Beneath a Waning Moon
Page 11

“Josephine—”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Neville. We both know you’re angry that you won’t inherit my money if I marry. Let me enlighten you: you wouldn’t have inherited anyway. My will is something I saw to years ago. So whatever happens between me and Mr. Thomas Murphy, you can be assured my fortune—and father’s—is well out of your reach.”
Tom put a hand on the butler’s arm, holding him back from announcing his presence. The butler, who was obviously not a fool, nodded silently. Tom waited outside the library, curious what Neville Burke’s response would be.
“You’re a foolish girl, Jo. And wills, especially those made by sick old spinsters, are always subject to interpretation. I have friends who can be very influential.”
Jo. It was a darling nickname, but Tom didn’t like the cousin using it. Neville Burke should only call her Josephine, if he had to speak to her at all.
“I am not a girl. Nor am I foolish. But you are foolish if you think you’ve hired better attorneys than mine. Good-bye, Neville. I’m expecting company, and I don’t want you around. Is that plain enough language for you? And don’t bother my father again. Make no mistake: I run this household, and you are not welcome in it unless you have an invitation.”
Tom nodded at the butler, who knocked a second before he pushed the door open.
“Mr. Thomas Murphy, Miss Shaw. Here to see you.”
“Ah.” Josephine stood, and Tom would have missed the slight tremble in her hand if he hadn’t been looking for signs of her temper. “Thank you, Mr. Carver. Would you see Mr. Burke out, please? He was just leaving.”
“Of course.”
Neville glared, but he didn’t argue. He nodded toward his cousin. “Josephine, I wish you well.”
“Of course you do.”
Tom suppressed the smile at her sarcasm and held out a hand to the pale gentleman. “Mr. Neville Burke, I take it?”
The young Mr. Burke could hardly refuse his hand without it seeming awkward. He took it and Tom squeezed it firmly. Neville Burke looked like a man who’d spent his whole life in clubs and at dinner parties. His clothes were fashionable, his face soft. His pale blond excuse for a mustache hung limp beneath his narrow nose, as if it too had given up on any proper attempt at manliness.
Tom squeezed his hand a little harder to amuse himself.
“Mr. Thomas Murphy,” Neville said through clenched teeth. “Your reputation, sir, proceeds you.”
“I’m glad.” He let go of the human’s hand, resisting the urge to plant some mental manipulation that would banish him from Josephine’s house forever. No, as offensive as Burke was, they needed to use him to understand what Beecham was up to.
“I understand,” Tom said, “we have a mutual acquaintance. Mr. William Beecham.”
Neville’s face grew pale. “Ah. I mean yes, I am acquainted with the gentleman. You know Mr. Beecham?”
“Oh yes,” Tom said. “I know all about Mr. Beecham. My brothers and I have known him for years.”
“Is that so? How… remarkable.”
Tom heard the waver in Neville’s voice and noticed Josephine’s eyes darting between the two men. This was taking too long. And Josephine was too bright not to pick up on the innuendo. He liked her intelligence, but he had to admit it was inconvenient at the moment.
“Good evening to you.” He nodded to dismiss Neville Burke and turned his attention to Josephine. “Miss Shaw, I am honored to see your library.” He bent and kissed her knuckles as the butler saw her cousin to the door. “My sister-in-law led me to believe it was extensive, and it does not disappoint.”
“Thank you, Mr. Murphy!”
“It also gives me hope you will enjoy this gift.”
He held out the slim volume to her and watched as she unwrapped it, meanwhile nodding politely at Mrs. Porter, who was knitting in the corner, and listening intently to make sure Neville Burke left the house.
Tom forgot the cousin entirely when Josephine’s face lit. “Ivanhoe!”
“It is only the first volume, I’m afraid. I found it years ago at a bookshop in London. But the binding is good, and there’s an intriguing inscription in the front I thought you might enjoy.”
She held the book to her breast. “You brought me a book.”
“You seemed more the book sort than the flower sort. Though I’d be happy to get you those as well.”
“A book.” Her face was glowing. “You are quite adept at courting.”
“No, I’m afraid I’m rather inexperienced in it. That’s why I’m trying everything in the hope I’ll hit on something that strikes your fancy.”
She laughed then, and the butterflies took flight in her eyes. She opened the book and looked at the first page. “‘To my own Rebecca,’” she read on the frontispiece. “Yours always, T.” She looked up. “Your given name is Thomas.”
“Aye, but I’m afraid I did not write the verse. Only acquired it with the book.”
“Rebecca, not Rowena,” she murmured. Her fingers traced over the script.
“Well,” Tom said, “Rebecca was the more interesting of the two, wasn’t she?”
“Yet Ivanhoe married Rowena at the end,” Josephine said. “There’s a story in this inscription, I think.”
Tom shrugged. “Isn’t there always?”