A solicitor’s establishment, perhaps, or… The sign on the lamppost swung in the chilly breeze: W. Bart. St. Lending Library. All welcome.

“Excuse me,” Dunfallon said. “Find another companion for breakfast, Bellefonte. Please delay the ladies as long as you can.”

Bellefonte’s smile became less genial and more piratical. “They’ll ambush you in the churchyard, at the house parties, and at the Yuletide open houses. Mistletoe was invented by spinsters, you know.”

“Or by clever bachelors, among whom I hope to number for a good many years.” Dunfallon moved off with the pedestrians thronging the walkway. By the time he’d reached the lending library, Miss Peasegill’s signature “Halloo! Halloo, my lord!” was ringing out behind him.

My lord, not Your Grace, meaning Dunfallon had avoided capture—this time.

The library, thank the blessed powers, was open. Dunfallon slipped inside with the same relief he’d felt when he’d dodged past French patrols and Spanish bandits. He remained by the doorway, a trickle of shame blending with his relief.

Miss Peasegill was merely a young lady in search of a tiara. She’d been raised with pursuit of that sole objective in mind, and now she had a handful of months left to achieve her goal. If she failed and ended up wedded to some cit’s spotty son, she would be forever classed among the unfortunates who did not take.

Dunfallon well knew how it felt to be judged inadequate. He considered returning to Bellefonte’s side, but the sheer abundance of books on display caught his eye. As the second ducal spare, he’d learned to appreciate the company of books. His old tutor, MacAlpin, believed that a boy who read widely was a boy well armed against life’s challenges.

Papa had thought that a boy absorbed with books was a boy who never gave his father any trouble, which for the first sixteen years of Dunfallon’s life had been his sole ambition.

Windows two stories tall filled the library with light, and the air was gently scented with leather and lemon oil. A double-sided hearth took up the center of the main room. A fat white cat lounged on the mantel, and a mezzanine level ringed the premises on three sides. Book shelves lined the walls and stood in rows on the opposite side of the hearth. The fourth side of the upper level looked to be some sort of enclosed office, or perhaps a room for literary rarities.

A second fireplace was set against the back wall, and a pair of older gents nodded in wing chairs before the blaze. One of them had a lapful of knitting. The other drowsed under the open pages of a newspaper.