Ivory and Steel by Janice Bennett

and caught herself a matrimonial prize.”
    “She wasn’t an adventuress,” Phyllida breathed.
    “No? Merely an opportunist? You have not done badly out of your sister’s machinations either, Miss Dearne.”
    “How dare you?” But her protest lacked conviction; the accusation held too much truth. No wonder he thought her like Louisa. To her dismay, moisture brimmed in her eyes and her throat tightened with remembered shame and anger. “It is not what it seems.”
    “Indeed,” he said once more. He turned away to another pile of papers and picked them up.
    The door opened and Phyllida averted her face. Mr. Frake nodded to them then his thoughtful gaze surveyed the bedchamber.
    “Did you learn anything?” Ingram demanded.
    The Runner merely shook his head, an enigmatic smile just touching his lips. “Her ladyship seemed to think the question impertinent,” he marveled.
    The abigail arrived and all four set about the task of straightening the room. No trace of any diary did they discover though, nor could the maid give them any clues. Either it remained hidden or their trespasser had taken it already. Depressed, Phyllida replaced the last hatbox on the top shelf of the cupboard and turned to look once more about the room. “I wonder if we’ll ever find it?” she said.
    Mr. Frake shook his head, his expression grim. “There’s always a chance, miss. What with her abigail here never having laid eyes on it neither, it seems her late ladyship kept it well hidden. Mayhap you’ll think of some place she might have locked it away.”
    “Perhaps I shall,” she agreed, but without optimism.
    She escorted the Runner to the servants’ hall and Lord Ingram took himself off to the best guest chamber to oversee the unpacking of his things. Phyllida found herself wishing heartily she might not see either of the two men again that day but knew it for a forlorn hope. Dinner in Ingram’s company loomed over her like her personal Sword of Damocles.
    That impending threat intensified her restlessness. If she didn’t escape this house and Ingram’s accusing glares she thought she might scream. A walk in the garden wouldn’t do though, for there her mind would be free to wander, and she had a shrewd fear which direction it would take. Ingram haunted her. The type of diversion her mind required could best be found between the marbled covers of some delightfully implausible novel.
    Light and entertaining reading material found no home on the library shelves of Allbury House, thanks to the dowager marchioness. Her taste ran to sermons while her late husband had preferred the works of the Greek and Latin poets. The current marquis never read anything more demanding than the racing journal or the Morning Post. Phyllida hurried along the hall to her room where she donned a pelisse and a chip straw bonnet hastily redecorated with black ribands. Hookam’s Lending Library beckoned. She glanced at a mantel clock. The afternoon was not as far advanced as she’d thought. The library would still be open.
    A book borrowed by her sister, which should have been returned long ago, provided an excellent excuse. Phyllida found the two slim volumes in Louisa’s dressing room and only regretted she had already read them herself. It might have saved her a trip.
    She could easily have walked the several blocks, despite her lack of chaperonage, but Allbury, whom she encountered on the stairs, would not hear of it. He called out the town carriage for her use, thereby consigning her to a wait of twenty minutes or more while the horses were readied. Knowing it was useless to argue, she made her way to the garden in the center of the Square to kick her heels.
    The carriage—Louisa’s elegant barouche, not the ancient servants’ landau—arrived at last and Phyllida rode in state to Bond Street. The driver set her down before the doors of Hookam’s and promised to return for her in half an hour’s time.
    She entered the building, blinking in the