Memoirs of a Hoyden by Joan Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

truth. He stood fast in his story. When I looked up, Ronald had wandered along to another stall, but Kestrel was waiting for me, not patiently. He finally took me by the elbow and pulled me along.
    “If you’re convinced they’re Wideman’s trinkets, we know all we have to know. The Frenchies were here. We’re on the right track. Now, where the deuce has Ronald wandered off to?”
    He was half a block farther along with his nose in a book, his nose’s preferred location. As it was my own book, A Gentlewoman’s Memoirs of the Orient, he was holding, I didn’t rush him, but waited to see if Lord Kestrel might be interested to pick up a copy.
    “They have your book on prominent display, Marion,” Ronald mentioned.
    “Why, so they have! How nice. I wonder how it is moving.”
    Kestrel picked up one and leafed through it with a fairly disinterested face. “Is this any good?” he asked the clerk.
    “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t read it. This one is a good mover,” he replied. To my astonishment, he handed Kestrel a copy of Aurelia’s adventures in Portugal. The infuriating man allowed his eyes to roam over those pages for much longer than he had given my memoirs.
    “Good God, don’t tell me you read such trash as this!” I was betrayed into saying.
    He didn’t remove his nose from the book, but reached into his pocket to buy it. In my anger, I moved along to the far side of the rack, where used books were on sale. There, right on top, was Reverend Cooke’s copy of the Devotions and Sermons of Dr. Donne . The pictures were still concealed inside. I quietly took it to Kestrel and showed him the name inscribed on the flyleaf. It was a gift to Cooke from the dean of Canterbury. “The vicar would be happy to have this back,” I mentioned.
    “He’ll be glad to be rid of it,” Kestrel thought. He took the book and shuffled the naughty pictures of the partially undraped ladies into his hand, thence into his jacket pocket. “I wouldn’t want anyone to buy the book with Cooke’s name in it and find these pictures,” he explained.
    “Make sure you don’t put your name on the book they eventually end up in, in case you lose it like Cooke.”
    He turned his back to the stall and pulled the pictures out for examination. “They won’t end up in a book. I’ll have them framed for my study,” he said, with a smile in his voice. That touch of lechery in him surprised me.
    To mitigate the shame of the picture stealing, he bought a copy of my memoirs. With the books and the pictures strapped to his saddle, we were ready to go. We determined that one of the Frenchies had sold the stolen goods not two hours before. We figured out that the highwaymen had decided to make a small profit on the bits of loot stolen.
    “We really ought to take a look around for your lap case, Marion,” Ronald suggested.
    I silenced him with a glance. I certainly didn’t want Kestrel looking it over, with the latest Aurelia manuscript enclosed to embarrass me. “We can’t waste a moment,” I said hastily, and we were off to the coast. Of course, I would have to return and look for Aurelia later. I had three chapters done, and didn’t want to lose them. I hoped no one would buy my lap case within twenty-four hours, but if they did, I could always discover the purchaser and send Ronald after her for the manuscript.
    Kestrel set a hot pace along the road toward Ashford, where we were to separate, he going to Dover, Ronald and myself toward Dungeness. Orchards in bloom and pretty gardens whizzed past in a blur of white and pink. My years in various saddles, from camel to donkey to horse, stood me in good stead. If Kestrel hoped to see me lag behind, he was disappointed. I enjoyed every moment of it. When he paused to enquire whether I would like to stop for lunch, I assured him I could ride on for hours yet. We stopped at various villages to ask about our three highwaymen, and learned that we were gaining on them.
    They had passed two