while.”
Canfield perched on the hearth before him, stretched out his long legs comfortably and peered closely at Tris’s face. “So you’re Enders,” he remarked. “It’s very good of you to put yourself out just to come and bid me welcome.”
“Not at all. Tobe frank, I wanted to get a glimpse of you, having heard a great deal about you.”
“From your mother? I met her, I believe. Last week at the assembly.”
“Yes, I did hear about you from her. And from... others.”
“Did you indeed?” Canfield’s eyes glinted in amusement. “Am I the subject of gossip already?”
“You must realize, your lordship, that you are famous here. Everyone in Amberford is talking about our new inhabitant, the viscount who bought Wycklands.”
“I’m not surprised,” Canfield said pleasantly. “That’s to be expected in a town as small as this. No one’s business is completely his own. I’d already heard about you too. But I was led to believe you were in London.”
“Yes, but I’ve come back for a bit.” He turned and looked about the room. Even with the confusion of boxes and the motes of dust revealed by the rays of sunlight, he could see it was a room of impressive grandeur. The ceiling was at least twenty feet high; wood panels, beautifully carved, covered three of the four walls and held dozens of shelves; the windows occupied all of the fourth wall in both breadth and height; and—the most magnificent touch of all—a shallow gallery, reached by carved circular stairways, circled the three unwindowed sides of the room. They contained more bookshelves, but these were already filled with leather-bound, gold-imprinted volumes. “My word, your lordship, you certainly have a great many books!” Tris murmured in awe.
“I’ve been collecting books all my life,” Canfield said.
“And reading them all?”
“As many as possible.”
Tris shook his head in disbelief. “How can you be a sportsman and a libertine and still find time—?” Realizing what he’d said, his face paled, then reddened in chagrin. “I’m sorry ... I didn’t mean...”
Canfield laughed. “Of course you did. You needn’t look so stricken. I’ve heard myself described that way many times. And there’s some truth to it, I suppose. I’ve spent more years than I care to remember in racing my horses and betting on boxing matches. And I’ve had more than my share of affairs of the heart. The town gossips blame me for at least three broken troths, for two of which I’m at least partially at fault. I’m not proud of those facts. That’s why I moved here to Derbyshire.”
“To escape from the gossip?”
“No, I don’t think there’s any escape from that. To change the way I live my life, I suppose. Since I left school, I’ve spent too much time in dissipation, without truly enjoying it. I’m past thirty now, you see, and have become very bored with town life. I want to live quietly, here with my books.”
Tris studied the man with some alarm. This did not sound like a fellow who would easily let himself be tempted into wedlock. “Are you saying you’ve become scholarly? That you’re intending to become a ... a recluse?” he asked, horrified.
“No, no, not at all. I’m not a scholar. Merely a country gentleman, with an estate to manage, a stable of horses to breed, a library to organize, books to read ... a sort of life that I think will be more agreeable to me than the one I lived in town.”
“Then you’re not giving up social life entirely?” Tris asked, hope springing up in him again. “Or sporting activities either?”
“Of course I’m not. I have no intention of burying myself away. You seem to be a lively, healthy young fellow, so I assume you ride. If you do, why don’t we go riding together one day soon, so that I can prove to you I don’t intend to spend all my time dusting off books?”
“I’d be delighted, your lordship,” Tris quickly agreed. “Shall we say tomorrow?”
“Yes
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