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On the upper floor, Fernsby’s voice reached them, directing those who were coming to the end of their time in the museum to the stairs. Henry opted to remain silent and follow Lord Claridge into the quiet room. The wooden chair in the far corner was occupied by a gentleman studying the pages of a huge tome. Across from him, Townsend was reshelving books.
Townsend looked up as they walked in. “Lord Claridge.” He inclined his head, set down the books on the nearest table, and moved closer. “It’s an honor to have you here, my lord.”
“Thank you, Townsend.” The gentleman waved his hand in the vague direction of the bookshelves. “Don’t let me disturb you. I need to speak with Buckland and could hardly hear myself think over the people gathered in the lobby.”
“I understand, my lord.” Townsend may have grasped Lord Claridge’s meaning, but his clipped tone suggested that he was not happy about it. “It can be excessively loud at this time of day.”
“Quite.”
Townsend made no move, but Lord Claridge was no longer looking at him. He raised a piece of paper in his hand. “I received a letter from Lady Grenville’s solicitor today, Buckland.”
Henry tensed. When he’d left Lady Grenville’s home, she’d given him a verbal assurance that the items they had discussed would soon find their way to the museum. Had she changed her mind or added some outrageous stipulations?
“He wrote to tell me of Lady Grenville’s desire to make an extensive donation to the museum,” Lord Claridge continued. “I must say, it came as a most welcome surprise. The viscountess’s butterfly collection is one thing; her extensive collection of books and manuscripts is quite another.”
Relief flooded Henry. Lady Grenville had not reneged upon her promise after all. “I am happy to know that she has contacted her solicitor regarding the matter, my lord.”
“Agreed. Involving solicitors will undoubtedly make the transfer of ownership much smoother.” He waggled the paper. “I believe you can expect Lady Grenville’s contribution within the fortnight.”
Before Henry could respond, Townsend cleared his throat. “If I may be so bold, my lord, may I offer my services? I feel sure that Buckland would agree that my particular expertise lends itself better to the viscountess’s collection of books and manuscripts than does his.”
“Good of you to offer, Townsend,” Lord Claridge said. “Unfortunately, Lady Grenville has made it quite clear that she will only work with Buckland.” His white eyebrows came together as he continued to address Townsend. “I seem to recall that you visited the lady with the hope of acquiring certain items several years ago, and she was unwilling to part with them.”
Townsend’s acknowledging nod was stiff. “I am glad to know that she has acted upon my original proposal after all this time.”
Henry refrained from mentioning that it was only after he’d listened to Lady Grenville reminisce for over three hours about her husband’s penchant for discovering new poets that she’d even contemplated the possibility of including those early manuscripts with her butterfly collection donation.
“It is certainly true that the subject of Lady Grenville’s impressive compilation of literature has arisen several times in the past,” Lord Claridge said, “but the trustees were given the distinct impression that the viscountess had no interest in donating any part of it before now. They will be gratified to hear of her change of heart.” He patted Henry’s arm. “All credit to you for that, Buckland. Well done.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
The chair gave a pleased nod. “Yes, well, I felt it my duty to personally commend you for acquiring so large an endowment, but with that said, I’d best be on my way.” He turned to leave. “Walk with me to the entrance. I have a few questions to ask before I meet with the board. Good day to you, Townsend.”
“Good day, my lord.” Townsend’s glower followed Henry out of the reading room.
Fernsby’s tour group had reached the lobby, and the noise level was considerably higher than it had been before. Regardless of the commotion, however, Henry had the distinct impression that he was better off there than in the manuscript saloon.
Chapter 7
Emily watched the London streets pass by through the window of Aunt Millward’s carriage. Light rain was falling, darkening the soot-covered brick walls and creating puddles on the road. A few people hurried along the pavement, their heads lowered, and a stray dog stood at a corner, barking as the carriage rolled by. In the distance, a splash of green marked a small patch of grass surrounded by trees, and Emily experienced a pang of homesickness for the countryside around Dunsbourne Manor.
She brushed away the unexpected emotion. How could she possibly harbor melancholy in her present circumstances? Since her arrival in London, she’d taken a drive through Hyde Park and had ridden across the magnificent Westminster Bridge. She’d sat beneath the vast domed ceiling in St. Paul’s Cathedral and enjoyed a cup of tea at Twinings after spending an afternoon visiting Phoebe’s favorite modiste. Every outing had been eye-opening. Every outing had been a delight. But none had filled her with as much nervous anticipation as the one upon which she was currently embarked.
Closing her eyes, she pressed her hand against the boning in her corset. It did little to settle the butterflies swirling within her, but it provided a moment to collect herself. The museum would be marvelous. How could it not be? Mr. Buckland would be gracious. He had already exhibited that trait. Logic dictated that there was absolutely no reason for her disquiet. Unfortunately, logic did not seem to be influencing her current feelings.
“Are you well, Emily?”
Emily opened her eyes to see Phoebe studying her anxiously.
Her sister-in-law was sitting next to Adam on the other side of the carriage, and when she spoke, Adam turned to look at Emily too. “You do look rather pale, Em,” he said.
Meeting Mr. Buckland while appearing wan was not exactly what she had hoped for when she’d donned her favorite pink floral gown this morning.
“I am well enough,” she said, mustering a cheerful smile. “I think perhaps my stomach is somewhat unsettled due to the movement of the carriage over the uneven road.”
“Take heart.” Aunt Millward patted her hand. “You will not have to endure it much longer. Look. You can see the walls surrounding Montagu House now.”
The carriage slowed, and a tall stone wall came into view. Emily set one gloved hand on the vehicle’s narrow windowsill as the carriage turned onto a gravel drive. To the left, manicured hedges surrounded tidy squares of grass. To the right, the most magnificent house Emily had ever seen stretched out along the full length of the courtyard.
