by Carrie Lomax
Miss Lowry shook her head, but a faint smile had crept into her mouth again. “Shall I apply for the position?”
God, yes. Please.
“Why not? We may be the ones to break the Heart’s Cry curse.” Malcolm’s joke fell as flat as his tone. They made their way back up the front walk for countless drivers and footmen to see and whisper about. She made certain to keep the hood of her cloak pulled far over her face. Havencrest realized belatedly that the brazen display of them returning to the theatre would do wonders to tamp down the gossip. Men of means slipped away for assignations all the time. There was nothing distinctive about the American woman’s dress or cloak to make her stand out.
“I expect because the Dowager Duchess has already died in every way that counts,” Havencrest finally commented, scathingly, as they entered the grand foyer of the theater. Antonia snorted with shock. “Ah, excellent. We haven’t missed the last act. I do adore the aria in the last act.”
“It is one thing to steal a necklace, your lordship,” Antonia said archly. “But quite another to insult an old woman. Even if she does possess all the charm as a snapping turtle. I do not undertake my work out of spite.”
Then, what motivated Miss Antonia Lowry?
The answer came to him in a burst of insight. Pride.
“All of you aristocrats are related in some manner, it seems. Who is Lady Summervale to you?” Antonia asked. She surrendered her cloak to the check and hurried ahead.
“My grandmother.”
“You are joking.” Antonia halted so quickly that he nearly knocked her over. Malcolm steadied her, but she shrugged out of his grasp, leaving him with hands like two parentheses where her shoulders had been.
“I am utterly serious.”
“No. Ask her for it, if you need it so badly.”
“What makes you think I haven’t tried that?” he demanded and dragged his hand through his hair with frustration. An old habit.
“How does your grandmother respond?” Antonia asked, incredulous.
“She says I am too much like my father and I don’t deserve it. Mind you, I am like my father in many respects. For example, we both loved my mother.”
“Where is he in this mess?”
“Dead. If he yet lived, I wouldn’t be a duke,” Malcolm explained wryly. She was working so hard to wriggle out from under his thumb. He was not about to allow her to escape again, though.
“Right.” Antonia pinched the bridge of her nose. “Of course not.”
“Americans, as I understand things, do not concern themselves with primogeniture.”
Miss Lowry blinked up at him. “I’m sorry?”
“The law of inheritance through the male line.”
“I see. We Americans have our own version.” A bitterness he could not decipher crept into her voice. “On either continent, women are excluded from property ownership. Not that being able to own anything in my own right would have changed anything for me. My family doesn’t have a pot to piss in.”
Malcolm couldn’t summon the energy to be shocked by her vulgar language. “It isn’t entirely true. There are allowances for women to own property. Some titles are passed down through the female line. Not mine, and not many.”
“I fail to see why this is relevant to me.” Antonia swept ahead. “I am no aristocrat, only a nameless hanger-on.”
“Miss Lowry…if we are to continue meeting like this, I want to know your true name.”
“Well, Malcolm,” Miss Lowry cast him a gaze with a glint of steel. “We don’t always get what we want, do we?”
Applause rose. If she wished to slip back into the box, unnoticed by anyone but the Evendaws, now was her opportunity. Malcolm bowed. “But I will. This time, you will do as I command, Miss Lowry.”
Her nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed indignantly, but for once, Miss Lowry did not contradict him.
Chapter 7
“What kind of depraved scoundrel wants to steal a gem from his own grandmother?” Antonia asked aloud the next morning. She had awoken before anyone but the servants and slipped out unseen. Half an hour later she was here, in her shabby safe house. The landlord resided in Cheapside, where she had sent payment for three months’ worth of rent. After that, Antonia planned to have no further use for the space. By the end of March, Antonia Lowry would be no more. Her death had been delayed a few weeks, that was all.
She brushed the dust off the mantel and pried up the top layer of wood. Underneath was a space about six inches wide and four inches deep. It was filled with small bags and bits of twisted metal. Antonia selected two velvet sacs and carried them to the small wooden table next to the window. Wan light filtered through the rippled glass, which also permitted entry to a brisk wintry breeze. Antonia shivered and dumped the clips and twists onto the table. Without the proper equipment, she had no way of knowing how pure any given bit of metal was. For an hour or so she clipped apart links and pried tiny diamonds from their settings. The enamel was useless to her. Antonia cracked it and removed the gems for resale. After her first theft had led to detection and punishment, Antonia now knew to break apart even the prettiest pieces before selling the scrap.
The mystery of Havencrest’s cold-heartedness proved no closer to an answer when she gathered the bits and filings into the pouch, tucked it into her pocket, and returned the loupe, jeweler’s pliers and tiny metal shears into their oilcloth casing. Back everything went into its hiding place. Antonia touched the letter that had arrived for Mr. Anthony Lowe and sighed. She wasn’t ready to read it.
On the pegs near the door, next to her plainest warm cloak, hung three complete changes of men’s clothing. Waistcoat, jacket, trousers. Beside it stood a small wood-framed cot with a pathetically thin mattress and an even less adequate quilt. Antonia thought of the street urchins she had passed on the journey here and how badly they would have loved to sleep in her empty bed on a cold February night. She could not afford empathy. Hell, she could hardly afford this place, after the money she had spent on dresses and gloves and bonnets and ribbons and little gifts to the Evendaw staff so they would look the other way about her comings and goings.
Antonia made quick work of removing her dress. From the valise beneath the cot she extracted a lawn undershirt and drawers. She repeated the process of dressing, this time pressing her breasts flat with too-small stays covered by a short linen chemise, men’s shirt, and waistcoat. Layers of fabric buried the evidence of her femininity. She paced the scant length of the room to practice a man’s stride.
Antonia used a knife to cut an inch off the strand of her own hair. Using a small pot of glue and the help of a small mirror, she pasted a thin, false mustache to her upper lip. A few more hairs dipped into the pot and applied to her eyebrows gave her a reasonably masculine look.
Imagine if she had bothered with the false facial hair when she had dumped Miss Edith Webber’s dead body into the Thames. Antonia grinned at the thought. Havencrest would have been in for quite a shock. It amused her to think of it. The easier to avoid contemplating the way her heart skipped every time he speared her with his blue eyes. She couldn’t afford feelings, even if she wanted to. She didn’t.
Antonia made her way down the stairs and out into the street where she did her best imitation of a man’s stride. The hair glued to her face itched, but she only had to tolerate it long enough to get to the row of jeweler’s workshops a twenty-minute walk away. Proximity to the place where she fenced her ill-gotten wares was the reason she had selected this particular location for her bolt-hole. The relative cleanliness and an absentee caretaker had sealed the deal. The less scrutiny Antonia faced, the better.
“Mr. Lowe,” the bespectacled jeweler’s apprentice said when she rang the bell above the door with her entrance. Antonia straightened, trying to remember how to look masculine the same way she had once had to remind herself constantly to act like a white woman. That had become second nature, and once she had amassed enough coin Antonia hoped behaving like a man would too
. Wide stance. Shoulders back. Breasts tied down by an old corset refashioned to smush her chest flat insead of enhancing it.
“Mr. Smith.” She ducked her chin, then remembered that she needed to lower her voice, too. “I have brought you another pocketful of scrap to exchange.”
Smith swept his work onto a tray and moved it under the counter, out of reach. “Come. Let’s see what you have on offer this time.” He gave no hint of approbation, no indication that anything was amiss. All of Antonia’s relationships were to some extent like this one—secret, transactional, and based upon lies.
Except for her newfound relationship with Maggie. Antonia didn’t know what to do with her blind trust.
And there was Havencrest, too. He had peeled away her lies like layers of an onion. Lord help her if he ever discovered Antonia’s cold bolt-hole. She ought to stock the place with provisions, like a bit of coal, in case she ever needed to stay there overnight. Yet the thought of wasting money on items easily procured made her hesitate.
Smith rubbed one piece after another on a dark slate, testing the purity. “It’s a mixed lot,” he said when he had tested half of the little bag’s contents. “Five pounds.”
“Six, if you please.” Antonia had hoped for ten. Half that was more than a disappointment. It was a problem. Especially since she now needed to outfit herself as a lady worthy of the companionship of a duchess.
“Five pounds, six shillings.” Smith removed his loupe. It had pressed a pink circle around the rim of his eye. Dark smudges shaded the orbs beneath. “The last collection of scrapings proved lower-quality than anticipated.”
Damn. Who knew rich ladies wore so much plate?
“I have diamonds. A small collection of emeralds. Pearls, if you have any use for them.” Antonia mentioned them as she circled the metalsmith’s wares. Gold watch fobs, silver serving dishes with copper gilding, and pewter cups shone in locked glass-front cases. The shop offered something for every price point below the aristocracy. It was the primary reason she had selected this one as an unwitting fence. The smiths employed here possessed enough skill to create the pointlessly pretty knickknacks favored by London’s wealthy and were anxious enough to keep costs down not to look too closely at the source of their metals.
“Pearls make for excellent wedding finery,” replied Smith after a pause that either meant he was humoring her or was intrigued by her offer. “Five pounds, ten shillings, and I don’t call the magistrate.”
“The magistrate?” Antonia swallowed. What would a man do, in her position? She didn’t know, so she had to play-act until she could get away. “I can’t imagine why that would be necessary.”
Feign ignorance. It worked for everyone.
The apprentice scooped her eclectic collection of metallic curls into the bag. By nightfall they would be melted down into unrecognizable ore. He said nothing as he counted out her money. It was one percent of the funds supposedly awaiting her at the bank, but somehow the material clink of coins held more value to her than numbers on paper. Those were ephemeral. Coins clinking in her hand were solid evidence of worth and wealth. Hers, specifically.
“We deal with the likes of you, Mr. Lowe,” said Smith mildly, not so unwitting after all. “Because it gives us a source of gold at below-market material. We don’t ask questions. You don’t ask for more than you deserve. A man was here yesterday looking for you.”
A chill deeper than a northern frost turned Antonia’s blood into sludge. “Who?”
“A man,” Smith repeated. “Tall, well-dressed. Not exactly friendly. Possibly from Bow Street.”
Either from Bow Street, or Havencrest had tracked her down. Antonia straightened her shoulders in an attempt to appear more masculine. “I cannot imagine why a Runner would have any interest in your vendors.”
Smith sighed. “He didn’t. He was interested in us. In this shop.”
“I see.” Not Havencrest, then. If she guessed correctly, his fellow shopkeepers had tipped off the authorities that he might be cutting corners. Which meant that, for now, she was safe.
It also meant she could never come back here.
Frustration blossomed inside her. Months of careful cultivation had come to naught. People talked. In her experience, small communities of like-minded individuals like metalsmiths and jewelers were bigger gossips than the most empty-headed ladies of London society. They had to be. Newspapers didn’t print the niche information that helped them to navigate a world filled with cheats and raw competition. Understanding didn’t make the facts any easier to swallow.
“I wish you luck, Mr. Smith.” Antonia scooped the stack of coins into her gloved palm.
“And I, you, Mr. Lowe.”
Two anonymous names bidding farewell to one another, forever. The fact ought not to put her in such a foul mood, but Antonia’s hand shook with anger as she fumbled the lock open at her secret hiding place a few minutes later. She had been careless enough to forget to watch for followers. Mr. Smith had been kind to her at a time when many had not.
Once she had shed her gloves, overcoat and jacket, Antonia unpinned her braid from where she had coiled it on top of her head and lay back on the comfortless bed in her cold room. The script on the envelope was hardly legible. It was a miracle the letter had reached her after at all. Antonia broke the cracked wax seal and unfolded the paper. A collection of paper money spilled onto her stomach. Antonia squinted to decipher the words.
Princess,
Whatever you did to get so much money I wish you’d stop doing it. I won’t have a thing to do with funds earned by stealing. Cyrus ain’t inclined to welcome you home until you mend your wicked ways, either, so don’t come.
We are keeping as little as we can ONLY for your brother Earl’s wedding and your sister’s newborn.
Queenie
Antonia smiled faintly at her mother’s letter. Dictated, surely, for her mother was as literate as a barn cat. Mrs. Beckwith had taught Antonia the basics of the alphabet and the way letters formed words. From there, her education had been catch-as-catch-can. She shuffled through the rectangles her mother had returned to her. Mama had kept a little over half of the sixty dollars she had sent. It was more than many people earned in a year.
“I wish you had kept it all,” she whispered into the cold air. Since there was no use in fighting her mother’s perpetual disapproval, Antonia sat up and slipped the rolled bills into the hiding place above the mantel. Quickly, she dressed in her men’s clothing again, checking to ensure the glued-on hairs had not been displaced during her brief respite.
No one looked askance at her at the bank, where Antonia withdrew more money than she had ever held in her two hands, tucked them into her breast pocket and returned again to her secret room. There, she concealed a portion of the bills in her corset and donned the woolen gown she had arrived in. On the street, a few startled glances reminded her that she had forgotten to remove the false mustache and hairy eyebrows. Antonia turned to a window, snagged a handful of gray snow from the sill and scrubbed at her face until the space between her upper lip and her nostrils had turned bright pink. She plucked most of the stray eyebrow hairs and scattered them as she walked, crossing her own path twice to be certain of losing any tails. She couldn’t afford to be so careless again. Once on the main thoroughfare she clambered into a hansom cab and rode back to Mayfair. Two blocks from the Evendaw’s townhouse, Antonia paid the driver and scurried up the road as though she had been on an innocent visit to a friend. Not that she had any.
“You’re back!” Margaret exclaimed when she entered the foyer. “I was beginning to wonder if you had left us permanently. Again.”
“Not without a goodbye, Maggie dear.” Antonia bent to air-kiss her friend’s cheek. Liquid heat scalded the insides of her eyelids. It felt strange and unfamiliar to receive a genuine welcome home. “I promised you that.”
Antonia knew her word was only so much hot air, though the longer she could prevent Margaret from discovering that fact, the better ch
ance she had at pulling off this mad caper with Havencrest. Freedom glimmered just out of reach. In the meantime, the sudden infusion of money lent much-needed credibility to her story that she had left behind in America to seek her future in Europe after a grand heartbreak. Though Lady Evendaw remained polite, she radiated disapproval of Margaret’s extended houseguest.
For example, the sharp gaze with which she pinned Antonia as they settled in for a light dinner with Margaret’s brother and sister-in-law.
“We have been invited to attend a gathering at the Keswick’s this evening. This will be a good opportunity for you to encourage a suitor or two. I needn’t remind you that freshening your wardrobe each season is not a luxury you may look forward to indefinitely.” Lady Evendaw raised one eyebrow over their soup. Antonia fixed her gaze on the fine china. Failing to find a husband during one’s first season was hardly a disaster—especially for an earl’s sister. Why such pressure?
“I shall give it my best try,” Margaret vowed. Her chin acquired a downward crescent-shaped crease in the center, however. Her entire posture wilted without ever slumping.
“This may be the evening you meet a beau whose company you enjoy,” Antonia said encouragingly. Her heart did an uncomfortable twist, almost as if she pitied the girl whose affections she had exploited for months in exchange for free lodging. When Margaret pushed back her chair and left her dessert uneaten, Antonia followed. “I meant to reassure you, Maggie dear.”
Antonia caught her accent slipping briefly into the cadence of the American south and winced.
“I know. It isn’t you who frustrates me. All I want is to enjoy this brief time before I take on the responsibilities of a wife and mother. Each time I waltz I feel them sizing up my suitor for the size of his purse and how quickly they can get me to the altar. I don’t understand why my brother is so desperate to be rid of me.”
“What if you chose the worst man possible and let him court you?” asked Antonia, thinking. “Would they stand back?”