The Valentine Legacy by Catherine Coulter

Since you’re not all that certain you’ll like tales of the Caribbean, why don’t you take the diary home and read it over. If you want to keep it, just come back and pay me for it.”
    Jessie was already thumbing carefully through the diary. “Oh, listen to this, Mr. Fielding. ‘We came to Jamaica to find miserable rain and a sour rum that fires the bowels. I had to split my sword in Davie’s guts, the little bastard.’ She raised a shining face. “Is this about pirates? Goodness, how bloodthirsty they sound.”
    â€œI think the rum merchant’s brother might have been a pirate, or known some of those men,” Compton Fielding said thoughtfully, taking the diary from her. “You’re right. It just might be too bloodthirsty for a young lady.”
    â€œI’ll take it,” Jessie said, and James nearly laughed aloud.
    â€œWell then, if you’re sure. You read it through and tell me.”
    James came around the corner and said, “Good morning, Jessie, Compton. What’s all this miserable rain and a sour rum business? What do you have there?”
    â€œYou were eavesdropping,” she said, then had the grace to look at the toes of her shoes.
    â€œYes, but I’m still in one piece,” James said.
    â€œWhat she has, James, is a diary from about one hundred years ago. I don’t really know what it’s about. Jessie will read it through and tell me.”
    â€œI didn’t know you even read,” he said to her.
    â€œJust what do you mean by that, James Wyndham? Do you think I’m ignorant?”
    â€œI’ve never seen you with a book before. I’ve never seen you in here before.”
    â€œThe same is true of you. Now, what are you doing here, James? I would have thought that all you did was ride your acres, break colts, and give orders to all your stable lads.”
    Since he’d thought the same thing about her, he didn’t say what he would have liked to. “I’ve frequented Compton’s bookshop since I was a boy. He introduced me to French novels and plays.”
    Mr. Fielding was noted for the immense collection of French works he had in his shop, but Jessie, not knowing a single utterance in French, had never really paid much attention. She’d read every novel he had until just recently when he’d begun introducing her to diaries. They were, she had to admit, rather interesting, but thin on plot. There were no handsome gentlemen to sweep a girl off her feet. Oh yes, she adored lots of plot.
    â€œYou are a horse breeder and racer, James. You couldn’t possibly speak French.”
    â€œWell, I do. In fact, I’ve spent a good deal of time in France.” He eyed her up and down. “You’re wearing a gown. Where the devil did you get it? It’s too short and quite an ugly color of yellow, and it bags in the bosom. Ah, I know. It must be one of Nelda’s or Glenda’s castaways. Would you like to borrow a pair of my socks to stuff down the front?”
    Compton Fielding cleared his throat. “James, would you like to come see the collection of Corneille’s plays I just received? You particularly wanted to read Le Cid . The collection also has Cinna and La Mort de Pompée . I myself prefer Le Cid . The others are a bit tedious in that pompous classical sort of way.”
    James gave Jessie a final look of acute dislike and followed Compton Fielding to his small desk at the rear of the store. The air was so heavy with the smell of wood, books, and rag dust that James wondered how Fielding could breathe after a couple of hours in the bowels of the shop.
    When he held the Corneille plays in his hands, he gently opened the pages to Le Cid . He began reading the first scene between Elvire and Chimene.
    â€œYou can really understand that?” Jessie had wandered up and was standing at his elbow, staring down at the page. “It looks like