her lips, accentuating her beauty. “Don’t be too quick to dismiss Miss Austen’s books, Mr. Gibbs. They sold exceedingly well and probably earned her a small fortune.”
Anthony stilled. “Did it perchance outdo The Corsair?”
“Probably not. That book beat every record. But the appeal of Miss Austen’s novels and her unfortunate death last year does leave a gap in the market. As sad as it may be, it’s a wonderful opportunity for an aspiring romance author. Competing against the likes of Byron or Sir Walter Scott would be next to impossible.”
He blinked a few times while that piece of information sank in. “You don’t say.”
“It’s certainly something worth keeping in mind. Don’t you think?”
“Indeed I do.” He smiled at her, bid her a lovely evening, and departed with the thrill of possibility propelling him forward.
4
Ada waited for the shop door to swing shut behind Mr. Gibbs. As soon as it did, she expelled the deep breath she felt as though she’d been holding since his arrival. Goodness gracious, the poor man must think her daft with her prattling on the way she’d done. She could scarcely recall what she’d said. Or what he’d said for that matter. All she’d known was him and his rather breathtaking presence.
Nitwit.
She dropped her gaze and stared at the note she’d prepared. Her heart beat a bit faster with the reminder that he would return. Tomorrow, he’d said. Or was she the one who’d suggested the time?
The bell above the door chimed and Ada looked up to find Uncle James walking happily toward her. She narrowed her gaze. “Where have you been?”
He grinned. “You know the answer to that, Ada.”
“Of course.” She crossed her arms and uncrossed them again, placing both hands on her hips. “You didn’t lock up when you left.”
“Didn’t I?” He sent the door an incredulous glance. “Must have slipped my mind. Sorry about that. Is the tea ready?”
“No. I’m sorry. We had a customer. A gentleman wanting to purchase Rob Roy. So I didn’t manage to make the tea yet.” With jerky movements, she gathered the leather samples she’d used and flashed a smile. “I’ll do so right now.”
“What was he like?” Uncle James inquired, following her to the back room where the books on order were bound. It narrowed toward a small rear entrance where a steep flight of stairs led to the upstairs apartment. A range comprising a compact oven and boiler was squeezed into the corner next to the back door.
“Talkative,” she said, deliberately avoiding words like impressive and remarkable while grabbing a ladle. “Unfamiliar with Jane Austen’s work.”
“I take it you tried to win him over?”
Ada chuckled and proceeded to scoop some hot water into a teapot. “If I could convince you, I daresay there’s hope for all men.”
“And?” Uncle James leaned against the doorjamb and watched Ada swirl the water to heat the pot, then pour it out before adding fragrant dry leaves from a canister. “Did you make a sale?”
She rubbed the back of her neck and filled the pot with fresh hot water. “Yes. He will return tomorrow afternoon to collect his books. They’re to be bound in blue leather.”
“Ah. So you’ll see him again.”
Ada turned to face her uncle more fully. “I shouldn’t. As it is, I ought to have turned him away.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Because she’d been awestruck by his eyes.
“A book fell on my head and I got distracted.”
“Really?”
“It’s not funny,” Ada insisted, noting the way his lips twitched and doing her best not to laugh as well. “We were alone together for quite some time. It was completely inappropriate. If someone had seen…”
Uncle James appeared to mull that over while she collected two cups from the cupboard. “Did anyone see?”
“No. But that doesn’t change the fact that I am a young, unmarried woman.” She poured the tea. “I shouldn’t be working in a bookshop to begin with, never mind dealing with young men like Mr. Gibbs unless there’s a chaperone present.”
“You’re right. I apologize. It won’t happen again.” Uncle James accepted the cup she handed to him. “When Mr. Gibbs returns tomorrow, I’ll meet with him while you remain hidden away in here as usual.”
Ada’s gut twisted. Despite her protestations, she wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that. “There’s a chance he’ll ask for me.”
“I suppose so, but I can always tell him you’ve gone out.”
“Hmm…” She was starting to see the wisdom in thinking before speaking. Setting her cup to her lips, she sipped her tea. “If you’re there, I believe it ought to be fine.”
“Yes.” Uncle James nodded. “I suppose you’re right about that.”
Happy to have steered things back in the right direction, Ada sent him a warm smile. “Now that’s settled, I probably ought to start on the binding.”
“In that case, I’ll prepare a list of upcoming releases to order and update the ledger.” He returned to the shop, but before closing the door he told her softly, “Every Elizabeth Bennett belongs with her own Mr. Darcy, Ada. Even you.”
She spun toward him so she could question his meaning, but the door was already shut. Rather than yank it open and ask for an explanation, she simply stood there, staring. At nineteen years of age she ought to set her sights on marriage, but to pin her hopes and dreams on the likes of Mr. Gibbs, whose waistcoat probably cost more than her entire wardrobe, would be as pointless as wishing upon a star.