"If Books Could Kill" - читать интересную книгу автора (Carlisle Kate)

Chapter 1

If my life were a book, I would have masking tape holding my hinges together. My pages would be loose, my edges tattered and my boards exposed, the front flyleaf torn and the leather mottled and moth-eaten. I’d have to take myself apart and put myself back together, as any good book restoration expert would do.

I had just finished my first glass of India Pale Ale in the pub of the Edinburgh hotel I’d checked into an hour earlier, and it seemed as good a time as any to throw myself a pity party and reflect on the strange turns my life had taken recently. I wasn’t happy about it. I needed to get back on track. And it occurred to me, why not treat myself as I would a damaged book? Study the twists and turns and knots and smudges that had left me short-tempered and befuddled. And threadbare. Then I could dust off my pages, resew the torn folds, trim the frays and smooth out the dents. And be my happy self again. Trust me, nobody liked a grumpy bookbinder.

“You look like you could use another, love, and quickly,” the waitress said, placing a second glass of ale on the table to replace the one I’d just swilled.

Great. Just in case I’d imagined things were okay with me, a kind stranger was here to assure me that I was indeed a total mess.

I smiled at her, an older woman with short, curly gray hair and a teasing grin, and said lightly, “I don’t look that bad, do I?”

She studied me for a moment. “Aye, you do, love. And for that, the IPA’s on the house.”

“Thanks a lot,” I said with a rueful laugh, then explained, “It’s just jet lag. I’ll be fine in twenty-four hours.”

She nodded judiciously. “Of course it’s jet lag if you say so.” Her eyes narrowed as she studied me. “But my woman’s intuition thinks ’tis a man you’re mulling over.”

I laughed a bit desperately. “Truly, I’m not.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Then you’ll be returning the IPA?”

“No.” I gripped the beer I’d been craving for the last six hours of my transatlantic flight. “No, I’m sorry. I’m going to need this.”

Her eyes twinkled gaily. “Aye, I knew it.” She tapped the side of her head. “Can’t another woman tell when one of her ilk is suffering, then? And isn’t it always about a man. Damn their skins!”

“Order up, Mary!” the bartender shouted.

“Haud yer wheesht!” she yelled over her shoulder, then smiled sweetly at me. “Enjoy your luncheon and take good care.” She turned and marched to the bar, where she bared her teeth at the burly bartender as she collected a tray of drinks.

I wasn’t an expert in the Scottish dialect, but I believed she’d just suggested to her boss that he shove a sock in his piehole.

I chuckled as I checked my wristwatch, then paid the bill. Barely an hour in Edinburgh and I’d fallen in love with the people all over again.

I’d arrived at the Royal Thistle Hotel after flying nonstop from San Francisco to London, then catching a quick shuttle flight north. I’d checked in, unpacked my bags and headed straight for the hotel pub to grab a sandwich and a beer. Now I was ready for a brisk walk out in the cold March air. In travel, I believed in hitting the ground running.

I was here to attend the annual Edinburgh Book Fair and was looking forward to visiting with friends and colleagues I hadn’t seen in a while. I would be giving a few workshops, and there would be thousands of beautiful books and fine bindings to study and drool over. With any luck, I’d find one or two bargains to snag for my very own. I expected lots of good conversation and much pub crawling in one of the most delightful cities on the planet.

I should’ve been elated. Instead, I was sad and feeling a little overwhelmed, knowing that Abraham Karastovsky, the man who first taught me bookbinding years ago, the man I’d worked with most of my life and always considered a mix of beloved uncle and benevolent dictator, wouldn’t be in Edinburgh with me.

I’d known him since I was eight years old, when he’d repaired a favorite book my brothers had ruined. Fascinated with what he’d done, I’d gone back every day to watch him work in his small bindery, pestering him so much that he’d finally brought me on as his apprentice.

Now Abraham was gone, senselessly murdered last month, and I felt an emptiness I’d never experienced before. It didn’t help that the man had left me the lion’s share of his estate, some six million dollars, give or take a million. And while it gave me a secret thrill to know that in his will, he’d called me the daughter of his heart, I hated that I’d benefited so greatly from his death. After all, I was now rich beyond my wildest dreams and all it had cost was Abraham’s life.

“ Brooklyn?”

I whipped around, then jumped up when I spied an old friend walking briskly toward me. “Helen!”

Helen Chin grinned as she glided confidently through the bar, her glossy black hair cut in a short, sassy bob. She’d always been demure and soft-spoken, a brilliant, petite Asian woman with lustrous long hair and a shy smile. The haircut and the confidence were major changes since the last time I saw her. That had to have been over two years ago, when we’d both taught spring classes in Lyon, France, at the Institut d’Histoire du Livre. But we’d first met and bonded while teaching summer courses at the University of Texas at Austin. A hurricane had come through, blowing the roof off the dormitory we were staying in. Nothing forges a friendship better than sharing trail mix and toothpaste while sleeping on cots in a crowded, smelly gymnasium for a week.

I gave her a tight hug. She felt thinner than I remembered.

“I saw your name in the program,” she said, and clasped my arms with both hands. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” I took a closer look at her, checking out the new hairstyle, her pretty red jacket, black pants and shiny black shoes. “You look amazing, and you’ve lost weight. Are you moonlighting as a supermodel?”

“Oh, right,” she said with a laugh.

“Seriously, you look great.”

“Well, you don’t have to sound so surprised,” she said lightly, but I could sense the defensiveness underneath.

“Silly,” I said, avoiding the bait as I hugged her again. I casually looked around. “So where’s Martin?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “He’s here somewhere, but it doesn’t matter. I might as well tell you I’ve filed for divorce.”

I hoped my eyes weren’t bugging out of my head as I said, “No way! I’m so sorry.”

She gave me a pointed look. “Oh, please.” Then she slipped her arm through mine and we walked through the lobby. “You’re not sorry and neither am I.”

“How’s Martin taking it?”

“Not well, as you might expect.” She shook her head in disgust. “He was as big a jerk as everyone said, and I’m thrilled to be rid of him.”

I squeezed her arm. “Okay. Then I’m doubly happy for you and not sorry at all.”

Helen was right. I’d never liked Martin Warrington, and I wasn’t the only one. When she’d announced her engagement in Lyon, I hadn’t understood how such a smart woman could marry such an annoying man. Then I figured, with my own stellar record of bad choices and broken engagements, I was hardly one to criticize.

At the time, I was more sorry for myself than for her, because I knew we wouldn’t be able to be friends once she married Martin. He didn’t like me any more than I liked him, probably because I’d tried to talk Helen out of marrying him and he’d caught wind of it.

“So where have you been hiding?” I asked. “I didn’t see you in Lisbon.”

“Martin didn’t like me attending the book fairs.” She shook her head in irritation. “He said I flirted too much.”

Translation: Helen was a nice person; Martin was a toad.

“Did you happen to mention that attending book fairs is part of your job?”

“Don’t get me started,” she said, puffing out a breath. “I lost ten pounds worrying about it but came to realize there’s no making sense of it. Let’s just say I was a moron to put up with it as long as I did. And now I’m determined to have a fabulous time while I’m here.”

“Good.” I hugged her again. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” She giggled. “And I have so much to tell you.”

“Really? Let’s hear it. What’s going on with you?”

“You won’t believe it,” she said, moving closer to whisper in my ear. “I’m in love.”

“What?”

“Shhh!” She waved her hand at me. “Nobody knows. We’ve kept it very hush-hush. It’s crazy, but I’ve never been so happy.”

She did look happy, and I was glad for her. Trust me. Anyone who had put up with Martin all this time deserved to be happy.

“Okay, we definitely have to talk,” I said, clutching her arm. “We can go up to my room. I’ll order drinks.”

“I can’t,” she said, pouting. “I’m off to meet a client. But look, a bunch of us are doing the ghost tour later. Join us. It’ll be a hoot. We can have a drink afterward, just you and me, and catch up.”

I caught someone moving in my peripheral vision.

“Hello, Martin,” I said loudly to alert Helen. He’d literally sneaked up on us, probably to overhear our conversation. What a creep. I hoped he hadn’t heard our plans, because I refused to spend any more time with him than was absolutely necessary.

“Hello, Brooklyn,” he said, giving me a smile I didn’t trust for a second.

I supposed some women would consider him handsome. He was tall and lean and wore white linen pants with a beige linen jacket. He looked elegantly rumpled, with boyish blond good looks and an easy grin. He owned a bookstore somewhere in London, and I always figured he had some family money tucked away. He was feckless and disdainful of most of humanity. I’d seen the way he treated Helen and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like him.

The smile disappeared as he confronted Helen. “I told you I’d meet you on the conference level.”

“And I told you I’d try to make it but probably wouldn’t be able to,” Helen said defiantly.

“We have to talk now.” He pushed up the sleeves of his linen jacket.

“I’m off to meet a client,” she said as she glanced at her wristwatch. “I can try to see you at two thirty.”

He tapped his elegantly shod foot as red blotches of annoyance cropped up on his cheeks. He shot a quick glance at me, then said to Helen, “I’m meeting with the president of King’s College at two and will be tied up all afternoon.”

Well, la-di-da. Was he trying to impress me?

“I’m sorry, Martin,” she said, but she didn’t sound at all remorseful. “Maybe tomorrow.”

His face puckered up as though he’d bitten into a lemon; then he flashed me a venomous look as if it were my fault his wife was insolent. “I can see you’re in a mood. I’ll speak with you later this afternoon.”

We both watched him stalk away.

“Gosh, I’ve put you in a mood,” I said, using air quotes as I tried to lighten the moment. “Sorry.”

“Yes, it’s all your fault.” She shook her head and tried to laugh. “What a pill.”

“You handled him well.”

“I’ve had some practice,” she said. “He makes it hard to be nice. Now, where were we? Oh, the ghost tour. Please say you’ll come?”

“Definitely. It sounds like fun.”

“Wonderful. I’ll add your name to the reservations.”

“Great.” We arranged a time and place to meet. Then she gave me a hug and took off, leaving me with a decision to make. It would be smart to take a nap, because I was starting to feel dizzy and sleep deprived, but I wanted to see and breathe in a bit of the city first.

I headed for the wide double doors but spied a sundries store tucked into the far corner of the lobby. I made the detour, walked in and found a candy bar for sustenance and a pack of cinnamon gum for clean breath. As I stepped up to the counter to pay, a tall, heavyset man pushed me aside, slapping a newspaper on the counter and reaching in his pocket for change.

“Hey!”

He ignored me completely as he fished for coins.

I knew him. Perry McDougall, a pompous ass who thought he was smarter and better than everyone on the planet. Perry was one of Abraham’s contemporaries. He owned a rare-book store in Glasgow and fancied himself a scholar, specializing in Scottish history and the Georgian and Regency periods of the British monarchy. He’d always been a rude, angry man. Guess that hadn’t changed.

“Excuse me,” I said, getting more annoyed by the second. He hadn’t even glanced at me. In Perry’s world, only Perry mattered.

He took his change and folded the paper under his arm.

“I said excuse me,” I said more loudly. “You need to learn to wait your turn.”

He turned and sniffed at me. “I beg your pardon?”

“You can beg all you want, but it doesn’t mean you get to push people out of the way who were here first.”

He looked at me as if I’d soiled his shoes. “What are you raving on about, you silly wench?”

Blame the two beers and an extreme case of jet lag, but I moved up close to him and said, “I’ll show you raving, pal.” Then, without thinking, I grabbed his newspaper and waved it at his face.

He recoiled and I realized I’d lost what was left of my mind.

“Sorry,” I said, and handed his paper back to him.

His mouth opened and closed like a trout’s, but he finally said, “You’re a crazed bitch.”

“Oh, I’m a bitch because rude people piss me off? At least I said I was sorry. But not you. You’re just a big bully.” I slammed a pound note on the counter to cover the cost of the gum, the chocolate and the hissy fit, and walked out.

“I know you!” he shouted after me. “You worked with Karastovsky. I’ll make sure you never work again, missy.”

Oh, crap. I rushed across the lobby and escaped through the automatic doors. What was wrong with me? I never confronted people. Was this part of my new weirdness? Was I going to turn into a crazy old crone and mutter to myself? Would I scare small children wherever I went?

Maybe.

But as I walked down the short drive in front of the hotel, I smiled and started to laugh. It felt good to yell at that rude bastard. And why was standing up for myself such a bad thing? As far as his warning shot went, he had no power over who hired me. Still, it gave me a chill to think he would try to threaten my career. I pulled my jacket tighter and raised the collar as a brisk wind blew across my neck.

I forced all thoughts of rude Perry out of my head so I could appreciate one of my favorite places in the world. As I approached the Royal Mile, I drew in the fresh air of Edinburgh and got my first real up-close taste of the ancient city.

The Royal Thistle Hotel was perched on a slope half a block down from St. Giles’ Cathedral in the heart of the Royal Mile. The afternoon air was cold and clear, the sky a deep blue with the occasional white puff of cloud. It was a perfect day for a solitary stroll. I turned left toward Edinburgh Castle, breathing in the scents and absorbing the sounds. I stared at the proliferation of souvenir shops selling everything from tartans and kilts to whisky, to ashtrays and coasters and shot glasses, to cashmere shawls and fisherman knit sweaters.

As I walked along the smooth stone sidewalk, I tried to tune out my angry run-ins with both Perry and Martin. I stared at the window display at the Scotch Whisky Heritage Centre and laughed at myself for thinking I could actually handle a taste of Scotch right now, with jet lag tugging at me. I’d fall flat on my face and never make it back to the hotel. I made a mental note to stop back here in a day or so. I didn’t usually drink Scotch, but when in Scotland, a wee dram seemed the way to go.

It sounded as if I had an addictive personality, and I was okay with that. The thing was, I could just as likely be swayed by a piece of chocolate or a beautiful book or a twice-baked potato as I was by a shot of good Scotch. The only obsession I didn’t seem to possess was the shopping gene, much to the dismay of my best friend, Robin Tully.

Thinking of Robin made me smile, as I was reminded that she would be here tomorrow to lead a small group on a tour of Scotland. Besides being a talented sculptor, Robin owned a small travel company called Wisdom Quest. Most of her clients were Fellowship friends who sought out sacred places throughout the world where they could soak up the mysteries and magic while getting their auras polished and their portals tweaked.

The Fellowship-officially, the Fellowship for Spiritual Enlightenment and Higher Artistic Consciousness-was the commune in Sonoma County where my parents had raised me and my five siblings. It was where I first met Robin. It wasn’t much of a commune anymore since its members had discovered capitalism and commerce in a big, fun way and become rich off the California wine boom. But everyone was still close and supported one another, as small town people tended to do.

I reached the fork at the top of the Royal Mile and crossed the cobblestone street to head up to the castle. I stopped and took a deep breath of clean air to clear away the prickly feelings. I gazed back at the picturesque, mile-long High Street that meandered down to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, the queen’s official summer residence.

The city had changed in the three years since I’d been here. For one thing, there were more Starbucks now, including the one that shared the block with the venerable St. Giles’ Cathedral. And the Royal Thistle Hotel had expanded recently to include a luxurious health spa-not that I was complaining about that. I just hoped my favorite pubs were still in business. I had my priorities, after all.

I took my time hiking up the last block toward the castle. Halfway there I stopped, distracted by one store window that displayed an astonishing jumble of tartan kilts and sporrans. For some reason, they reminded me of big, brash Abraham. The last time we’d attended the Edinburgh Book Fair together, he’d worn his full kilt ensemble to the Saturday-night gala. Much to the delight of the crowd, he’d danced the jig and felt so unfettered that he declared he was going to wear a skirt from then on.

I chuckled at the memory, then realized my eyes were moist. I had to breathe in some air as the full force of jet lag hit me-or maybe it was simply the acceptance that Abraham was truly gone. Either way, it was time for that nap.

Without warning I was grabbed from behind, lifted off the ground and twirled around.

I screamed and swore loudly at my assailant. Then I realized who it was and swore even more.

“Despite that mouth of yours, you’re more beautiful than ever,” he said.

“Kyle McVee, you idiot!” I cried, and hugged him hard.

“Ah, you’ve missed me,” he crowed as he held me snugly in his arms.

“No, I didn’t miss you,” I said, burying my face in the crook of his delicious-smelling neck. “You’re a cad and a rat fink, remember? The Bad Boy Bookseller of Belgravia. I curse your name every morning.”

“I love you, too, my sweet,” he said with a laugh. “Besides, I’ve mellowed.”

“Really,” I said.

“Yes, I’m quite housebroken these days, not a rat at all.” He kissed me full on the lips. “Mm, you’ve still got the sexiest mouth on four continents.”

“Oh, stop it.” I stood back and looked at the man who’d broken my heart three-or was it four?-years ago. My breath almost caught as I stared. Kyle McVee was simply beautiful. Tall, elegant, with a wicked grin and dark eyes that sparkled with charm and humor, he had the look of an angel but was an unapologetic devil through and through. He was yet another living example of my pitiful taste in men.

Maybe I did have a sad habit of picking the most unsuitable men, but I certainly chose the prettiest ones.

“It’s wonderful to see you,” he said, nuzzling my neck. “Mmm, and you smell good enough to eat. Let’s go back to my hotel room, what do you say?”

“In your dreams,” I said with a laugh. “How dare you proposition me in the middle of the street?”

“Because you’re still a darling girl,” he said, then backed up and looked me over.

I straightened my shirt and jacket and tried to find some trace of decorum, but it was useless. My cheeks heated up at his blatant perusal. I tried to remind myself that if I’d been so darling, why had he felt so compelled to cheat on me more than once during the six months we dated while I lived in London? A simple question.

I knew the answer: He couldn’t help himself. Kyle came from money, lots of money. Among other things, his family owned a respected London book publishing company. He had a collection of rare books that matched any museum collection in the world. He enjoyed the business of buying and selling and trading, and especially enjoyed the bed-hopping and screwing around that came with being the prettiest, wealthiest man in a business that catered to smart, wealthy people.

“What are you up to?” he asked.

“I was enjoying a quiet walk to the castle.”

“How boring,” he said, pulling me across the street. “Join me at the pub and we’ll have a snug chat.”

“Hmm. Thanks, but no.”

“Come on, babe. It’s been too long. We’ve got catching up to do.”

“Don’t you have someone else to torment?”

“There’s no one more fun to torment than you.”

“Oh, don’t I feel special,” I said.

He leaned closer. “Besides, I’ve something to show you that’ll knock your socks off.”

“I’ve already seen it,” I said dryly.

His eyes widened. “Minx! Damn it! I insist we skip the pub and go back to my room.”

“You haven’t changed,” I said, reluctantly enjoying his silliness.

“Why should I?” he said with a wink.

I laughed again and realized I’d missed him. He’d always been a relentless charmer. It had been my mistake for thinking he’d taken our relationship seriously, my mistake to allow the pain to overwhelm me. I’d felt so betrayed, it had taken me months to get over it. And now, gazing up at him, trying to recall the pain and anger, I couldn’t. Truth be told, he was just too adorable to hate.

“Come on, now,” he said, pulling me closer to the pub’s doorway. “I really do have something to show you. It’s fate that I stumbled upon you here.”

“All right,” I said, as if it mattered what I thought, since we were halfway inside the Ensign Ewart pub.

I’d been inside the pub before, three years ago. It was a serious drinking spot for locals who showed up to enjoy the traditional music the bar featured several nights a week. Despite its location directly next door to the castle, the pub didn’t cater to tourists, much to the dismay of anyone who might wander in after a day of sightseeing and expect a charming Scots welcome.

The room was relatively small and cozy, with dark wood posts and beams across the low, flat ceiling. Kyle ordered two pints at the bar, and we found a quiet corner nook and sat side by side. Kyle removed his gray cashmere sports jacket and laid it on the bench next to him.

I stared at the pint. “I should’ve had a Pepsi.”

“Heresy,” he said.

“Jet lag’s catching up to me,” I explained as I settled into the small space. “But you’re right. It would be a waste to drink anything but beer in a place like this.”

“That’s my little soldier.”

“So what did you want to show me?”

“Straight to business then,” Kyle said, and pulled a small, wrapped parcel from his satchel. “I need your expertise.”

He handed me the item and I held it, felt it, determining its size, weight and shape without opening it.

“I’d say it’s a book.” I handed it back to him.

“Brilliant, darling, but I’m serious. I want you to look at it.”

I unwrapped the brown paper to find a small book covered in tissue. I peeled back the fragile paper and stared at the perfect little book. The leather cover was red goatskin, otherwise known as morocco, heavily gilded and well preserved. It felt warm in my hand as I weighed it, then turned it to study the words on the spine. Love Poems to a Flaxen’d Quean by Robert Burns.

“Beautiful,” I murmured.

The front cover was dominated by a gold Scottish wheel surrounded on four sides by Solomon’s seals, or pentagrams, thought to ward off the powers of evil. Gilded thistle, holly berries and rose vines made up the graceful border around the edges.

“Cathcart?” I wondered aloud, turning the book in my hand.

“Oh, well-done,” Kyle said, sitting back.

It was an easy guess. The sheer overabundance of gilding, together with the combination of Scottish wheel, pentagrams, thistle and holly, were the distinctive markings of William Cathcart, an illustrious eighteenth-century Edinburgh publisher and bookbinder.

I took a sip of beer, then put the glass on the table and returned to the book, carefully opening to the title page. It was hand-dated 1786. On the flyleaf was an inscription, faded and barely legible, but I could make out the words: Many thanks and cheers to my friend and comrade William. It was signed by Robert Burns.

Robert Burns?

I looked at Kyle. “Is this a joke?”

“No,” he said lightly, but his lips had thinned and his eyes were narrow. “It’s not a joke. It’s real. But that’s not for me to say. I need you to authenticate it.”

“Me? I can’t.”

“Of course you can,” he said brusquely. “You’re a leading authority on book fraud. You uncovered that scam with the fake Steinbeck. Your reputation is-”

“No, no,” I said quickly. “I mean, I would need a laboratory to test the ink and the binding, the underpinnings. And my tools. I brought my travel tools but I don’t have everything here. I don’t think…”

“I can set you up somewhere. Could you do it?”

I stared at the book again. “Well, of course. Except for the signature. You’d need a lab to test the ink and a historian and a handwriting expert and-”

“I’ll pay you, of course.”

“Of course.” I nodded absently. My mind was already considering the practicalities of working in a strange lab in another country. I’d done it before. The details were no big deal. All that mattered was getting answers, and those could be found only inside this book. And oh, how I was tempted. Judging by his expression, the man sitting next to me knew it, too.

Kyle sipped his beer in moody silence while I studied the rare treasure in my hand. Even without the inscription of possibly the most famous Scottish poet who ever lived, this book was an excellent example of William Cathcart’s genius. The condition was mint, although the outer joints were slightly rubbed and the gilding was pale along the spine.

“If that signature is real, this should be in a museum,” I said, handing the book back to him.

“No, no, you hold on to it,” he said. “Maybe you’ll have a chance to study it more.”

I gladly held on to the book. “Where did you get it?”

He exhaled heavily. “Cathcart is an ancestor. The book belongs to my family. Legend has it he created only ten copies of this edition, so it’s rare indeed.”

“Indeed,” I echoed.

“This is the only one inscribed, that I’m aware of.” He chewed on his bottom lip.

“What else?”

He eyed me, then admitted, “It’s not just the book itself that concerns me.”

I sat back. “What do you mean?”

He took the book from me and opened it to the text. “I told you only ten of this edition were published. The others have disappeared. Believe me, I’ve searched high and low, asked around, advertised.”

“They probably went into private collections.”

“Maybe.” He frowned.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s the poems themselves.” He sighed. “There are poems in this book that I’ve never seen published anywhere else. And if you Google the book’s title, it doesn’t show up at all.”

It was my turn to frown. “That can’t be true.”

“Look.” He thumbed through to a particular page and held it open for me to see. “To this day, I can’t find a trace of this poem in any other edition. And you know as well as I that books of poetry by Robert Burns are ubiquitous in Britain. They’re everywhere. But not this one.”

For the first time, I looked beyond the title page and found that although the spine was maybe an inch thick, there were only ten or twelve poems in the whole book. Each heavy page contained a few lines each. I began to read the first one, entitled “I’ve Loved a Flaxen’d Quean.” I’d read Robert Burns before and knew his words could get bawdy, but I was frankly surprised by the highly erotic images Burns inspired in this particular poem, seemingly devoted to a beauty named Sophie. At least, that was what I could glean from the heavy Scots dialect.

“It’s a beautiful book,” I said. “But I’d need a glossary to understand all the words.”

He chuckled. “It’s impossible to read without one.”

“It’s all pretty stirring stuff, though. He must’ve loved her very much.”

“Ah, yes, and that’s the problem.”

“Why?” I snickered. “Was she really a queen?”

“Funny you should ask.” He took a long sip of beer before continuing. “In this case, the word quean is old Scots dialect, meaning a pretty young girl. But there were rumors, frantically quashed, naturally, that Robbie Burns had a sizzling affair with Princess Augusta Sophia, the daughter of George the Third.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Doesn’t it just,” he said wryly. “According to some accounts, the princess spent the season in Edinburgh in 1785, then returned to London and, shortly thereafter, gave birth to a son.”

“Okay, wait, jet lag must be catching up to me.” I took a sip of beer as though it would help me concentrate. “Are you seriously talking about George the Third, The Madness of King George George? That George?”

“That’s the one.”

“You’re saying his daughter had an affair with Robert Burns?”

“So it would seem.”

I thought about it, then nodded. “So what’s the problem?”

“What’s the-” he shouted, then hushed himself. “We’re talking about Robert Burns, for God’s sake. They called him Rab the Ranter. He was a poor farmer and a troublemaker, and he appealed to the same class of people. He wrote a poem called ‘The Fornicator.’ Another he devoted ‘To a Louse.’ He would’ve been booted out of Holyrood on his ass.”

I waited for his rant to finish, then said, “So you’re saying he didn’t have an affair with the princess?”

“No,” he whispered. “I’m saying he did and the news was squelched at the highest levels of power.”

I squinted at him. “I admit I’m a little slow today, but are you implying that the monarchy frowned on the bad boy of Scotland diddling the pure English rose?”

He laughed. “Exactly. It’s highly titillating stuff.”

“Especially in that time.” I sat back. “The English must’ve hated that rumor.”

“Oh, indeed, because they made sure there was never a whisper of controversy.”

“Really?” I turned the book in my hand. “Well, that’s fun, isn’t it?”

“That’s one way to put it.” He pointed to the book. “I’ll guarantee they won’t be happy to know this book is still in circulation.”

“But that’s silly. Who cares?”

He sat back with his pint. “Ah, my naive Yankee love.”

“You’re saying they would care?”

“Most greatly.”

“Two hundred years later? Why?”

“It’s a stain on the monarchy. If nothing else, it’s bad PR.”

“Well, I understand that,” I said, nodding. “So you think they hushed it up? Paid Burns to stay away?”

“At the very least.”

“And at the most?”

He ran his finger dramatically across his neck.

I slapped his knee. “That’s ridiculous.” I opened the book, felt the paper. The pub was too dark to study it closely, so I couldn’t conclude much. And before I got too wrapped up in the book and the history, I had to remind myself that Kyle had been known to flirt with the truth in more than just his love life. He could flatter and cajole and twist the truth if it meant making an extra buck in bookselling, as well. I wanted more information before I would agree to work on the book.

“So who’s ‘they’?” I asked finally.

He folded his arms across his chest. “My guess would be Queen Charlotte, George’s wife. History has it that she watched those princesses like a mother hen.”

“So God forbid one of her darlings might bring home a scruffy Scottish lad who called himself a poet.”

“Exactly.”

“And this book…”

“Could blow the lid open.”

I sighed. “And you figured I’m always up for bringing shame and embarrassment to the British royal family.”

“It’s what makes you my favorite girl.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. “Look, Kyle, I don’t know squat about Robert Burns or the history of that era. I can help you authenticate the book itself, verify that it’s a genuine Cathcart, maybe even find a way to validate the inscription. But you’re on your own as far as the content goes.”

“I thought as much.” He downed the last of his pint, took the book from me and studied it. “I just wanted you to be aware of what you’re getting yourself into if you agree to help me with this project.”

I rubbed my forehead, trying to brush away the fuzzies from my brain. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugged. “There may be some people who would rather the book weren’t authenticated.”

I leaned back to look at him more carefully. “You’re saying they wouldn’t want the specific mythology of the book to be known.”

“Exactement,” he said in a perfect French accent, then signaled the barmaid over to order another round.

“None for me,” I said.

“You’re sure?” Kyle asked.

“Absolutely.” When the barmaid left, I wrapped the book back in the tissue paper and slipped it into my purse. “I guess I should ask how much trouble I could get into over this book.”

His mouth curved in a frown. “I hope you won’t live to regret that question.”

“I was kidding,” I said, “but you’re not. What is it?”

He waved off my concern but I knew him, knew he was hiding something.

“What are you not telling me?” I asked.

He pursed his lips. “I suppose there is a bit more to the story.”

I sat back with a thud. “You’re killing me.”

“Yes, well, this is where it gets a bit sticky.”

“Sticky?” All sorts of alarms went off in my foggy brain. “Okay, spill it.”

Kyle avoided eye contact by grabbing my hand and playing with my fingers. “I was thinking of presenting a paper on the book this week.”

“That’s cool.” I nodded encouragingly. “I’ll try to be there.”

The barmaid brought his pint and he took it eagerly. After a long drink, he said, “I’m not doing it.”

“But this would make an awesome presentation.”

“I thought so, too,” he said. “But it seems someone disagrees.”

“Who?”

“I’ve no idea. But since I first mentioned the book, I’ve received a number of strange phone calls and several poison-pen letters.”

“Poison-pen letters? How weird.”

“Yes, quite.” He glanced anxiously around the pub. “Some are fairly brutal, in fact. You might even say life threatening.”

“Oh, my God.” I grabbed hold of his fidgety hands. “Did you show them to the police?”

“No.” He hesitated, then added, “I threw them away.”

“Kyle!”

He held up his hand to stop me from saying more. “I know it was stupid, but I figured it was all a sick joke.” He chuckled without mirth. “But then yesterday…” He shook his head.

The fact that he’d actually bothered to call the police was alarming in and of itself. “What, Kyle? What happened yesterday?”

His smile was nearly apologetic. “Seems someone tried to kill me.”