Innocent in the Regency Ballroom. Christine Merrill

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      Author Note:

      I can’t point to any one place or idea that inspired me to write the story of Penny and Adam. But I started on a day when I really just wanted to sit by myself and read. That is probably why I have a book-loving heroine. There is nothing quite like the feeling of sitting down with a good book, although I can’t seem to read as many as I buy. Penny’s overstocked library is definitely inspired by my own.

      I don’t normally use pictures as inspiration, but the little china figurine in Penny’s sitting room really exists. I don’t own anything like it, but I wanted something that would remind me of long afternoons I spent in an aunt’s living room, surrounded by ‘breakables’. I found just the thing, searching the internet: a figurine so fussy that it seemed the polar opposite of serious scholarship.

      I hope you enjoy Miss Winthorpe’s Elopement as much as I did. Come back soon, to discover what happens to Adam’s friend Tim.

      To Sean:

      For doing his homework on the

      Greek classics. Without you, honey,

      I’d have to do all my own research.

       Chapter One

      In the quiet of the library, Penelope Winthorpe heard the front doorbell ring, and set her book carefully aside, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She smoothed her sensible, bombazine skirt. Then she stood and strolled toward the front hall.

      There was no reason to rush since hurrying would not change the results of the trip. Her brother had accused her of being too prone to impulsive actions. Seeing her hare down the hall every time the front door opened would reinforce his view that too much education and too much solitude were affecting her nerves.

      But her package was two days late, and it was difficult to contain her anticipation. She rose eagerly with every knock at the door, hoping each one to be the delivery she’d been expecting.

      In her mind, she was already holding the package, hearing the rustle of crisp, brown paper, running her fingers along the string that held it in place. She would cut the twine with the scissors on the hall table, and the book would be in her hands at last. She imagined she could smell the fresh ink and the paper, caress the leather of the binding, and feel the gold-embossed title under her fingertips.

      And then, the best part: she would take it back to the library and cut the pages open, spread them carefully, turning each one and catching glimpses of words without really reading, not wanting to spoil the surprise, even though she knew the story, almost by heart.

      At last, she would ring for tea, settle into her favourite chair by the fire, and begin to read.

      It would be heaven.

      When she got to the hall, her brother was sorting through a stack of letters. The post had come, but there was no sign of a package from the book seller.

      ‘Hector, did a delivery arrive for me? I had expected it by now, but I thought perhaps it might come with the post.’

      ‘Another book?’ He sighed.

      ‘Yes. The latest printing of The Odyssey.’

      Her brother waved a dismissive hand. ‘It came yesterday. I sent it back to the shop.’

      ‘You did what?’ She stared at him, incredulous.

      ‘Sent it back. You already have it. I did not deem it necessary.’

      ‘I have translations,’ she corrected. ‘This was in the original Greek.’

      ‘All the more reason to send it back. I dare say the translations will be much easier for you to read.’

      She took a deep breath and tried counting to ten before speaking, to control her rash tongue. She made it almost to five before blurting, ‘I do not expect to have trouble with the Greek. I read it fluently. As a matter of fact, I am planning a translation of my own. And, since I cannot translate words that are already in English, the new book will most certainly be necessary.’

      Hector was looking at her as though she had sprouted a second head. ‘There are many adequate translations of Homer already available.’

      ‘But none by a woman,’ she responded. ‘I suspect that there are insights and subtleties I might bring to the material that will be substantially different than those already available.’

      ‘Inferior, perhaps,’ countered her brother. ‘The world is not clamouring for your opinion, Penny, in case you haven’t noticed.’

      For a moment, the truth of that statement weighed heavy on her, but she shook it off. ‘Perhaps