The Librarian's Spell Patricia Rice (top 100 novels .txt) 📖

He was pretty damned certain distraction did not work on the dessert-deprived.

“That’s good to know, Miss Laurel. I believe Lady Agnes could use more ratafia, if you would be so kind?” Lydia sailed onward, forcing Max with her, leaving the student gaping.

“Deftly done, my dear,” Max said in approval, registering direct command as another defense. “You have a managing way about you. It won’t stop her, though.”

“Lady Phoebe and Lady Dare aren’t following us. Apparently it is only the single ladies in this company that you must avoid.” Lydia hesitated, then added honestly, “And possibly your mother. Don’t mistake me—she’s a wonderful woman. . .”

“But a meddling witch,” Max cheerfully agreed. “A harmless one I needn’t fling against walls.”

Lydia halted before a professorial sort in tweeds and a sturdy gentleman with oil staining his fingernails. “Lord Dare, Mr. Blair, Maxwell Ives. I think everyone can sort out who is whom. I need to speak with the ladies.” She strolled off, abandoning Max to strangers.

The professorial one stuck out his hand. “I’m Doctor Dare, actually. The viscountcy is recent and unexpected so forget the title. Apparently, my wife has volunteered to take your wedding portraits. Unless you have need of a physician, I am relatively useless. If you require help with engineering problems, as the ladies seem to think, Blair here is your man.”

Both gentlemen had the dark-haired good looks of an Ives. Max had a vague recollection of an Alexander Dare in one of his sojourns to his southern cousins’ homes. But Blair was a stranger.

Relaxing his guard in male company, Max shook the physician viscount’s hand. “Should you happen to remember me as a recalcitrant, sulking youngster, you might identify me to a judge. Otherwise, your presence makes the ladies happy and that counts.”

Dare tilted his head to study Max but didn’t light up with recognition. “All Ives look alike to me,” he admitted.

Gut twisting, fearing his strong family features would be a problem, Max turned to the stranger—his cousin Phoebe’s husband, if he did not mistake. “Blair, good to meet you. Lydia is learning your typewriter invention. But I’m thinking I need an archeologist to work out this plumbing problem.”

“I’m more mechanical than structural, but I’d love a tour of that tower foundation, if we have time tomorrow,” Blair responded. “Hugh Morgan and I are removing some of the medieval tenements in Old Town and learning how to develop adequate plumbing is essential. The doctor and I were just discussing the disease factor of these primitive edifices.”

The round-faced, smiling maid arrived bearing a tray of nicely browned tartlets. “A nibble until the meal is served, gentlemen?”

Max turned his back on her to top off his glass at the liquor table.

“Mr. Ives, sir, tartlet?” she insisted, following him.

He swung back to his companions who stood tart-less, watching in bemusement. Grimacing, Max snatched the tray from the maid and passed it to them.

“Oh, sir, you needn’t do that! Please, let me, you’ll ruin your coat. . .” She began dabbing at an imaginary spot on his lapel with a napkin.

“For heaven’s sake, leave the gentleman alone.” The young photography student approached, grabbed the napkin, and pointed back to the ladies. “Ladies should be served first.”

Max sighed. He knew he should express gratitude for the rescue, but he also knew it wasn’t rescue. Without a word, he strode away from the quarreling women and back to Lydia. He took a seat beside her and threw back a swig of good Scots malt.

She glanced from him to her male guests. He assumed she noted the quarreling young women because her lips tightened.

“Not the stage for wall-flinging,” he murmured. “If I leave the room, they’ll most likely go back to normal.”

“You are not leaving the room,” she said grimly. “Your mother planned this dinner for you.”

“Did I tell you how regal you look in all that finery?” Max asked in amusement. “I know where I can buy a jeweled scepter and a tiara, although I suppose you would prefer a necklace. Diamonds? Amethysts?”

Her lips turned up, as he’d hoped. “A mace,” she said defiantly.

He grinned in appreciation. Dinner was finally called, and he breathed easier as they departed for the eccentric dining room with the round table. The student was placed on the furthest side from him, behind a silver epergne some ambitious soul had polished for the occasion. Normally, he’d wish the centerpiece to the devil. For tonight, it meant he could concentrate on Lydia and his cousin Phoebe on either side of him. He rather enjoyed a table with no head or foot so there was no precedence he had to memorize.

Relaxing a little, he followed the conversation as it bounced from Phoebe’s animal shelter to Dare’s new medical project to Blair’s latest invention. Lady Dare, in her colorful sari, spoke of the latest efforts in color photography. Perhaps he’d been attending the wrong sorts of society functions. He warily watched a new young maid delivering trays from the kitchen, but she merely darted nervous glances and ran off like a frightened hare.

Over the epergne, the pretty student attempted to attract his attention by offering food commentary so obviously directed at him that it was painful. His mother had a word with her, and she was reduced to wide-eyed, longing looks that Max easily ignored.

He had actually reached the point of enjoying the lamb medallions enough to compare them to one of the few fine dinners he remembered in rural regions when a footman entered with a card in hand instead of food.

The servant uncertainly presented it between Lydia and Max. “The gentleman asks to see Mr. Ives.”

“At this hour? In the rain? Do we ask him to join us?” Lydia let Max take the card, realized her mistake, and leaned over to read it. “David Franklin?”

Conversation halted. Max debated telling the footman to heave his uncle back into the rain. But this was Lydia’s home, and he respected her hospitality. One