“Mr. Pollson, good day!” she said brightly.
“It is, but I expected you yesterday,” he said with his usual surly bite. “Did he forget us then?”
“Not at all! I’d come as promised and was set upon by a pickpocket downstairs!” She gave him a stern look of disapproval, her best imitation of Mrs. Dorsett. “Ruffians, sir! My employer was furious to think of it!”
Mr. Pollson stood too quickly from his cluttered desk, an avalanche of scraps of paper and unbound pages sliding onto the floor. He merely stepped over the mess to come around to address her. “The tobacco shop downstairs said there was a commotion but I…had no idea, miss. I hope Mr. Crimson’s work was not stolen!”
Grace shook her head, accepting that his concern wouldn’t be for her safety. “No, thank goodness! But nearly so! The pages were a muddy shambles, I can tell you that, after the ruffian tore them from my hands. We spent the night repairing them. Even so, Mr. Crimson bade me come again to ensure that his commitment is made.”
“Good, good, good! You have the next installment there?” he asked, eyeing her basket.
“Yes, sir.” Grace dutifully handed the pages over.
“Is Mr. Crimson pleased with them?”
“Yes. He is…very pleased. He said he thought you’d like the twist with Poseidon’s Curse, something about a reflection of the opium trade. It’s all quite gruesome.”
“Good, good, good!” The man’s eyes lit up. “Ah! The man has a gift for gore, if you ask me!”
“They’re selling well then?”
“Why? What has he heard?” His expression became a bit more closed off, as he shrugged. “They go well enough. Sales can always be better in these hard times. Hard, hard times! You remind Mr. Crimson that times are very hard! We pay good money and don’t burden him with complaints when pamphlets don’t move, do we?”
“No. He is very grateful for the arrangement.”
“As he should be! There’s a hundred more to take his place if he don’t like it!”
“Mr. Crimson has expressed no complaint, sir! In fact, he told me this morning how pleased he is—with the quality of your establishment.”
The man’s countenance relaxed. “Here’s the payment for this then.” He held out a thin envelope.
Ten glorious pounds!
“Ten is very generous, sir.”
“It’s fifteen! You tell him to keep those installments coming regularly and include more stories of that band of undead gypsies if he knows what’s good for him. We reward loyalty here at Sigley and Yardling, Printers Extraordinaire!”
She took the envelope from him, enrapt at the idea of her newfound wealth. Without thinking she unbuttoned her blouse at her collarbone and slipped the sealed envelope inside, before putting herself to rights.
“Miss!” Mr. Pollson exclaimed in shock.
“Oh!” Grace blushed, although perfectly aware that the glimpse of her throat probably wasn’t as much of a scandal as the tantalizing idea that the payment was now nestled in the scandalous region above her cleavage. What a bother! “I apologize, Mr. Pollson, but my employer would be furious if I misplaced his payment and since I missed our appointment yesterday due to pickpockets outside your door…”
“Y-yes…very practical of you,” he said. “You are…” Mr. Pollson sat back down slowly. “Quite fearless.”
“Why, thank you, sir!” Grace beamed and fought off the urge to curtsey she was so pleased at his words. “Well, I should be back to Mr. Crimson. He will be waiting, you know.”
“Waiting.” Mr. Pollson waved his hand in dismissal, his expression a man already distracted by his nest of papers. “Go, yes, and remember to remind him that where the body count is high—“
“Readers sigh,” she finished dutifully. “Good day, Mr. Pollson.”
Grace retreated, her footsteps light on the stairs going down to her waiting carriage. The sun shone and with fifteen pounds in her chemise, she almost forgot her troubles.
Almost.
She had four days before Mr. Rutherford’s return and before the dreaded Sunday dinner. If this were her last payment from Mr. Pollson, then she would have saved nearly three hundred pounds over time. It wasn’t a fortune by any means, but she’d decided that it was enough. Enough to make a start if Sterling threw her from the house; and even if he stripped her of her pen name, Grace was determined that another aspiring male author could be invented in a pinch. It might be a while before the new man found a publisher, but she’d managed it once. Surely another editor would see the same promise that Mr. Pollson had spied!
And if not—Grace did her best to smile as the streets of London passed outside her window. Then I can fulfill my destiny as a servant, and scribble tales by candlelight for maids and footmen! I would be content with that.
When she got home, Mrs. Dorsett was waiting for her with a note in hand. “It’s a dinner party, is it?”
“On Sunday, but there is only one guest so I don’t think we’ll be going to too much trouble,” Grace said, removing her bonnet. “Something simple, yes?”
“Not according to Mr. Porter!” Mrs. Dorsett waved around the paper in vindication. “You’d think a Duke was popping in for a meal by the looks of this menu!”
“Oh, dear,” Grace said, calmly holding out her hand. “May I see it please?”
Mrs. Dorsett shoved it toward her. “I ain’t no fancy chef! Never made claim to it so if this guest is too high and mighty to eat a good hearty fare, I’ll be taking Sunday off!”
Grace sighed. Sterling wanted servants but he was not generous enough with their wages to hire more qualified staff. She’d been making due with Mrs. Dorsett for years and patching the gaps where she could with day maids and an occasional gardener. “You are a very good cook, Mrs. Dorsett, and I’m sure we’ll come up with a compromise between…oh!”
Grace glanced at the list and was immediately aware of the cause of Mrs. Dorsett’s mood. Five courses on menu cards? Jellies and tarts? A poêlée for the sweetbreads? And what in the world is this bit about lobster ragout? My god, it’s two weeks budget for one meal and—where would she and I begin to prepare this?
“You see? You see, then!” Mrs. Dorsett tapped her foot impatiently. “If that is the menu then it’s Sunday off!”
“I will speak to my brother and amend the menu.” Grace folded the offensive note and firmly tucked it into her skirt pocket. “I need you on Sunday, Mrs. Dorsett, so as usual, please plan on taking Saturday afternoon as your own.”
“Am I to serve, too?” the woman asked, her lips pressed into a thin pinched line.
“I’ll send a note to the agency and see about an extra hand or two for the day. I’m sure Sterling will approve considering…” Considering it’s obvious he wishes to make a very good impression on Mr. Rutherford.
“As you wish.”
Grace made her way up the stairs and did her best to quickly tackle the bulk of the work. She wrote the note to the agency for a kitchen maid and a footman for Sunday and sent it off before she approached the rest of her chores. The second floor bedrooms were straightened and dusted, the laundry pulled for the morning’s labor, and first floor sitting room was dusted and aired. Even as she pounded the pillows on the settee, she smiled to think of Mr. Rutherford’s refusal to risk taking a seat.
Then she moved down the hall to her brother’s private study and office. Sterling’s sanctuary was her least favorite room in the house. It was the most opulent and garishly appointed space, with shelves of “treasures” Sterling had collected from all over the world. He had a penchant for religious figurines and small portraits with eyes that met your gaze no matter where you stood in the room. It was a disconcerting feeling to be so coldly watched by dozens of eyes and they had secretly inspired more than one of her ghost stories.
She made quick work of the dusting, stopping only to stick her tongue out at a particularly ugly statuette of a fat man whose turban was in the midst of transformin
g into a snake. He smirked at her with a brass grin nonplussed. “Enjoy the jest, horrid thing,” she whispered. “I’m betting you wouldn’t be so content if you knew how quickly you’d end up in the rubbish bin if I had my say in the matter.”
“Grace!” Sterling exclaimed from the doorway. “Tell me you are not talking to my artwork!”
She wheeled around, instantly anxious. “Of course not!”
Sterling crossed his arms. “Then who were you addressing just then?”
She folded her hands in front of her. “I was merely speaking my thoughts aloud, brother.”
“A horrible habit you will break instantly!” he announced as he came into the room. “Bad enough that you speak your mind when there are human beings in the room, sister, much less nattering away like a lunatic!”
“As bad as that? I’ll refrain from thinking aloud.” She tried to tease him out of his dark mood. “But the houseplants will be so disappointed to miss our chats.”
“Grace!” His eyes darkened with fury. He moved to take a seat behind his desk before making one impatient gesture toward the chair across from him. “Sit.”
“Yes.” She dutifully perched on the upholstery and waited expectantly, trying to ignore the taste of dread that flooded her mouth. “You look displeased.”
He shook his head. “I want to talk to you about this upcoming dinner.”
“Of course. It was very generous of you to—“
“You’ll wear your best gown and you’ll make an effort to limit your comments to the most innocuous and inoffensive topics allowed.” Her brother pulled his pipe from a carved wooden box on the desktop and began to light it. “I want you to be as agreeable and appealing as humanly possible.”
Grace blinked a few times, unwilling to trust her ears. “My best gown? Is Mr. Rutherford…is he truly a good friend then that you’re so anxious to—“
“What he is to me is none of your concern,” Sterling said firmly. The match in his fingers flared as it caught, creating a fleeting distortion of his features in its light. “You’ll be on your best behavior, Grace, and strive not to disappoint or embarrass me.”
She nodded. “I always do. But appealing? I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking.”
He rolled his eyes. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from giving him a witty answer and instead held her place and her tongue.
Sterling cleared his throat and tried again. “This evening is very important to me. For once, do as you are told. Behave.”
“Yes.”
“I won’t keep you from your duties any longer.” He said dismissively and then leaned back in his chair, drawing on his pipe.
She stood slowly. “I’ve spoken to Mrs. Dorsett about the menu and amended it for presentation and for economy. I’ve arranged to have two extra servants to make things run more smoothly and to allow for a good impression.” She let out a slow breath to steady her nerves. “Rather than just behaving like a lady, I hope my brother is wise enough to allow me to act like one and organize the social details as I see fit.”
His gaze narrowed but he finally nodded. “By all means.”
She left at his concession, turning on her heels and departing with as much dignity as she could muster. Her confusion about Mr. Rutherford’s return was coalescing into a strange storm but there was no remedy for it.
Sterling’s reversal toward Mr. Rutherford was hard to explain. She wanted to believe it was a genuine invitation based on gratitude for his heroic actions or even an open interest in rekindling a friendship. But something wasn’t right.
Agreeable and appealing? Is he playing matchmaker? Is that even possible after years of echoing my father’s sentiments on my utter unsuitability?
No answers came to her. Her own physical reaction to Mr. Rutherford and weakness for his compliments only muddied her internal debate. She’d wear her best gown on Sunday and make an effort to stay quiet. She’d do her best to appease her brother and keep Mr. Rutherford’s respect. But one thing was certain.
She’d be prepared for the worst and have her savings pinned inside her clothes in case she needed to make a run for it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Michael, Galen and Ashe all stared at the odd shaped stone on the table between them. The size of a walnut, it was a pale red thing, almost pink in cast, and Michael tipped his head to one side to see if another angle would help improve its appearance. “Seriously? This is it?”
Galen leaned back. “The jeweler said it appeared to be a dyed stone. Wasn’t that the whole point of the quest? To find a gem that might be disguised to mask its true nature?”
“Is it a diamond then?” Ashe asked. “Is it the diamond?”
“Darius will be back from his honeymoon in a week.” Galen said. “I’d say he probably knows some kind of test to—“
The impact of one of the fireplace andirons crashing down on top of the stone sent Ashe wheeling backwards from his chair onto the floor and Galen leapt up to avoid the worst of the corresponding mess.
“Rutherford! What the hell!?”
“What? I’m done wasting time and I don’t have a week to wait.” Michael lifted the ornate and heavy tool and shrugged at the sight of a pulverized pile of pink glass-like crystals. “I’d say it’s definitely not a diamond.”
The door to the library crashed open as Godwin came through with two younger footmen on his heels, all of them armed with medieval weapons they’d grabbed from a suit of armor in the hallway. “Sir! Are you…all right?”
Michael guiltily hid the andiron behind his back. “Sorry, Godwin.”
“An experiment gone wrong,” Ashe chuckled as he stood up, brushing off his pants. “No harm done.”
The footmen retreated as Godwin entered the fray, his brow furrowed with disapproval. “The table might disagree with your assessment, Mr. Blackwell!”
Galen took one slow step away from Michael, clearly trying not to smile as he subtly indicated who the culprit might be. “Rutherford was just demonstrating his knowledge of gems.”
Ashe mirrored Lord Winter’s guilty move away from Michael, enjoying the mirth of the moment and deliberately put his hands behind his back like a contrite schoolboy. “Mr. Rutherford is very enthusiastic about gem quality.”
Michael shot them both a dark look of his own that promised retribution, but for now, it was Godwin he addressed. “I will see the table repaired or replaced, Mr. Godwin and naturally, it won’t happen again.”
“See that it does not!” Mr. Godwin said, finally setting aside his mace. “I will advise Mrs. Clark the cause of the mess so that there are no misunderstandings below stairs and ask that all of you refrain from murdering any more of the furniture.”
“Yes, sir.” All three men answered dutifully and then miraculously managed to keep themselves from laughing until the butler had retreated.
“God! That’s a story to tell!” Ashe sat back down in his chair, with a wry grin. “I swear I thought he was going to send us all to bed without supper!”
“Enjoy your fun, Blackwell, but when Mrs. Clark has a word with your wife, I doubt I’ll be invited back,” Michael said as he replaced the andiron.
Ashe laughed. “As if you would care! You blanche white every time you get within a hundred yards of feminine company!”
“Enough!” Michael crossed his arms. “Since we’ve established that that wasn’t the diamond in question, let’s shift back to the obvious question.”
“All right,” Galen straightened his shoulders and gave Blackwell a quelling look. They all respected Michael’s dislike of society and shy nature but Galen knew him better and suspected that Ashe had hit a nerve. “We’ve done with the opening entertainment. Let’s hear it.”
“Yes,” Ashe said as he retook his seat. “Is the obvious question something along the lines of what are we going to do now that we’re out of ideas about this blasted diamond?”
“No.” Galen stood and went
to the sideboard to pour himself a cup of tea. “The diamond is probably under our noses, much like a certain villain was. No, the real question is why do you not have a week to wait, Rutherford?”
Michael held his breath as the last of Ashe’s playful demeanor evaporated instantly. Ashe leaned forward on the cushions. “Something has happened with the Jackal.”
“Not yet.” Michael held up his hands defensively. “And I am not out of ideas.”
“I’ll cling to the promise of that ‘yet’.”
“Stop nagging the man!” Galen said over his shoulder. “I mentioned it only because I wanted to be sure that all was well. Rutherford has already earned our trust so stop hovering like a rag lady over a rubbish bin.”
Ashe waved him off. “What is yet to happen within the week?”
Michael sighed. “My first face to face meeting with the Jackal if you must know.”
“Hell! That’s something, isn’t it?” A new quiet seized the room and the spring light through the windows that moments before had seemed bright, now felt devoid of warmth.
Michael nodded. “It is.”
Galen set his tea down. “It’s faster than I imagined it.”
“It’s faster than I’d planned,” Michael conceded. “But it’s also not what you’re imagining, your lordship. No pistols at dawn.”
Galen made a face. “I hate it when you address me like that, but you’re doing it like a master tactician to distract me. It won’t work, friend. You may as well tell us all of it.”
“It’s a dinner. I’m invited to a meal at his home.”
“You’ll not eat a bite without tasting your death if he’s still got any more poisoners in his employ!” Ashe barked. “You’ve lost your mind.”
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