The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter by Mary Ellen Dennis Read Free Book Online Page B

conjured up out of her imagination—had actually lived and breathed? No. Her trepidation had to do with his death.
    But Ralf Darkstarre didn’t exist, had never existed!
    Elizabeth told herself that reason was stronger than fear. She told herself that the hallway sustained a draft, an annoying influx of air that caused the flesh beneath her sleeves to goose bump. Her petticoats swayed and swirled, as if caught in the throes of a nautical cat’s-paw, but she told herself that the swirl was caused by the draft, or perhaps her swift movements, certainly not by her trembling limbs.
    â€œâ€¦excited about showing you the Alcester Chronicles. They were written by monks from Alcester Abbey, not far from Evesham.” The curator turned halfway ’round to face her. “By the way, it appears that you’re not the only one interested in the Chronicles, Miss Wyndham.”
    â€œI… I beg your pardon?” she managed.
    â€œA few days ago, or was it a week—my memory has such a way of slipping—a gentleman also asked to be shown the manuscript. He seemed a pleasant young man, well-garbed and courteous. He told me his name, but it escapes me.” Waterman’s faded blue eyes disappeared behind a web of smile wrinkles. “I fear I can remember names centuries old more easily than the name of someone I met five minutes ago.”
    Halting in front of a door, the curator reached for his ring of keys and bent over the lock. “He limped.”
    â€œWho limped?”
    â€œThe gentleman. Not a severe impairment. He might have returned from a grueling ride.”
    John Randolph, Elizabeth thought. “Was this visitor in his early thirties, a shade over six feet, with dark hair and blue eyes?”
    â€œCould be.” Mr. Waterman removed the key from the lock and returned the ring to its rightful place. “It’s so hard to say.”
    â€œWas his name, by any chance, John Randolph?” Elizabeth pressed. “Did he say where he lived? Anything concerning his occupation? Anything at all that you can remember?”
    Even as she tried to jog the curator’s memory, she knew the odds against John strolling into London’s central library, looking for the Alcester Chronicles. Such a coincidence defied all reason. And yet, by his own admission, he had read her books. Maybe he had been particularly interested in Castles of Doom, and wanted to learn more about the ending. But how would he have heard of such an obscure chronicle? And if he had stumbled across its existence, why not just reach for a dozen translated histories? Why would anyone save an historian or a desperate Gothic novelist show any interest in the ancient manuscript?
    It must be somebody else, Elizabeth decided. In a crowd of people, at least one individual would possess a limp. A person could fall from his horse, be born with a bad leg—a dozen things might cause such a condition. Why, even the gallant who had escorted her through Vauxhall Gardens had affected a rather sprightly hobble.
    â€œMy treasure house,” Waterman said, stepping aside to allow Elizabeth entrance. “I would not trade one of these manuscripts for all the gold in the kingdom.”
    Glancing around, Elizabeth felt a smile crease the corners of her mouth. She saw that a skylight bathed the tiny room in a pleasant natural light. The furnishings consisted solely of a huge cluttered desk and a chair. Glass bookcases, which stretched from the floor to the ceiling on three sides, displayed dozens of bulky manuscripts.
    â€œJust think,” Waterman said, gesturing toward the cases with his elegant hands. “Some of these works are hundreds of years old.”
    â€œYes,” breathed Elizabeth.
    She imagined a monk, his tonsured head gleaming softly in the light from a large window. Seated in a high-backed chair, his legs rested on a footstool beneath his desk. His right hand, encased in a fingerless glove, toyed