A Ring From a Marquess

by Christine Merrill

  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 clos
ely 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?’