Smoothing the wrinkles from his sleeve, the clerk frowned at Arianna. “This is not a place for sordid assignations, miss,” he chided, looking down his long nose at her chipped straw bonnet and drab serge gown. As his gaze slid to the fallen books, he added a sharp sniff. “I must ask you to leave—immediately. We cater to a very dignified clientele who expect an atmosphere of decorum when they visit us.”

Ah, no good deed goes unpunished, thought Arianna sardonically. On her way home from the rough-and-tumble markets, she had stopped her carriage on impulse to browse through the fancy books. Better to have waited until she had swathed herself in silk and satin for the requisite morning calls in Mayfair.

“First of all, it is madam,” she corrected. “And secondly, I am quite aware of what sort of patrons frequent your shop.”

The clerk winced at the word “shop.”

“However, you might want to take a closer look at the so-called Quality you allow through your door,” Arianna continued, assuming an air of icy hauteur. “That man was certainly no gentleman. He had a knife, and was probably cutting prints out of your precious volumes.” Her husband had explained how some unscrupulous collectors sliced up rare books for the maps or prints, which were sold individually to art dealers for a much higher profit.

The clerk’s look of disdain now pinched into one of horror.

“He also stole a book,” she added. “I saw it hidden under his coat.”

“B-but he has made several purchases recently, all properly paid for,” protested the clerk. Another glance, another sniff. “You must be mistaken. By all appearances, he is a perfect gentleman; no matter that he is a foreigner.”

“Well he’s not,” shot back Arianna. “You may take my word for it.”

His mouth thinned. “And who, might I ask, are you?”