Read The Missing Manuscript of Jane Austen for Free Online Page B

ship has sailed. It’s a sticky subject among some of my colleagues that I don’t have a degree in Library Science—so I’ve been taking some online courses to earn my MLS.”
    He nodded. There was a warm, appreciative twinkle in his blue eyes as he looked at me, and I couldn’t help feeling a tingle of attraction toward him. Immediately, I closed down that particular corner of my brain. I was already involved with a man I cared about very much. I had no business thinking about Anthony Whitaker that way. Quickly, I glanced at my watch, commenting on how late it was. We were both surprised to discover that we’d been talking for nearly three hours. I offered to split the bill, but Anthony wouldn’t hear of it.
    As I walked with him to the inn’s front lobby to say good night, he said, “I’ll see you in the morning?”
    “You bet.”
    “I should probably warn you: my father was living in only one small part of the house. The rest is not very presentable. But the library was his pride and joy, so thankfully he kept it heated and clean.”
    “I look forward to seeing it.”
    He paused, then added cautiously, “You do realize it’s been more than two hundred years since this hypothetical ‘visit’ by Austen took place, right?”
    “Right.”
    “And even if we can prove she was there—if there ever
was
a manuscript, it’s probably long gone. So the likelihood of us actually finding anything at all is basically slim to none.”
    “I know.” I grinned. “But we have to try, don’t we?”

W HEN I GOT BACK TO MY ROOM , I CALLED L AUREL Ann and told her everything that had happened. She was agog.
    “You’re going to hang out with him at his fabulous Georgian mansion?” In a teasing but affectionate tone, she added, “I was jealous before, but now I think I hate you.”
    I was just climbing into bed when my phone rang. Happily, it was Stephen. I gave him a complete update.
    “Sounds great. But just remember, Sam, you’re on vacation. You’re not supposed to be working. You’re supposed to be having a good time.”
    “I
am
having a good time,” I assured him. “I haven’t been this excited about anything in years.” Realizing how that sounded, I added, “I mean, come on, it’s a Jane Austen treasure hunt!”
    “Who’s this guy again—the one who owns the house?”
    “Anthony Whitaker. He’s a venture capitalist.”
    “Okay.” There was an odd tone in his voice. “Well, I wish you luck.”Stephen reminded me that his conference was over on Monday at one o’clock and that we’d planned to spend the afternoon and evening together before flying home the following day.
    “I’ll be back Monday afternoon. Don’t worry.”
    I awoke early the next morning, breakfasted at the inn, and arrived at Greenbriar at nine sharp. It was a grey, misty morning and there was a slight chill in the air, so I dressed in jeans and a lightweight blue pullover. When Anthony answered the massive front door, to our mutual amusement, he was clad in a similar ensemble.
    “I’m glad you got the memo about the dress code,” he said with a grin.
    I laughed and followed him into the house.
    “Welcome to the humble Whitaker abode,” he added.
    If I’d thought the outside was imposing, the inside was even more spectacular. He’d warned that the place wasn’t presentable—it was falling apart, he said—but it didn’t look that bad to me. Yes, the walls needed paint, the oak floors were scuffed and worn, and the carpets, drapes, and furniture were dusty and a bit threadbare—but the rooms were massive in scale, and retained many of their period features and charm. As we passed through the entrance hall and into the drawing room, I marveled at the high, plasterwork ceilings, carved- marble fireplace, mahogany doors with gilded handles, and wide, arched doorways. Elaborately framed portraits of Whitaker ancestors graced walls that were a foot deep.
    “Wow,” I said.
    “It
is
big. Would you like tea or coffee,