Page 24 of Bookshop Cinderella

Scarcely able to believe it, Max read the neatly penned lines of script a second time, but before he’d gotten halfway through, he was laughing with astonishment and relief. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Happy news, Your Grace?” Stowell inquired as he paused beside Max’s chair to pour coffee.

“Indeed, it is. News so happy that it might result in my winning a sweet hundred quid.”

Stowell, who had the face of a church warden and the temperament to match, and who had valeted him since he was twelve years old, merely raised an eyebrow. “Wagers,” he said with disapproval, “often have the opposite consequence, Your Grace.”

“Not this time, Stowell,” he replied with glee. “Not if I can help it.”

Though Miss Harlow’s note gave him reason to hope, he knew it was nothing more at this point than the opportunity to try again. Max, never one to make the same mistake twice, took the precaution of preparing far more for his next conversation with her than he had the previous one. By the time he reached the bookshop that afternoon, he had at least a dozen reasons why she ought to accept his proposition, reasons that had nothing to do with her looks, her undesirable suitor, or her current station in life.

When he arrived, however, he found that she was not equally prepared to receive him. A placard on the door declared the shop to be closed.

Despite the sign, however, she was on the premises. Peering through the plate glass window, he could see her plainly, hands on her hips, conversing with a bearded fellow in a checked suit and bowler hat. Not a customer, he judged, if her battle-ready stance and the frown rippling her brow were any indication.

Max tried the door, and it opened, jangling the bell as he entered, but she did not even glance in his direction, and when he put his foot over the threshold, he immediately appreciated the reason why.

The floor was covered by at least an inch of water, enough to slosh over the toes of his boots and soak the hem of his trousers, enough that the floorboards were cupping and the books on the lowest shelves were precariously close to ruin. The problem seemed to have come from above—if the water stains marking the ceiling plaster and streaking the wallpaper were any indication.

Max, glad of his ankle boots, paused by the door to wait, and soon found that his guess had been correct. He also discovered the cause of Miss Harlow’s displeasure.

“You must understand,” the man was saying, “a boiler only explodes when it is old and the owner has not taken the proper steps to maintain it.”

“But I have properly maintained it, as I have been trying to explain. I can show you—”

“The Metropolitan Insurance Company,” he interrupted coldly, “cannot be expected to merely take your word. We have to judge the situation based on what we see, and having examined the boiler, I can find no such efforts on your part, nor any reason for us to pay for your obvious negligence.”

“My negligence?” Her frown deepened and her lips pressed into a tight line, giving her face an implacable expression that Max immediately recognized.

“There was no negligence on my part, Mr. Walpole, I can assure you,” she said. “The boiler is old, I admit, but as I have already said—”

“Just so,” the insurance agent cut in again, “and a boiler as ancient as yours requires far more diligent care than you have been willing to exercise. The fact is obvious.”

Her shoulders went back, her chin went up, and he knew she was about to do something she’d regret.

Max gave a loud cough. “Ahem.”

Both of them glanced his way, and he jumped into the breach before either of them could speak. “If I may,” he said, sloshing toward them through the standing water, “insurance companies always make property assessments before issuing a policy.” He paused beside the insurance agent and his customer, glancing back and forth between them as if puzzled. “Surely Metropolitan did a thorough inspection before offering Miss Harlow insurance and must have been aware of the boiler’s age and condition. When was the policy issued?”

The agent did not seem pleased by this intrusion into the conversation. “I am not at liberty to reveal such information to a random stranger, sir.”

“Your discretion does you credit,” Max replied, assuming as chastened an expression as he could manage in the face of this rebuke and trying not to spoil it by laughing. “And I’m sure Miss Harlow appreciates that, but in this case, an exception can surely be made.”

“Metropolitan,” Walpole said with withering scorn, “does not make exceptions.”

“Even if your customer has no objection?”

He glanced at Miss Harlow, who played up beautifully.

“The policy was issued ten years ago,” she told him. “No concerns about the boiler were noted by Metropolitan at that time.”

“Ah.” Gratified, Max returned his attention to the agent. “Now, as a—”

“And as I have already told Miss Harlow,” Mr. Walpole interrupted, making no effort to conceal his growing impatience, “in those ten years, the boiler has been allowed to deteriorate to an appalling condition.”

Beside him, Miss Harlow stirred, making a smothered sound of outrage, and he gave her foot a gentle, cautionary nudge with his own.

“As a Metropolitan customer myself,” Max continued as if the other man had not spoken, “I am astonished that your company seems so unwilling to fulfill your obligations in this case. The vast holdings of my dukedom have sometimes required insurance claims upon Metropolitan, and in those distressing situations, I have always found your company to be most cooperative and helpful.” He paused, frowning. “Until now, that is.”

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