Chapter 7

“Her Grace favored us with a call a fortnight past,” Mr. Grabel said. “Your dear mother is a careful customer. Has excellent taste too.”

I had begun my circuit of the shops with Grabel’s establishment precisely because a Grabel had been attending to Caldicott jewelry for at least four generations. My christening rattle had been fashioned under Grabel’s direction, and should I find myself in need of an engagement ring, I’d bring my custom to this elegant little establishment situated just off Ludgate Hill.

Mr. Grabel’s business was about at the midpoint between the Old Bailey and the churchyard of St. Paul’s Cathedral, symbolic of some moral subtlety or other. I’d always liked his shop, which sought to impress with quality rather than overwhelm with quantity. A few tastefully lavish pieces were displayed on beds of velvet. A few portraits indicated the lofty fate of other works.

“If you can think of an appropriate Yuletide token for Her Grace,” I said, examining a trio of ruby bracelets reposing on gold cloth. “I am all ears.”

Grabel, bald, bearded, and with the merry blue eyes of an aging elf, went to his ledger book. He licked his fingers and turned a few pages.

“Her Grace asked about…” He peered at an entry. “A watchcase for a small boy. She said he is too old for a porringer, too young for sleeve buttons, cravat pins, and such, but a pocket watch or standish might catch his fancy.”

The duchess might well have been shopping for Leander. Arthur had doubtless informed her of the whole situation, and regularly reporting to Her Grace on my nephew’s progress would now fall to me.

“I suppose a penknife will become my responsibility.” But what initials should I have engraved on this little commonplace? Was the child Leander Merton Waites? Leander Merton Caldicott? Leander Merton Dujardin, after his mama’s nom de guerre?

Another discussion to have with Arthur before he left.

“A penknife is a nice place to start,” Grabel said. “Nacre or ormer works well for an inlay. Even gold inlay on wood has a nice look. A folding penknife would be a bit different and more safely carried in the pocket.”

“I’d rather he kept sharp objects stashed in his desk or in the standish Her Grace contemplates. As it happens, though, I’m here with a different topic in mind.”

Grabel closed his notebook. “Is his lordship taking a bride?” The question was rendered with a conspiratorial twinkle that made me want to turn right around and return to the chilly, damp afternoon outside.

“Not at present, but I have been asked to trace the movements of a bride who came to London five years ago. She would have brought a quantity of jewels with her and been looking to pawn the lot.”

Grabel stared past my shoulder. “I avoid the pawning, my lord. Always, sadness attends such a transaction. For pawning, you are better off asking Herr Lucas or Mr. Stottlemeyer. They are discreet, their clientele is varied, and their businesses are well established.”

“Discretion is of the essence in this case.”

Grabel’s gaze returned to me. “Ladies pawning jewels are always in need of discretion, and sometimes they need a fast coach and passage to Calais too. Then one meets the husband and wishes the lady Godspeed.”

I could not see Evvie leaving the ambit of her sisters’ support, at least not early in her flight. “The difficulty was financial rather than a matter of the lady’s bodily safety.”

Evvie’s diaries had never once referred to Tait threatening her with physical harm, nor had she considered him verbally vicious outside the context of their mutual sniping, though his actions had wounded her sorely.

“Can you give me a name, my lord? Families of means tend to patronize the same shops down through the years.”

To insist on confidentiality would have insulted him. “She was Mrs. Evelyn Tait at the time, née Hasborough, of the Sussex Hasboroughs, hailing from near Climpton Parva. One of four girls.”

He held up a finger. “We shall consult the oracle. Oma!”

I had seen Oma when I’d been a small boy, and she’d struck me as impossibly old then. She shuffled forward from the back of the shop, no taller than my breastbone, stooped and stringy with age, her face as wrinkled as a hedge apple in winter.

“Lord Julian, you have done some growing up.”

“The tallest of the lot,” I said, feeling foolishly proud. “You are looking well, madam.”

“I look old, and this one,”—she jerked her chin at her grandson—“expects me to keep his books despite endless interruptions. Why have you bothered me this time, Heinrich?”

“Hasborough. Sussex gentry. His lordship has a question or two.”

She eyed me up and down. “They are all married, my lord. Don’t waste your time. Great, strapping females they are too.”

“I’m not looking to propose to the lady. Do you recall to whom the Hasboroughs gave their custom on Ludgate Hill?”

Her gaze turned thoughtful. “Look in at Stottlemeyer’s. He has many Sussex families among his customers. Not the titles—not the big titles, anyway. He’ll pawn, reset, or break up jewelry upon request. Not too proud to work with the semiprecious if that’s a lady’s fancy. Does good work. Doesn’t take all year to do it.”

A pointed look at Mr. Grabel accompanied that last observation.

“Danke, Oma,” Grabel said.

“You are welcome,” she said, tidying a display of watch chains laid out on purple velvet. “You should close early, Heinrich. My bones tell me the cold comes, and when the cold comes, the customers stay away. Good day, my lord.”

She shuffled out with no more ceremony than that, and Heinrich seemed relieved.

“Oma has a better eye for the jewels than I ever will, and she has kept more secrets than you can imagine. Royal secrets.”

“Not a burden I’d wish on anybody. Where can I find Mr. Stottlemeyer?”

“Across the street, three doors up. He’ll not close early. We none of us will. If we closed early on every gloomy day, we’d have no custom.”

“You’ve been a great help, and I will be back to discuss my nephew’s needs. I like the idea of a penknife, but must consider some details first.”

That Leander was my nephew was a disclosure of sorts, but such was Grabel’s tact that he showed no reaction.

“We are always happy to see a Caldicott come through our door, my lord. Best of luck with your inquiries.”

I put my hat on and wished I’d thought to bring an umbrella. “Thank you, and thanks to your grandmother.”

I had a hand on the door latch when a quavering voice called out from the back of the shop. “Emeralds for Miss West, my lord. Nothing less than emeralds will do. Emeralds for royalty and romance, and they’d suit you now as well.”

I hurried out into the rain and closed the door firmly behind me. Emeralds, long associated with the goddess Venus, were said to aid in fertility.

Opals for me, perhaps, for hope and love, but adorning myself in emeralds would have been turning folklore to a desperate end, and I wasn’t that far gone—yet.

* * *

“And why does my lord inquire about such old business?” Stottlemeyer asked. He was big, blond, and elegantly attired, a monumental sort of man who nonetheless had shelves and shelves of delicate work on display.

Too much, in fact. When pearls and citrines, lapis lazuli, and turquoise all competed for attention, when cameos, chokers, bracelets, necklaces, combs, and rings winked from every compass point, the effect was busy rather than dazzling.

Not much in the way of diamonds, rubies, sapphires, or emeralds, though, suggesting clientele of less-than-lavish means.

I took one look at Stottlemeyer’s impassive features and decided on a subterfuge—an obvious subterfuge—so that sensibilities could be preserved all around.

“The lady inherited her grandmother’s pearls,” I said. “A hoard of them, in fact. Ropes and bracelets and chokers and combs… and her sisters have asked me to discreetly attempt to trace the heirlooms. If they were sold, the sisters are interested in buying them back and would be most grateful to whoever could broker those transactions.”

Stottlemeyer weighed my deceptions and apparently found them adequate. Given his reputation and his trade, mine were doubtless among the simpler lies he was told in the course of a day.

“Have you a date, my lord?”

I informed him of the window of weeks following Evelyn’s departure, and he disappeared through burgundy brocade curtains behind his watch counter. The shop was thankfully deserted—the rain was coming down in earnest—and I pretended to admire the inventory.

Initials polished away from the back of a mirror and replaced with Stottlemeyer’s maker’s mark, a monogram artfully made over into a flourish of rosettes on a watchcase, a pair of bracelets that looked to have been cut down from a single necklace… So many sad stories, or perhaps, so many people earning coin from baubles that had brought them only fleeting happiness.

Stottlemeyer reemerged from his sanctum sanctorum, his gravitas worthy of an undertaker. “I did not accept any pearls for pawning or resale in the month you cite, my lord.”

Maybe Evelyn had kept her granny’s pearls out of sentimentality. “What about opals, turquoise, amber, lapis lazuli, and the like? She was partial to showy pieces and had fair coloring. She also had considerable stature and wasn’t given to fashionable understatements.”

Stottlemeyer gave himself away with—oddly enough—a movement of his ears. Some people swallowed upon receiving a mental start, some raised their eyebrows, some shifted their feet, some parted with a hmmph, or a well, well, well… Stottlemeyer’s ears moved.

Great stature and pearls clearly touched a chord in memory.

“A moment, my lord.”

He disappeared again, and again I waited, longer this time.

When he emerged from between his velvet curtains, Stottlemeyer looked, if anything, slightly vexed. His annoyance suggested he could not offend the brother of a duke, but neither could he compromise his reputation for discretion.

In other words, he knew something relevant. “I can tell you again, my lord, I accepted no opals, turquoise, amber, lapis, or the like for resale or pawning in the month that interests you.”

Firstly, unless Stottlemeyer had been suffering a protracted bout of Walcheren fever, he’d have accepted some or all of those jewels into his inventory in the course of any given month. Secondly, he was choosing his words with exceeding precision.

I produced a gold sovereign and set it on the nearest glass display case. “For your trouble and for your time. The Hasborough sisters are determined that I find those pearls.”

He recognized the name, for the first time meeting my gaze. “They were good customers.”

Past tense, which simplified Stottlemeyer’s dilemma. Upon marriage, a woman would tend to patronize the shops her husband favored, whether for jewels, gloves, or candles.

“And you gave good service, which is why, five years after her nuptials, Evelyn Hasborough came to you for some discreet transactions.” I reconsidered his words, few and brief as they were. “You accepted no jewels from her, either for pawn or purchase, but did you reset a few pieces for her?”

To spend money disguising jewels that were likely headed for liquidation struck me as something between overabundant caution and illogic.

Stottlemeyer’s blond brow furrowed. “Not reset.”

I had no idea what convoluted code of honor he was adhering to, but coin had loosened his hold on silence. I put another sovereign on the display case.

“You did something so that the pearls at least became unrecognizable.”

The two sovereigns disappeared into Stottlemeyer’s pocket, his movements as deft as a sleight-of-hand artist’s.

“She had only the pearls left,” he said. “She’d taken the rest to Lucas. Some he bought, some he offered to resell for her. Nice pieces—all of my pieces are nice—and he offered her fair terms. She went to him because she was concerned that her husband might think to inquire of me, not that I am in the habit of disclosing particulars to husbands in disgrace. She said her man was too lazy to ask questions of every jeweler in Town, and she trusted her pearls only to me.”

The Hasborough ladies had made a good, worthy impression on Stottlemeyer. “I’m only interested in the pearls.”

“I broke them down,” Stottlemeyer said. “Those long ropes became bracelets, combs, rings… She kept the choker with the cameo, because I told her that would fetch a good price as is, but the rest… You could fill a whole jewelry case with the results, my lord.”

What a phenomenal memory Stottlemeyer had when he was inspired to use it. “What would you say her jewels were worth?”

He wrinkled an aquiline nose. “Lucas has standards. He doesn’t deal in trash or trinkets. If he has paste, it’s excellent paste in a first-rate setting. Good pieces only, and the people patronizing his shop have means. Not vast fortunes, but means. They have come up in the world enough that haggling is beneath them. The lady would have come away with several hundred pounds, my lord. Lucas does not price his items to move quickly. Some ladies prefer to see their used goods in the shop window.”

I applied my imagination to such a scenario. “Because the gentleman who gave them the piece will be humiliated by the display?”

Stottlemeyer nodded. “Ja, and because then all the ladies will see that a particular locket initially on offer at Garrard’s has been consigned to my own humble window. The careful gentleman will avoid that locket if he seeks a gift for a woman he truly esteems. In the eyes of the best Society, the locket has come down in the world, you see.”

Enough subterfuge and posturing for a military campaign. “Interesting, and not something I was aware of previously. I will convey my findings to the relevant parties, and thank you for your time. You have been most helpful.”

“Glad to be of service. I don’t suppose I can interest your lordship in a snuffbox? We have quite a selection.”

“Thank you, no. I don’t indulge.” The rain was letting up, too late for my poor boots, and the afternoon was shifting toward evening. “If you happen to come across any of those pearl pieces, would you let me know?”

I set my card and a third sovereign on the glass counter. Stottlemeyer took only the card.

“I thought I’d seen the last of those pearls about a year ago, my lord. Every few months, some maid would come along and leave another piece with us for reselling—never pawning. That stopped last autumn, and I concluded that Miss Evelyn had found other means or exhausted her store of pearls.”

I retrieved the sovereign. “You recently saw another item from the set?”

“A month ago, the choker. The largest, most valuable remnant of the originals. I didn’t recognize it at first because the cameo had been removed, but the pearls themselves were carefully graduated in size, and I use a particular kind of silk to string my necklaces.”

I was very sure that my feet moved and my eyebrows rose. “Who brought it in?”

“A chambermaid sort of person, nondescript, and she retrieved the funds in the usual fashion, with the chit we gave out when we accepted the piece. Discretion is assured when no names or directions are involved.”

“Anything memorable about the maid?”

Stottlemeyer smiled, and the dignified proprietor became a genial fellow who’d gladly share the snug with you on a winter night.

“Not a damned thing ever distinguishes such maids, sir. Plain of face, plainly dressed, neither old nor young, hair tucked up in an old straw bonnet, eyes downcast, black gloves, jet reticule. I’ve seen a thousand such maids, and I hope to see a thousand more.”

Had I made progress with this discovery? I’d have the length of London to ponder that question. “Thank you again, Stottlemeyer. I am much indebted to you.”

“If my lord ever needs a snuffbox…”

“I will shop your establishment first.”

He bowed, I departed, and I was wandering through St. James’s before I realized that yes, I had made progress. Considerable progress. That steady trickle of jewelry established a few important facts.

Evvie Tait was not in service. She was living off the proceeds of her married years and had recently sold the last major asset in her possession.

If she was supporting herself in such a fashion, she was likely without male protection, whether in a bigamous union or in some other irregular arrangement.

She was able to communicate with somebody trustworthy in London closely enough to receive coin in exchange of her goods, and that arrangement all but eliminated the possibility of flight to the Americas or the Continent. Perhaps Evvie was hiding in London itself, which was notoriously easy to do.

Most significantly of all, Evelyn Tait was apparently alive. Would her husband rejoice or despair to learn she yet lived?

* * *

I ate a cold and solitary supper in the Caldicott House library, not wanting to put the staff to avoidable bother. I had my own dwelling in London, now shuttered and locked, though I maintained a small staff there as a gesture in the direction of my independence.

How had Arthur maintained his sense of independence against the tide of ducal obligations and regalia? Because he surely had, splendidly so.

“You nigh onto wrecked your boots, guv.” This observation was offered by young Atticus. When I traveled, he transmogrified into my self-appointed general factotum.

“Did you knock, young man?”

“Aye, but when you get into your brown studies, the Archangel Gabriel could dance a jig afore you, and you’d not notice. You finished with that tray?”

Half a sandwich remained, and I wasn’t yet sated. “My compliments to the kitchen.” I appropriated one of the two slices of gingerbread and slathered it with butter. “You may take the tray.”

Which would boast not a single crumb by the time it arrived belowstairs.

“Your trunks are in your room, the big ’un and the little ’un, and the fires are lit in your bedroom and sitting room.”

I bestirred my tired mind to consider a small boy attempting to get around to some point known only to him. “My thanks. Are you situated among the footmen?”

“I have me regular cot, which isn’t very close to the fire, mind, but the room is snug enough, and I can have all the blankets I please. Place gets to stinkin’, though, with all them fellers farting and whatnot through the night.”

I could not divine the direction of Atticus’s thoughts. “Try sleeping in an infantry barracks when cabbage soup has been on the day’s menu, my lad. I’m sending an express to the Hall. Have you any correspondence to add to mine?”

“Who would I write to?”

To whom would I write when Arthur had decamped for points distant? Dispatches to Her Grace weren’t quite the same as prosing on to a brother.

“Lady Ophelia would doubtless like a report, you having been recruited to the ranks of her minions, after all.”

“I’m your minion first, guv. Told her that in plain words.”

Bless you, my child. “Use the paper and pen at the desk. Tell her we arrived safely with all our luggage, and his lordship is missing the Hall already.”

Atticus peered at me through dark bangs growing overly long. “You are?”

“In a manner of speaking.” I missed Hyperia, though she bided but a few streets away. I missed the Hall. I missed… Well, yes, Godmama. A bit.

Atticus would soon know, if he didn’t already, that a former boot-boy did not perch at the ducal desk and print an epistle for the sake of practicing his letters, but I was grateful for his company.

“How do you spell infernal?”

“H-e-l-l-i-s-h.”

“That ain’t right, guv. Infernal begins with in, and that’s i-n, unless you mean like a coaching inn.”

“I-n-f-e-r-n-a-l.”

As in, I was infernally frustrated to think of Hyperia dragooned back to the family fold. Before I knew it, Healy would entertain offers for her hand, all unbeknownst to Hyperia herself.

I had a thousand questions for her as a result of the day’s interviews. Where did Tait go for his jewelry? Where did spinsters and widows lodge in London that was both affordable and decent? What did Hyperia know of Ardath Deloitte and Lina Hanscomb? How should I approach those ladies if I wanted to be taken into their confidence?

Soft snoring soon accompanied my thoughts, Atticus having apparently concluded his letter and repaired to the sofa facing the hearth. The dinner tray—devoid of leftovers—sat on the desk.

The clock struck midnight, and my breakfast with Arthur could have been a lifetime past. I banked the fire, sealed up the various bits of correspondence I’d completed, and tucked Atticus’s epistle into my letter to Arthur.

Atticus, too, had put in a long day, and the thought of rousing the lad so he could repose among the flatulent footmen had no appeal. I slipped off his boots and draped an afghan over him. In sleep, he looked seven years old, an observation that would appall him. I blew out the candles and left him to his dreams.

The fires had been lit in my rooms, true, but the chambers bore the lingering chill of unoccupied winter quarters. Running the warmer over the sheets helped, but as I drifted into the outer reaches of sleep, contentment eluded me. I had much to be grateful for, and in the past year, I had overcome many difficulties.

I’d told Tait that marriage was not the sum of a well-lived life, but if I had to watch the woman I loved be courted by a lot of swaggering swains handpicked by her meddling brother, I might well lose all the ground I’d gained.

And then some.