Love Is for the Birds (Bachelors of Blackstone’s #5)

Chapter 1

The cold eyes of a silent crocodile stalked Henry Branok as he strode down the gallery.

A bear was next, staring motionless at him before Henry passed by an orangutan, followed by a mountain goat, then a shrew, then an emperor penguin.

More than five hundred animals, more than a thousand eyes, all of them surveying his every move.

His footing was swift, though not because of their watchful eyes. The animals would not attack—they wouldn’t even move a limb. Henry’s safety was secure due to the sole fact that each and every one of these animals now watching him was long dead.

That was why he flew down the gallery as swiftly as a swooping sandpiper. Taxidermy, while an accepted and admired practice to most in Society, was Henry’s version of a living nightmare.

Or dead nightmare, he supposed.

Hundreds of heads were propped up on shelf after shelf, and gulls with their wings outspread hung from the ceiling above. Muted lighting cast frightening shadows across their faces to distort the animals further.

Lord Blackstone—the viscount who owned the monstrous creations—was quite proud of his collection, hence why every inch of the long corridor leading to the man’s study was filled with animals from around the world.

“Each of these animals died a natural death,” the viscount often said. “We honor them without placing them behind glass cages. Free in life and in death.”

The man was likeable enough, but he was clearly living in a world of his own making.

Henry could never understand the appeal of staring at animals once living. He was fortunate enough to have seen many of the wildlife in their natural homes, and nothing— nothing —could compare to that. Especially when it came to birds.

Birds that blinked, breathed, and possessed a heartbeat.

Henry lived for observing them, writing about them, and sketching them. Unfortunately, it was Lord Blackstone who made such things possible for Henry—which was the only reason he now walked through this corridor of corrupted creatures.

He gripped his leather satchel tightly in his right hand, walking past the last of the long-gone animals before finally reaching the end of the corridor and tapping lightly on the thick, wooden door.

He ignored the feel of the eyes searing through his back as Lord Blackstone finally responded.

“Yes, yes, do come in,” came his muted voice from within the study.

Opening the door and stepping foot into the room, Henry was instantly set upon by the overwhelming scent of tobacco and leather, and he stifled a cough.

More animals adorned the study in various locations—muntjacs behind the desk and a hare close to them—while books lined the shelves from top to bottom. A single, closed window to the right of the desk produced enough light to showcase the smoke swirling in the air.

“Ah, Branok,” Lord Blackstone greeted, lowering his pipe and beckoning Henry forward with two fingers close together. “Come in, my friend. Come in.”

His gray and white hair curled up at the tips, making room for a broad receding hairline that brought to mind the tufts of feathers the guan boasted on its head. Henry had only just seen the bird that had resembled a skinny, black hen two months past in the West Indies.

He’d hold his tongue about that, though. Henry had learned his lesson that men did not take kindly to being compared to birds. The last time he’d done so, he’d been blackballed from every club in London, never again to be allowed in Boodle’s, White’s, or Brooks’s.

This had worked in Henry’s favor, however, as Lord Blackstone had subsequently sought him out and invited him to join the viscount’s own club meant solely for misfits and other blackballed gentlemen.

“How was your journey back?” Lord Blackstone asked.

“Uneventful, my lord.”

“Fine, fine.”

“I trust you are well,” Henry said next, his boots thumping against the floor as he approached the man seated behind his large wooden desk.

Books, papers, and various golden instruments for measurements and writing were splayed out across the surface. But what stole more attention than anything else was the portrait behind the desk—the painting depicting a badger, bearded and sporting a mourning coat.

The viscount certainly had… unusual taste in décor.

“Yes, yes, very well, indeed.” Lord Blackstone waved him closer. “Are you come to deliver something of mutual interest to us?”

Henry ignored the purple water-hen accosting him with its beady eyes and cleared his throat. Would Lord Blackstone notice if he just reached over and propped the window open, letting in just a touch of the cool, spring air?

He’d been back for nearly two weeks now, and still, he relished England’s colder weather as opposed to the sweltering heat he’d been constantly confronted with in the West Indies.

“I am, my lord,” he said, opening his satchel.

He pulled out a thick stack of unbound, printed pages and extended them. “The proof, to be printed and bound upon delivery of your signature. On time, as promised.”

Lord Blackstone gave a slight exclamation of delight as he accepted the pages, making space for them on his desk.

“I have eagerly awaited this moment, Branok,” Lord Blackstone said, swiftly thumbing through the large stack of papers Henry had spent weeks writing.

“As have I, sir.”

Even more than you, he added for only himself.

Henry had spent October through February in the West Indies, exploring every inch of the land and sky, recording every detail about every bird he witnessed to be ready for this moment.

After suffering nearly seven weeks at sea returning to England to deliver these pages to Lord Blackstone, Henry was more than ready to have his work seen by others.

“When will the book be printed?” Lord Blackstone asked.

“A week from approval, as discussed.”

Lord Blackstone nodded, pleased.

Years ago, he’d arranged for the publisher and printer to deliver the books in a swift manner in exchange for a sizeable donation from the viscount. The volumes of work were hardly bestsellers—people preferred fiction to research—so the companies would never consider publishing them otherwise.

The viscount adored seeing his name in printed form, whether he did any writing or not, so he would stop at nothing to keep the books going.

“Quite a thick collection,” Lord Blackstone observed. “Larger than Gibraltar’s.”

That wasn’t difficult.

Henry’s excursion to Gibraltar in 1814 had ended in two hundred and fifty-seven species of birds observed with at least forty of them he’d never seen before.

“Much larger, my lord. It includes observations for nearly five hundred species—including two hundred birds I hadn’t recorded until now.”

“Spectacular,” Lord Blackstone mused, nearing the end of the papers. “Though I can see from these birds that South Africa has still provided you with the most diverse list.”

Henry had been sent out on eight excursions now in the last five years, and each location varied more than the last.

Perhaps if the viscount and other wealthy members of the ton would cease killing, disfiguring, and stuffing birds for their own vanity, there would be more birds to find and observe.

He drew a deep breath, soothing his own ruffled feathers. “Not quite as large or diverse, but still a success.”

“Oh, quite, quite,” Lord Blackstone said distractedly. “I meant no offense, of course. Nearly five hundred is still quite a feat. Ah, here we are.”

He reached the final page—the title page Henry had purposely slipped to the back of the stack.

His eyes dropped to the bottom of the paper, and a small smile thinned his lips. Lord Blackstone had obviously found what he’d been searching for.

A Compilation of Birds Observed

Vol. VIII

Containing the Description of Birds

as Found in the West Indies

by H. Branok

Excursion appointed and fully funded by

Egbert Percival Ptolemy, Viscount Blackstone

Naturalist

Lord Blackstone had never read one of Henry’s books.

He only ever saw his name on the title page before signing off on the proofs, so Henry liked to make him work for it.

The man was obviously more inclined to appreciate the acclaim he received for funding expeditions—as the king did—than he was to appreciate breathing birds.

Henry didn’t really mind. After all, his traveling, researching, observing, and writing was for individuals who loved birds. Living birds.

But Henry would accept whatever mere glance at his words Lord Blackstone could muster, so long as the viscount continued to send Henry all over the world, using contacts and connections to observe more birds and to print books faster than Henry ever could himself.

All he had to do was get past his own loathing for the man’s dead animal obsession, and he would last another decade or so doing this very thing.

At any rate, Henry was advancing the understanding of living animals with each book he finished.

That was worth any sacrifice needed, as far as he was concerned.

“Very fine work,” Lord Blackstone said, admiring his own name written in big, bold letters—one of his requirements.

“If you remain in my special club, devote the entirety of your attention to these excursions, and attribute your findings to me, I shall send you all over the world,” he’d said five years before.

They’d both made good on their promises.

“All is accurate and in order?” Lord Blackstone asked next, slipping the title page to the front of the papers. “A full account of your findings?”

“Yes,” Henry replied. He cleared his throat, glancing again at the window.

“Excellent,” Lord Blackstone said. “Everything appears in order on my end.”

He dipped his pen in his ink well, slid the tip on the edge of the glass container, then signed the front page to send the proof back to the printers.

Henry felt a weight lifted from his shoulders.

Book eight, complete.

He accepted the pages and slid them back into his satchel. “Thank you, my lord.”