"They wouldn't?"

"No. It's probably full of Byron and Mrs. Radcliffe novels."

"I like Byron and Mrs. Radcliffe novels," Olivia said, sounding vaguely affronted.

"So do I," Miranda assured her, "but I enjoy other literature as well. And I certainly do not think it is the place of that man"- she jabbed an angry finger toward the bookshop window- "to decide what I may or may not read."

Olivia stared at her for a moment, then politely asked, "Are you quite done?"

Miranda smoothed her skirts and sniffed. "Quite."

Olivia's back was to the bookshop, and she sent a rueful glance over her shoulder before placing a comforting hand on Miranda's arm. "We'll get Father to buy it for you. Or Turner."

"That's not the point. I cannot believe you're not as upset about this as I am."

Olivia sighed. "When did you become such a crusader, Miranda? I thought I was meant to be the unrestrained one of the duo."

Miranda's jaw began to ache from clenching. "I suppose," she nearly growled, "that I have never had anything to get this upset about before."

Olivia's head drew back, just a touch. "Remind me to take pains not to upset you in the future."

"I'm going to get that book."

"Fine, we'll just- "

"And he is going to know that I've got it." Miranda gave the bookshop one last belligerent stare and then strode off in the direction of home.


* * *

"Of course I'll buy the book for you, Miranda," Turner said congenially. He'd been enjoying a rather leisurely afternoon, reading the newspaper and pondering life as an unattached gentleman, when his sister had burst into the room, announcing that Miranda desperately needed a favor.

It all been rather entertaining, actually, especially the death stare Miranda had bestowed upon Olivia at her use of the word desperate.

"I don't want you to buy it for me," Miranda ground out. "I want you to buy it with me."

Turner sat back in his comfortable chair. "Is there a difference?"

"A world of difference."

"A world," Olivia confirmed, but she was grinning, and he rather suspected she didn't see the distinction, either.

Miranda threw her another glare, and Olivia actually backed up and exclaimed. "What? I'm supporting you!"

"Don't you think it's wrong," Miranda continued ferociously, returning to both her diatribe and his face, "that I cannot shop in a certain store simply because I am a woman?"

He smiled lazily at her. "Miranda, there are certain places where women cannot go."

"I am not asking to enter one of your precious clubs. I merely wish to purchase a book. There isn't anything remotely unsuitable about it. It is an antique, for heaven's sake."

"Miranda, if that gentleman owns that shop, he can decide who he does and doesn't want sell to."

She crossed her arms. "Well, perhaps he shouldn't be allowed to. Perhaps there ought to be a law that says that booksellers cannot bar women from their stores."

He raised an ironic brow at her. "You haven't been reading that tract by Mary Wollstonecraft, have you?"

"Mary who?" Miranda asked in a distracted voice.

"Good."

"Don't change the subject, please, Turner. Do you or do you not agree that I should be allowed to buy that book?"

He sighed, quite exhausted by her unexpected stubbornness. And over a book. "Miranda, why should you be allowed in a gentlemen's bookshop? You can't even vote."

Her sputter of outrage was colossal. "And that's another thing- "

Turner quickly realized that he had made a tactical error. "Forget I mentioned suffrage. Please. I'll go with you to buy the book."

"You will?" Her eyes lit up and glowed soft and brown. "Thank you."

"Shall we go on Friday? I don't believe I'm engaged for the afternoon."

"Oh, I want to go, too," Olivia piped in.

"Absolutely not," Turner said firmly. "One of you is all I can manage. My nerves, you know."

"Your nerves?"

He gave her A Look. "You try them."

"Turner!" Olivia exclaimed. She turned to Miranda. "Miranda!"

But Miranda was still focused on Turner. "Could we go now?" she asked him, giving every impression of not having heard a word of their squabble. "I don't want that bookseller to forget about me."

"Judging from Olivia's rendition of your adventure," Turner said wryly, "I doubt that is likely to happen."

"But could we please go today? Please. Please."

"You do realize you're begging."

"I don't care," she said promptly.

He pondered this. "It occurs to me that I could use this situation to my advantage."

Miranda gave him a blank look. "What would be the point of that?"

"Oh, I don't know. One never knows when one might want to call in a favor."

"Since I have nothing you could possibly want, I advise you to forget your nefarious plans and simply take me to the bookshop."

"Very well. Let's be off."

He thought she might jump with glee. Good Lord.

"It's not far," she was saying. "We can walk there."

"Are you certain I cannot come with you?" Olivia asked, following them into the hall.

"Stay," Turner ordered benignly as he watched Miranda charge the door. "Someone will need to call the watch when we don't return in one piece."


* * *

Ten minutes later, Miranda was standing in front of the bookshop from which she'd been ejected earlier that day.

"Gad, Miranda," she heard Turner murmur beside her. "You look a bit a frightening."

"Good," she replied succinctly, and she stepped forward.

Turner placed a restraining hand on her arm. "Allow me to enter before you," he suggested, an amused glint in his eye. "The mere sight of you may send the poor man into an apoplectic fit."

Miranda scowled at him but let him pass. There was no way the bookseller would best her this time. She'd come armed with a titled gentleman and a healthy dose of rage. The book was all but hers.

A bell jingled as Turner entered the shop. Miranda followed right behind him, practically stepping on his heels.

"May I assist you, sir?" the bookseller asked, all fawning politeness.

"Yes, I'm interested in…" His words trailed off as he looked around the store.

"That book," Miranda said firmly, pointing toward the display in the window.

"Yes, that's the one." Turner offered the bookseller a bland smile.

"You!" the bookseller spluttered, his face turning pink with ire. "Out! Get out of my shop!" He grabbed Miranda's arm and tried to drag her to the door.

"Stop! Stop, I say!" Miranda, not one to let herself be abused by a man she considered to be an idiot, grabbed her reticule and thwacked him on the head.

Turner groaned.

"Simmons!" the bookseller yelled out, summoning his assistant. "Fetch a constable. This young lady is deranged."

"I'm not deranged, you overgrown goat!"

Turner pondered his options. Really, there could be no good outcome.

"I'm a paying customer," Miranda continued hotly. "And I want to buy Le Morte d'Arthur!"

"I'll die before it reaches your hands, you ill-mannered trollop!"

Trollop? That was really too much for Miranda, a young lady whose sensibilities were usually more modest than one might have guessed from her current behavior. "You vile, vile man," she hissed. She raised her reticule again.

Trollop? Turner sighed. It was an insult he really couldn't overlook. Still, he couldn't let Miranda attack the poor man. He grabbed the reticule from her hand. She glared daggers at him for his interference. He narrowed his eyes and gave her a warning look.

He cleared his throat and turned to the bookseller. "Sir, I must insist that you apologize to the lady."

The bookseller crossed his arms defiantly.

Turner glanced at Miranda. Her arms were crossed in much the same manner. He looked back at the older man and said, a little more forcefully, "You will apologize to the lady."

"She is a menace," the bookseller said viciously.

"Why, you- " Miranda would have launched herself at him if Turner had not pulled her back with a quick grab to the back of her dress. The older man balled his fist and assumed a predatory stance that was quite at odds with his bookish appearance.

"You be quiet," Turner hissed at her, feeling the beginnings of fury uncurl in his chest.

The bookseller shot her a triumphant look.

"Oh, that was a mistake," Turner said. Good God, did the man have no common sense? Miranda jolted forward, which meant that Turner had to hold on to her dress even more firmly, which meant that the bookseller assumed even more of a smirk, which meant that the whole bloody farce was going to spiral into a full-blown hurricane if Turner did not settle the matter then and there.

He gave the bookseller his iciest, most aristocratic stare. "Apologize to the lady, or I will make you very sorry, indeed."

But the bookseller was clearly a raving idiot, because he did not accept the offer Turner had, in his estimation, so generously offered. Instead, he jutted his jaw belligerently and announced, "I have nothing for which to apologize. That woman came into my store…"

"Ah, hell," Turner muttered. There was no avoiding it now.

"…disturbed my customers, insulted me…"

Turner balled his hand into a fist and swung, clipping the bookseller neatly next to his nose.

"Oh my good Lord," Miranda breathed. "I think you broke his nose."

Turner shot her a scathing glance before looking down at the bookseller on the floor. "I don't think so. He isn't bleeding enough."

"Pity," Miranda muttered.

Turner grabbed her arm and hauled her up close to him. The bloodthirsty little wench was going to get herself killed. "Not another word until we get out of here."