“So it does, eventually. Too happy for the Heliosphere. The reviewer didn’t like the romantic elements. Compared them to treacle.”

She frowned as she flipped through the pages. Tripe. Treacle. “The reviewer must have been a man. Only a man would describe a romance in such a way.”

The clerk nodded. “He is, miss. He goes by the name of Bilgewater.”

Her mouth quirked. “Gracious. Is that a nom de plume?”

“Expect so. He wouldn’t want any angry authors coming after him. Not after some of the things he’s written about their books. Marshland isn’t his first victim.”

“Poor Mrs. Marshland. I’m sure she doesn’t deserve such censure.” Julia tucked a copy of The Garden of Valor under her arm. Impulsively, she selected three more.

Mary approached, curious. “Four of the same book, miss?”

“One for me, and one for Lady Anne, Miss Hobhouse, and Miss Maltravers.” Julia crossed the short distance to the wood counter near the shop’s front window. She set the books down on it in an untidy stack. “It will be my gift to them when they return to London.”

It wasn’t completely altruistic. Julia was in the mood for a bit of treacle. If she could support a lady novelist while she was at it, so much the better. Besides, she liked to discuss books with her friends, and how could she discuss The Garden of Valor if Anne, Stella, and Evelyn hadn’t read it?

The clerk beamed. “Excellent, excellent.” He darted behind the counter to tally her charges.

As Julia fumbled in her reticule for the coin to pay for her purchases, the shop bell rang, signaling the arrival of another customer. She cast a distracted look at the door.

And then she froze.

Captain Blunt did the same. He stood inside the entrance, his black hat in his hand. His usually unreadable expression betrayed a faint flicker of surprise.

If not for that flicker, Julia might have suspected that he’d followed her here. That he hadn’t respected her wishes at all. That he was continuing to pursue her despite the objections she’d voiced to his suit.

But no. The sight of her had set him back on his heels.

He recovered quickly. “Miss Wychwood.”

“Captain Blunt.” She stared at him for a long moment, her heart thumping with an odd mixture of anxiety and excitement.

The clerk gave a discreet cough. “That will be one pound six, miss.”

“What?” She turned back to him, flustered. “Oh yes. I beg your pardon.” She pushed a one pound coin and six shillings across the counter to him.

“Shall I wrap them, miss?” he asked.

“Please.”

Captain Blunt approached the counter. His gaze dropped to her stack of books. A strange stillness came over him.

“Yes, I know,” she said. “They’re for me and my friends. We’ve enjoyed Mrs. Marshland’s work before.”

“Have you.” His voice was peculiarly flat.

She sensed judgment in his words. “You sound as though you don’t approve of her.”

“On the contrary.” He leaned against the counter. He was wearing a black three-piece suit, impeccably tailored, but plain to the point of austerity. A faded gold pocket watch chain glinted at the front of his single-breasted waistcoat. “Marshland’s prose can be very affecting.”