Читать книгу A Ring from a Marquess - Christine Merrill, Christine Merrill - Страница 10

Chapter Three

Margot stared out the window of the shop, leaning her elbows on the glass case in front of her. She would never have allowed such slack behaviour from the people in her employ. But they were not as dejected as she was, after another day alone in the shop.

Lord Fanworth had not come yesterday, as he had promised when their conversation had been interrupted. She’d hoped he’d at least visit long enough to tell her how the necklace had been received. She liked to be told that her designs made others happy.

Of course, if the happiness meant that her Stephen Standish was currently entwined in the arms of some ruby-bedazzled Cyprian, she was not so sure she wanted to know. It was foolish of her to be so obsessed with a man who spent so much of his time buying jewellery for his lovers. But to her, the time they spent together, just talking, was more valuable than anything he had purchased at her shop. Surely he must realise that true affection could not be bought with rubies.

Once again, the worrisome thought occurred to her. Her sister and Mr Pratchet were right. He had seduced her mind, convincing her that she was more important to him than the other women he courted. On the day he finally asked for her body, she would give herself freely, without a second thought. It would be the death of her reputation, if they were not very discreet. But to refuse would mean that she would never know his touch. To imagine such a future was intolerable.

Of course, it might be the only alternative available. He had not come yesterday. Today was almost through and there had been no sign of him, either. One more day and it would be longer than any interruption since the first day he had found her. How long could one stay in bed? It was another question she did not want an answer to. If he gave even a hint of what he had been doing, it would surely make her cross. Assuming he came back at all.

Perhaps these visits meant nothing to him. Or perhaps their interaction was becoming too expensive. The ruby necklace had been very dear. Even the pockets of a marquess must have some limit to their depth. But he must realise he did not need to make a purchase to command her attention. She would have happily poured out the wine and invited him to sit and rest himself. Anything to have him here, for even a few minutes, to lighten her spirit and ease the passing of the day.

It was not as if she did not enjoy her shop. But at some point in the last month, she had come to think of the marquess as a part of her day. His absence was like coming to the tea tray and finding the pot empty.

Not quite. At least one knew that there would be more hot water and a few leaves left in the bottom of the tin. But suppose India ceased to exist and there were to be no more tea ever? Or, worse yet, that the tea had simply gone back to London, or to somewhere even further?

Or to someone else?

It was all the more troublesome that she could not share her fears with those around her. Her sister would remark that it served her right for growing accustomed to those unnatural visits. Mr Pratchet would inform her that it was for the best. Even now, she could sense him lingering in the doorway of the workroom, trying to catch her attention.

She turned and caught him squarely in her gaze. ‘Is there something I might help you with, Mr Pratchet?’

‘If you are not too busy.’ He glanced behind him, as if to indicate that their discussion was better unheard by the small group of customers already in the shop.

She sighed and walked towards him into the back room, shutting the door behind her.

When he was sure that he could not be heard, he announced, ‘The Marquess of Fanworth has not visited in almost a week.’

‘Only two days,’ she said, without thinking.

His eyebrows rose. ‘It is a great relief to me that he seems to be losing interest. If he returns, you must not encourage him. People will talk.’

‘I must not encourage him?’ Margot laughed. ‘He is a customer, Mr Pratchet. I certainly hope people talk about his presence here. If people of a certain class notice that we get regular trade from the son of the duke, they will come here as well.’ And if, just once, he should give one of her pieces to a member of his family, rather than wasting them on opera dancers, there was no telling how much trade might result.

‘I do not like it, all the same.’ There was something in Pratchet’s tone that was more than concern for a vulnerable young woman. This sounded rather like jealousy.

Oh dear.

It was happening again, just as it had with Mr Perkins and Mr Jonas. He was becoming too familiar. He was acting as if he had any right to control her personal behaviour, as if she were just some woman and not the person who paid his salary. If it was not nipped in the bud immediately, she would be placing an ad for a new goldsmith within the week. ‘I fail to see what your opinion has to do with the workings of this shop,’ she said, using a voice that should remind him of his place.

Rather than take the tone as the warning it was meant to be, Mr Pratchet ruffled his feathers. ‘It need have nothing to do with the shop at all. I will not see you damage your reputation for base profit. You are a lady and must take care.’

‘I am your employer,’ she said and waited for him to realise his mistake.

‘One does not preclude the other,’ he said, still oblivious. ‘If we are to have an understanding—’

‘Clearly, we do not understand each other at all,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘Not if you think you have a right to dictate to me.’

He seemed surprised at the interruption, ‘You would be wise to listen to me.’ It was as if he was scolding an unruly child. ‘You could not manage the shop alone. You have some talent for design, I’ll admit...’

‘Thank you,’ she said in a way that should have put him on his guard.

‘But you know nothing of working in metal.’

‘I know enough to appraise the talent in a goldsmith. It was why I hired you,’ she said. ‘And why I pay you handsomely for your skill.’

‘But if we are to enter into a more enduring partnership, for example a marriage...’

‘Marriage?’ she said, glacial.

He blundered on. ‘You mentioned, when you brought me on, that there might be a chance to be a partner in the shop. What better way to establish such a partnership then with the most permanent alliance?’

‘What better way?’ She laughed out loud at this. ‘Why, with lawyers, of course. And an exchange of money, from you to me. At such time as I consider taking on a partner...a junior partner,’ she corrected, ‘there will need to be contracts and negotiations on both sides. I will expect you to buy a share of the business, just as you would if I were a man.’

‘But you are not a man,’ he said, as though she might need to be reminded.

‘I do not intend to marry you, simply to secure a partner for my business. With the current matrimonial laws in this country, that would be little better than handing you the keys to the front door and walking away.’

‘There is nothing wrong with the law,’ he said. ‘It is just as God intended.’ By the long steady look he gave her, it was clear that he thought any problems lay not with the state, but with the woman in front of him.

‘I will discuss the matter with God, when I meet him,’ she said. ‘But that will not be for a good many years. And when he greets me, he will still be calling me Miss de Bryun.’

The pronouncement was probably blasphemy. But it was clear by Mr Pratchet’s shocked silence that he finally believed she was in earnest.

She continued. ‘You have been labouring under a misapprehension about your future here. I hope I have corrected it. If I have not? As your employer, I am well within my rights to let you go, no matter how good your work might be. But one thing I am most assuredly not going to do is marry you, Mr Pratchet.’

‘Yes, Miss de Bryun.’ The answer was respectful, but there was something in his expression that did not match the agreeable tone. He seemed to be recalculating, like a chess player who had found another path to mate. When he spoke again, it was in a more humble voice, though there was no apology in his words. ‘All the same, I stand by my warning to you about the Marquess of Fanworth. Do not trust him, or his family. I am sure what he intends for you is more than a simple transaction. If he is no longer coming to the shop, then you are lucky to be rid of him. And now, if you will excuse me, there is work to attend to.’ He turned and walked away.

As Margot went back to the main salon, she realised that she had just been dismissed from her own workshop. She sighed. It did no good to become preoccupied over the mysterious marquess, if it meant that she was not paying attention to more important matters. The erosion of her authority over Mr Pratchet should be foremost in her mind. One more such unusual outburst and she would have to let him go, for both their sakes. She would give him a letter of reference, of course. He did excellent work. In a shop run by a man, he would be no trouble at all.

But she had no intention of allying herself to a man who thought he could choose who she did or did not talk to, or who thought that a marriage was the next logical step after a position as an underling.

The idea left her in such a mood she barely remembered to smile in welcome as a customer came into the shop. He waved away the assistance of the nearest clerk, but remained at the front counter, staring thoughtfully down at a tray of inexpensive rings. Then he removed a pair of spectacles from his pocket and consulted a small notebook, nodding to himself and making notes with the stub of pencil that was tied to the binding.

Margot paused to assess him. Something was wrong about his demeanour. She could tell by the cut of his coat that he could afford something much better than the work he was admiring. But the style of his garments was simplistic to the point of anonymity. She almost expected to see a clerical collar flopping over the lapels and not an ordinary neckcloth.

To a seller of fine jewellery, he was disappointingly unornamented. There was no chain or fob on his waistcoat, no stickpin in coat or cravat, and his buttons were polished ebony to match the fabric of the coat. His only vanity was a gold ring worn on the left hand.

How strange. With no sign of a signet or stone, it looked almost like a wedding ring. She had never seen one on a man before. But one look at it and she was sure that it was a gift from a woman. A fellow who chose to wear such a thing must be a romantic. If so, he should show his devotion to the lady with a purchase of some kind.

‘May I help you, sir?’ Margot stepped forward with her most brilliant smile.

‘You might if you are Miss Margot de Bryun,’ he said, giving her an equally charming of smile. There was something behind it that was quite different from the expressions of the men who were usually trying to capture her attention. He gave the impression that he knew more than he was likely to tell.

Her own smile never faltered. ‘I am she. But I am sure any of the staff can help you, if you wish to make a purchase.’

‘Oh, I am quite sure that they cannot.’ His smile grew even more secretive as he reached into his pocket and produced a neatly lettered card.

E. A. Smith

Problems solved. Objects found.

Private enquiries handled with discretion.

She looked at him again, losing the last of her shopkeeper’s courtesy. ‘What sort of problems do you solve, Mr Smith?’

‘If I told you, I would hardly claim to handle my enquiries with discretion.’

‘But you can tell me what brings you here to seek out me, specifically.’

He nodded. ‘In this case, the problem is missing jewellery. The owner would like the item returned and the person who took it remanded to the authorities.’

‘You are a thief taker?’

He shrugged. ‘Sometimes. In this case, you must tell me.’ He reached into his pocket and removed a carefully folded piece of paper. ‘I am searching for a particular necklace. It belongs to the Duchess of Larchmont.’

She stifled a gasp. The mother of the Marquess of Fanworth. Her Mr Standish had spoken of a woman who missed her rubies. Had he been asking her to design a necklace for a duchess? She struggled to compose herself and examined the drawing. ‘It is lovely, but I have nothing of the sort here in this shop.’

Mr Smith looked at her carefully, as though he had some reason to doubt the story. ‘It is quite possible that the stones were removed from the setting and sold separately. Perhaps they have already been reset.’

She risked a nod. When ridding oneself of such a distinctive piece, it would be the most sensible thing to do. She waited for Mr Smith to explain himself.

He was looking at her with an equally curious expression. ‘Do you deal in rubies, Miss de Bryun?’

His continual questions were growing tiresome. ‘We deal in many stones, sir. Rubies are among them. But we do not deal in stolen merchandise, if that is what you are asserting.’

‘Perhaps, if you were to look more closely at the stones, you might be able to help me find them. I have a list of their weights and qualities.’ He pushed the paper across the counter towards her.

She felt a cold chill on her neck, before even looking at the sheet. The man was so calm, so assured, and so carefully avoiding any hint of accusation that his visit seemed all the more ominous.

The sketch was followed with a detailed description of the stones: their carat weight, colour and grade. Two stones, emerald cut, one half-carat each, perfect. Two more at a carat, pear-shaped, also perfect. And the largest centre stone, almost two carats by itself, with a little flaw at the corner.

All her previous denials were for nothing. She knew these stones. She’d reset them herself and given them to Stephen Standish. But how had they come to be in her possession? And what was to happen to her now? Most importantly, how was she to explain to Stephen that she had sold his family’s gems back to him?

Unless he already knew.

Once the thought had entered her head, it pushed out all others. The stones had been in his family for generations. Surely he had recognised them from the first. Why had he said nothing to her? Had he been the one to send this man? To what purpose?

She was doing him an injustice by doubting him. He might be as innocent of this as she was. Or he might be in some trouble over this that she did not fully understand. Until she had spoken to him about the necklace, she would not be sure.

If she blurted what little she did know to this stranger, she might make matters worse for him and not better. What good would it do to declare her innocence, only to shift the blame and the disgrace on to the man she loved?

She stared down at the description of the rubies, doing her best to keep her face impassive. ‘I have no such stones at this time.’

‘Should we look in your locked room? Perhaps you might have forgotten.’

‘I am not likely to forget stones of this size. But if you insist.’ She led him to the room at the back of the shop, taking the key from the chain around her neck. Once inside, she removed the velvet-lined trays that held the loose stones to show him that they were indeed devoid of the things he was looking for.

He did not seem as surprised as he should have, if he’d truly expected to find them there. ‘You are sure you have not seen these stones before?’

It was a cleverly phrased question and one that she could not lie through so easily. It hinted that he knew exactly where the stones were and was awaiting her confession. ‘Do you doubt my word?’

By the flash of triumph in his eyes, she had given him the answer he expected. ‘I only know what I have learned from others. The name of your shop was mentioned in relation to the disappearance of the stones. It is why I have come to ask you about them.’

Her shop? Maybe Stephen had nothing to do with it. Her mind raced. Perhaps it had happened while Mr Montague was still alive. If he had been in the habit of buying stolen property, there was no telling how much of her current stock was compromised. How many such mistakes might she have to apologise for? And would all the people involved be as understanding as Mr Smith seemed?

Perhaps it was not so dire as that. But she would not know until she had searched the records and learned what she could about the rubies. But for Stephen’s sake, and her own, it would be wise to wait until she had learned all she could on the subject, before speaking to Mr Smith. ‘I know nothing of stolen necklaces,’ she said. ‘Nor do I understand why anyone would accuse me of such a thing.’

‘Let me explain the situation to you.’ Mr Smith gave her a sad, almost understanding smile. ‘You asked me earlier if I was a thief taker. I must tell you, in some cases, I would most prefer not to be. There are times when one has been led astray, or misinformed, or trusted those that were unworthy. Though they had no intention of breaking the law, those people find themselves in a great deal of trouble. They might be imprisoned, or even hung for a single mistake. But all it would take to avoid the difficulty is to admit the whole truth and return the stones to their rightful owner.’

‘If I had the stones, I should most certainly return them,’ she said, for that was perfectly true. Then she followed it with half a lie. ‘If I see them in the future, I will contact you immediately.’

‘That would be wise,’ he agreed. ‘I will give you a few days to think on the matter. Then I will return to see if you have anything to tell me.’

‘Of course, Mr Smith.’ She gave him her most co-operative smile. If the Duke of Larchmont wished to see her hang, innocence would not be enough to protect her. But she could swallow her pride and go to Justine with the story. The Felkirk family was more than strong enough to shield her from Mr Smith and his threats. ‘If I discover anything, I shall most assuredly tell you.’

‘Until then, good day, Miss de Bryun.’ He gave a slight respectful bow and exited the shop.

For a moment, Margot was frozen in place, unsure of what to do next. Then she glanced around her to be sure that the other customers in the shop had been too preoccupied to hear any of the exchange between herself and the thief taker. When she was sure that not even the nearest clerk had eavesdropped, she hurried to the little office she kept at the back of the workroom.

Once there, she brought down the account books, tracing her fingers down lines of sales until she found the records of shipments taken in. And there was a purchase of loose stones large enough to hide the Larchmont rubies.

Had the merchant passed the stones on to her? The man was a gypsy, but well connected, and the natural son of an earl. She’d never had reason to be suspicious of him before. But then, she’d never been accused of dealing in stolen merchandise.

She went to the files and found the detailed inventory of the purchase. It had been checked in by Mr Pratchet, the description of the gems written in his tidy hand. They were mostly opals, this time, and a nice selection of emeralds. It appeared that she’d had the best of a shipment from the Americas: Brazil, perhaps. And there, at the bottom of the list, were the rubies. Their description was identical to the one that Mr Smith had just shown her.

The pure red of those stones could only have come from Burma. What were they doing with Brazilian emeralds? Mr Pratchet had paid out more than she’d expected to spend on that order. But the amount listed for the rubies was less than a tenth of their actual value. The ink on the line did not seem to match the rest, as though the last item had been added as an afterthought. The total below it had been carefully altered to include the amount paid out for the stolen stones.

She stared at the books for what seemed like hours, trying to understand how she had not noticed before. But hadn’t Pratchet just demonstrated how careless she had become while fawning over the Marquess of Fanworth?

* * *

When the senior clerk, Jasper, came to her for permission to shut the shop, she gave an absent nod. The sun was near to setting. The other clerks had already gone home to their tea and the building had grown dark and quiet. She followed the boy out into the shop and locked the door the minute he was thorough it. Then she hurried back to the workroom.

If there was an explanation to any of this, it would lay with Pratchet. She went straight to the desk he used as a workbench and searched the drawers, not sure what she expected to find. More stolen gems? Thank God, there were none. Perhaps he was not responsible, after all. He might have been gulled, just as she had been, when presented with a fine bunch of loose stones and a price too good to resist.

But then she turned to the box of scrap gold on the floor beside the table, waiting to be melted and recast. It took only a few moments’ prodding to find the setting for the duchess’s rubies lying twisted and empty at the bottom.

‘What are you doing there?’ Mr Pratchet was standing in the doorway, watching as she rifled his workspace.

‘What are you still doing here?’ she said. For a moment, irrational instinct took her and her eyes darted around the room, searching for a defensive weapon.

‘I forgot to take my coat...’ As he stared at the broken necklace in her hand, his voice trailed away, reminding her that such fear was overblown. He might be a thief, but he was an unprepossessing specimen who would not further risk his livelihood by attacking her.

‘You know what I am doing.’ She held the setting out in front of her, so that there could be no denying. ‘Explain this.’

‘You will not like what I have to tell you,’ he said, stepping forward, unthreatening but unafraid.

‘There is no doubt of that,’ she said. ‘You used me and my shop to trade in stolen materials.’

‘Only once,’ he replied, as though it should matter.

‘And the one time you were caught in it. An enquiry agent has been here today, searching for the necklace. What am I to tell him?’

‘I warned you of the dangers in dealing with the marquess,’ Pratchet said, as though it were somehow her fault that they had come to this.

‘What has he to do with it?’ she asked, afraid of the answer. ‘Other than that he came to the shop looking for rubies, only to have me sell him his own gems. And how am I to explain that?’

‘You won’t need to explain it,’ Pratchet said. ‘He already knows.’

‘He does not.’ Her heart sank. He had not so much as batted an eye on taking the stones back. But then, her sister had always warned her that attractive men were often the most skilled liars.

‘You are naïve, Margot,’ said Pratchet, in a voice he probably thought was kind. In truth, it was no less patronising than the tone he had used to discuss marriage. ‘Have you not wondered how I came by the stones?’

‘I assume the thief sold them to you.’

‘But why did the thief choose this shop and not some London Lombard merchant? And why did I succumb so easily to the temptation?’

‘I have no idea what your motives might be. Perhaps he knew you to be a habitual criminal.’ She wanted that to be true. But he had said that this was an isolated occurrence and she believed him. Even now that he was caught, there was nothing in his nature that seemed suspicious.

His face was as bland as it ever was, offering no sign of subterfuge. In fact, he was looking at her with pity. ‘I took the stones because I feared giving offence to the man who held them. I had no idea he would report them as stolen, or that his family would send the law to this shop to harass you over them.’

‘Are you claiming that the marquess himself gave them to you?’

‘I gave my word as a gentleman to say nothing of the truth to anyone,’ he said. ‘But I did the best to warn you that such a close association with a man like Fanworth was unwise. You cannot understand the motives of the nobles in their great houses. Perhaps it is all an attempt to gain the insurance money while keeping the stones for themselves.’

There was a perverse logic in it. To have a new necklace made would be one way to hide beloved heirlooms in plain sight.

‘The fact that he involves you in his schemes is particularly worrying,’ Pratchet continued, although she had not asked for his opinion on the matter. ‘Since you are young, lovely and unprotected by marriage, I think we can draw the obvious conclusion as to his real motives.’

He made it sound as if those qualities rendered her one step from stupidity. Or perhaps that was what he thought of all women. ‘Until I have spoken to Lord Fanworth on the subject, I will not know what to think.’ But she did not wish to speak to him, ever again. The truth was likely to ruin everything.

Mr Pratchet let out an incredulous laugh. ‘You mean to speak to him? It is clear that the family does not want to admit their part in the disappearance. To call attention to it will only anger them. And to admit that you held the stones...’ Pratchet shook his head. ‘If you go to him over this, he will have you arrested. Or he will make the unsavoury offer he has been planning all along.’

‘I refuse to believe that.’ But she could not manage to sound as sure as she had been. Hadn’t her sister offered the same warning? But she had been too flattered by Fanworth’s visits to heed.

Mr Pratchet gave her another pitying look. ‘When you are proven wrong, come to me. Perhaps, if you are married, he will leave you alone. Together we might find a way out of the mess you have created for yourself.’ He went to the corner, collected the forgotten coat and went out into the street.

The mess she had created? It was true. She had convinced herself that the Marquess of Fanworth would stoop to be interested in a shopkeeper. Now, she would need to go to Justine and beg her to solve a problem created by her own vanity.

But she would not forget Pratchet’s part in this disaster. He had bought the stones and kept the truth from her. If anyone deserved to be gaoled, it was him. But despite his protests of a gentleman’s agreement, he could prove in court that she’d had no knowledge of the provenance of the rubies she’d sold. She would pretend to overlook his crime, for the moment, at least. If she sacked him as he deserved, he might disappear just when he was needed to swear to her innocence.

She stared down at the twisted metal still in her hand that had once held such magnificent stones. It was a sad end to see it thrown away as scrap. But it would be even worse if she lost her livelihood over a piece of jewellery.

In the front room, the bell of the shop door rang. Pratchet had not locked it when he’d gone. Without thinking, she stepped to the doorway and called, ‘I am sorry, the shop is closed for the evening.’

‘Not to me.’ The voice was familiar, and yet not so. While she had heard him speak a hundred times, he had always been kind. Never before had she heard him use so cold a tone. Nor would she have thought it possible that three words could be imbued with such calculating, deliberate threat.

Framed in the entrance was the Marquess of Fanworth. And he was staring at the gold in her hand.