A Distinct Flair for Words Read online

  A Distinct Flair for Words

  By Linda Banche

  Published by Linda Banche at Smashwords

  Copyright 2014 by Linda Banche

  Book 3 of Love and the Library

  Discover other works by Linda Banche at Smashwords

  A Similar Taste in Books

  A Mutual Interest in Numbers

  A Gift from the Stars

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  A Distinct Flair for Words is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 of A Distinct Flair for Words

  Chapter 11 — The Middle

  Chapter 23 — The Final Chapter

  Author’s Note

  About Linda Banche

  Connect With Me!

  Discover Other Titles by Linda Banche

  Excerpt from A Similar Taste in Books, Part 1 of Love and the Library

  Excerpt from A Mutual Interest in Numbers, Part 2 of Love and the Library

  Excerpt from A Gift from the Stars, Part 1 of The Regency Star Travelers

  End

  Chapter 1

  London, England

  September, 1818

  “Let us lift our glasses in toast to a fallen comrade.” Mr. Randall Trant rose from the leather chair in White’s sitting room and raised his brandy goblet high.

  Mr. Francis Wynne rolled his eyes. Not again. “Do you mean our friend, Coffey?”

  “Yes. Dear Mr. Godfrey—er, Laurence—Coffey has forsaken us for a lady, just as our other friend, the late, lamented Mr. Justin Fellowes did.” Trant stepped into the sunlight streaming through the bow window. The bright yellow beams gilded his artfully tousled blond hair, as well as the gold buttons on his hunter green coat. His snowy white shirt and perfectly tied cravat testified to his valet’s superior art, as did his neatly pressed grey brocade waistcoat and nankeen pantaloons. The piece de resistance were his Hessians: gleaming with liquid brilliance as if he had floated here instead of walking through the grimy London streets like lesser mortals.

  Francis gritted his teeth. His usual perfectly turned-out English gentleman pose. Did he never tire of showing off his clothes? Or his form? Gads, he even used that ridiculous stance when they fenced.

  Francis swirled the brandy in his glass a little too hard and a drop sloshed over the rim. Trant’s posturing had become a bit annoying of late. In fact, more like very annoying. Was Trant the problem, or he himself? Many things that never bothered him before now bedeviled him. “First of all, neither is dead, as you imply. Second, they have not forsaken us. We all supped here last week, and we also fenced on Saturday.”

  “And we have not seen them since.” Trant swept his coattails aside and sank gracefully into his chair. “Almost a sennight. We used to meet practically every day.”

  “Things change. And for them, things have changed for the better. I, for one, wish them happy.”

  Trant’s grin was all teeth. “Oh, here is the good soon-to-be vicar not allowing anyone to speak badly of anyone.”

  Francis’s shoulders tightened. His own mistake in letting Trant know his father had destined him for the ministry. As much as he enjoyed Trant’s friendship, on some occasions he would like nothing better than to floor him.

  Trant tipped his head to the side. “Ah, my comment has hit home. Even the amiable Wynne can become angry. I was not sure of that. But you are especially sensitive about your father’s choice of vocation for you. Perhaps because you do not wholly agree?” His grin sharpened. “A bout of fencing should prove me right or wrong. Would you care to take me on?”

  Francis forced his face into blankness. Damn Trant. For a man who often acted the complete gudgeon, he was also highly perceptive. Francis wasn’t sure he wanted to be a clergyman, the customary profession for him as the third son. He had never disagreed with his father’s choice, but had always been ambivalent about the career, especially since his arrival in London. The city’s lights and excitement brought a spring to his step and a buoyancy to his spirits. Could the staid life of a vicar on his father’s estate possibly compare?

  He flicked a hand, infusing as much carelessness into the gesture as he could. Better to show no reaction than one Trant could use against him. “While I am most willing to spar with you, do not think to provoke me into a fight. If you must brangle, seek out your usual partner, Coffey.” He looked down his nose, in imitation of Trant’s habitual aspect. “By thunder, without him to siphon off your crochets, you have become exceptionably insufferable.”

  As expected, self-absorbed Trant didn’t recognize his own expression on someone else. “Coffey is never available. Always working on that blasted steam engine with the inventor chap. And when the engine does not occupy him, he dances attendance on the inventor’s daughter.”

  Lucky Coffey.

  “A cit, of all people.” With a thump, Trant set his glass on the table at his elbow. “Whoever thought Coffey would stoop that low?”

  “Low? Gammon. We both have met Miss Palmer. She is a beautiful, gracious lady. Indeed, her entire family is most well-mannered. Better than many of the gentry I have encountered.” Francis widened his mouth into his own grin full of teeth.

  Trant’s haughty mask fell for the slightest instant before he reasserted his typical condescending air. “And when he did deign to sup with us?” He shuddered. “His clothes!” He set the back of his head to his forehead in a theatrical gesture of woe. Another of Trant’s customary poses that irritated Francis no end.

  Francis tapped his fingers on the chair arm. “I saw nothing amiss with his attire. He was as fashionable as always. Although why he favors those pleated Cossack trousers is beyond me. Never could abide pleats.”

  Trant lowered his voice as if to impart a fact too horrible for normal speech. “Not his attire, per se. He had grease under his fingernails. What gentleman allows himself to be seen in such disarray? ’Tis not to be borne!”

  Francis pressed his hands to his heart and sucked in a breath. “Oh, what a calamity!” He subsided back into his chair and shook his head. “I paid no notice to his fingernails. In any event, he looked happy. Especially since his courtship of Miss Palmer proceeds apace.”

  Trant snorted. “Another friend lost to us. Just like Fellowes.”

  “Another friend lucky enough to have found his lady. Can you not be happy for them both?”

  Trant straightened and looked down his nose. His habitual mien had slammed back into place. “I am happy.”

  Francis narrowed his eyes. “Are you? Or are you jealous?”

  Trant’s face turned the most delightful shade of red. “Jealous? Me? Nothing of the sort. I can have any lady I want.” He grabbed his goblet and swallowed the brandy within so fast he sputtered.

  I have touched a sore spot. Francis hid a smile. Trant’s blustering could be most amusing. He should bait him more often. Instead, he yawned. “If you say so.”

  Trant pulled out a large handkerchief and patted the brandy from his lips. “Women have th
eir place, but the company of men is more important.”

  English translation: No woman will have you. “You are too high in the instep. You would forsake us in a second if you found the lady of your dreams.”

  “I? I?” Trant reared back as if the words were rocks flung his way.

  “Believe what you will. I would like nothing better than to forsake you.” Francis stood. “And so I shall.”

  Chapter 2

  Francis marched down St. James Street, his vision a tunnel that blocked out sight of the people and buildings he passed. Amazing how much Trant’s stupidity nettled him. Most times, his friend’s bombast flowed over him without a ripple.

  He relaxed his shoulders. As much as he hated to admit it, Trant was right about one thing: both Fellowes and Coffey were dead to their friends. They spent all their time with their ladies or working.

  Francis winced. He, too, would have to decide on an occupation, and soon. But, as much as his father prodded him to take up the clergyman’s living on their estate, he still couldn’t reconcile himself to a life in the church.

  But he wouldn’t think on that now.

  The truth was, he missed Fellowes and Coffey. He had had the best of times with them and Trant here in London. What would happen to their foursome now?

  He stopped at the intersection with Piccadilly. A cart screeched to a halt before him, and the previously screened-out bustle of the city roared to life. He darted around the cart to stride down the pavement on the opposite side to Old Bond Street. He pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his face. According to the calendar, autumn was only a few days away, but the stifling heat of this uncommonly hot summer clung. He tucked the wilted linen back into his pocket and looked up.

  The façade of Hookham’s Book Shop and Lending Library beamed down.

  Francis groaned. Both Fellowes and Coffey had found their ladies here at Hookham’s library. Quite smoky, if you ask me. Fellowes he could understand—the man was bookish. But Coffey wasn’t. And yet they both extolled—over, and over, ad nauseam—the virtues of this library and the novel, Pride and Prejudice, which had brought them their ladies. To hear them tell the tales, they had known straightaway that the ladies were for them, as if divine providence or magic or something had arranged the meetings.

  He chuckled. The idea of some grand plan for his friends was comical. Why, if the story were true, he would encounter his perfect love almost as soon as he stepped inside, just as Coffey had.

  Hookham’s, the scene of the crimes—er, discoveries—beckoned.

  He gave a firm shake of his head. Well, he would investigate the library, just to ensure nothing havy-cavy was going on. He bounded up the steps and then grabbed the door latch. But he wouldn’t complain if he got lucky, too.

  The door opened onto the book shop portion of the establishment. Chattering filled the air as the customers, mainly women, milled about inspecting the lists of books for sale. On three sides, free-standing bookshelves packed with volumes rose almost to the ceiling, the roped-off stacks allowing entry only to the shop’s staff. In the center, a battalion of soberly-dressed clerks manned a counter where they took orders and then sought out each customer’s selection before wrapping the purchases.

  Francis tipped his hat as he dodged around the patrons between him and the back, the location of the library.

  He had visited here only once before. Truth to tell, he had never wanted to return. He, Trant and Coffey had not disported themselves well. Rather childishly, in fact. But that was months ago. No one would remember, even if any of the same people were present.

  With that, he strode under the archway entrance into the library.

  Silence descended as if an invisible, muffling blanket had floated down from above. The hush whispered the oft-repeated homily that libraries were for reading and enjoying books, far from crass commercialism, although, in truth, the shop was only a few steps away.

  This room was cast in the same image as the first, with a central counter and roped-off bookcases. Beyond, a second arch opened into another chamber.

  Just as he recalled, right down to the scents of paper, ink and leather bindings. A quietness of spirit descended on him. Pleasant.

  The only women here were two elderly ladies at the counter where the single clerk wrapped the books they wanted to borrow. Not anyone for him.

  With a rustle of paper, the clerk completed his task. Then the ladies, nattering in hushed tones, picked up their parcels and departed.

  The clerk lifted his head and squinted at him through his thick spectacles. “Good day, sir. May I help you?”

  Francis smiled through clenched teeth. Why did the man’s mild regard make him feel like an interloper? “Just looking around.”

  “By all means.” The clerk motioned to the stacks. “We have most of the latest books available for your pleasure, and a most comfortable Reading Room…” His eyes narrowed. “A moment, please. I remember you. Another of the rowdy lads who manhandled our books a while back.”

  By thunder, someone had recollected that debacle. Why had he followed Trant’s lead when the clunch had tossed Pride and Prejudice to Coffey, who had then tossed the book to him? Sheer adolescent stupidity. Francis stretched his smile wider. “Just some good-natured fun.”

  The clerk sniffed. “In the future, please confine your good-natured fun to the outdoors.”

  Gads, a reprimand from a clerk. Although, his lowered eyebrows and hunched back lent him the aspect of a lion about to pounce on a tasty morsel.

  Him.

  A finger of ice slid down Francis’s back. Rather unnerving, that. “Indeed, I shall.” He coughed into his fist. “I daresay I will take a look at your Reading Room.”

  The clerk’s baleful stare gouging a pit between his shoulder blades, Francis crossed under the arch that led to the Reading Room. Several large open windows and a chandelier filled with glowing candles flooded the room with light. A few patrons occupied comfortable stuffed chairs scattered around the floor. The faint rasping of turning pages occasionally wafted through the air.

  An elderly gentleman sitting by the unlit fireplace snapped his book shut and then rose. He deposited the tome on the central table before exiting.

  Apparently, people left the books they had finished there. Frank shuffled through the casual disarray of leather-bound literary treasures. Sermons, a mathematical treatise, a book on astronomy. Where were the novels? Novels were the mainstay of every library.

  He pushed aside a botany book. Underneath lurked Pride and Prejudice, the catalyst in his friends’ romances. The first volume, at least, according to the book’s spine. If this novel were like all the others, there were two more volumes. He much preferred adventure stories, but he would give this book a try. Besides, Pride and Prejudice attracted the ladies.

  He tucked the book under his arm before he hung his hat on a peg on the inside of the arch. Then he settled into the departed man’s vacated chair. If history repeated itself, at least according to his friends’ stories, a beautiful lady who was his ideal woman would enter, see him reading this book and fall into his arms.

  His pulse raced. Was such a lady in the offing?

  A little white-haired lady grasping a squirming boy by the hand entered, followed by a middle-aged man and then a stout matron.

  He sagged against the cushioned seat back. Oh, well, he would have to wait a little longer. He cracked open the book.

  It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

  Snappy opening, although he wasn’t sure he agreed with the sentiment. Mayhap this novel had some merit after all.

  He read, lost to time as he flipped pages. By Jove, this book was better than he imagined. Funny. And he did like that Bingley chap.

  He ran a finger under his collar. Devilishly warm in here, although the windows admitted a bit of a breeze. He set the back of his hand over his mouth to stifle a yawn. Must have stayed up too late last night. H
e sank farther into the yielding firmness of the chair cushions. Very comfortable…

  “Sir? Sir?”

  A blunt-edged stick prodded Francis’s shoulder. He jerked and looked up, blinking. The clerk stood by his side, his eyebrows a forbidding notch above the bridge of his nose. “We close in a few minutes. I must ask you to leave.”

  Francis straightened from his slumped-over position. The ticking of the clock on the fireplace mantel resonated in the brooding quiet. Five minutes before six. He had spent over two hours here. Hang it, had he fallen asleep? “I beg your pardon.” He pushed to his feet. “I will away.”

  The clerk bent to pick up a book from the floor. The first volume of Pride and Prejudice. “Thank you, sir.”

  Francis took the book from the clerk. “I would like to borrow this novel.” The story had piqued his interest.

  The clerk’s eyes hardened. No doubt he recalled Francis’s previous disregard for the library’s property. “You must purchase a subscription before you can check out the book.”

  “Then I will buy a subscription.”

  The clerk’s face relaxed. “If you will come to the counter, I will set all in motion.” He exited the room.

  Francis cast a glance over the now-deserted Reading Room. No luck finding his lady.

  At least, not today.

  Chapter 3

  Francis shuffled to and fro on the uneven pavement in front of Hookham’s. Should he go in again?

  A stiff breeze funneled down the street and he pulled the collar of his greatcoat higher. The summer’s heat had faded to a long-ago memory, but Francis still made his almost daily pilgrimage to the library.