A Shopkeeper for the Earl of Westram
Auteur·e
Ann Lethbridge
Lectures
15,2K
Chapitres
18
Chapter One
‘Well? What do you have to say about it?’ Portly and red-faced, Mr Josiah Featherstone looked grim. While he held no title, he was descended from dukes and earls on both sides of his family. A landowner of enormous influence among the ton, he demanded the respect of all he met.
Surrounded by the imposing linenfold panelling in Featherstone’s study, Red gazed in shock at the broken Egyptian goddess on the mahogany desk. The head, now separated from the body, revealed the artefact was not solid gold, but actually gilded lead. He felt ill. ‘I do not know what to say. I sold it to you in good faith. I assure you, my father believed it to be genuine Egyptian grave goods or he would not have set such store by it.’
‘Save it for a rainy day, my boy. It will stand you in good stead.’
It was one of the few things he had not sold off to pay the creditors.
Red had sold it to Featherstone, his future father-in-law, when he’d been left with a mountain of debt run up by his deceased younger brother, Jonathan, since the Westram estates, while improving, had not been yielding enough to cover such an enormous sum. Not to mention that along with Jonathan’s widow, he’d also been left with financial responsibility for his older sister, Marguerite, and his younger sister, Petra, whose husbands had been killed alongside Jonathan by a company of French infantry. At the time, everyone had thought it was all over a ridiculous wager. The ton had dined out on the gossip for weeks. Only later had Red learned that Jonathan and Petra’s husband, Harry, had gone after Neville Saxby, after witnessing his physical abuse of their sister Marguerite.
When Red had learned the truth, he had felt like an utter failure as head of his household. How could he not have known what was going on in his own family? Why had Marguerite not come to him for help? He had vowed then that he would not be fooled by anyone again, the way he had been fooled by Neville Saxby.
He had also decided it was time to take the bull by the horns and marry Eugenie Featherstone, as had been arranged by their parents before they were out of the schoolroom. His marriage to their neighbour’s only child and the heiress of the Featherstone fortune would finally put the Westram title and the Greystoke family on a sound financial footing. Something he and his father had being trying to do since the ramshackle Fifth Earl, Red’s grandfather, had let the estate spiral into debt.
And now this.
‘I really do not know what to say, sir. I thought it was the genuine article and so did my father.’ And so had Featherstone when he saw it.
Featherstone waved an impatient hand. ‘Reimburse me and we will say no more about it.’
Pride stiffened Red’s backbone. ‘Naturally, I will refund your money.’
His gut dipped. How the hell was he to put his hands on a thousand pounds, in short order? A hundred pounds, he could manage easily, or even two hundred, but a thousand pounds would wring the estate dry and leave it in very bad shape, if he could manage it at all.
Every heirloom of value, not covered by the entail, had been sold to pay off his wastrel of a grandfather’s debts years ago. His father had put his all into making their seat in Gloucester self-sufficient and had left Red to finish the task, but there was still much to do and repairs to the old house were a constant drain on any income they received. Marriage to Eugenie, the portion she would bring to the family coffers, was intended to solve all his financial problems.
His father had made him promise not to let himself be lured into a disastrous match by the sort of romantic nonsense his grandfather had engaged in. The old Earl had spent every penny to keep his wife happy. And after seeing the wreck his grandfather had become after his wife died, Red had no intention of allowing the same thing happen to him. He would follow in his father’s footsteps and make a good marriage, for the benefit of the estate.
Devil take it. ‘Naturally, I do not have that sort of sum ready to hand,’ he said stiffly. ‘Perhaps after the wedding—’
Featherstone’s jaw hardened. ‘You plan to pay me with my own money? What sort of fool do you take me for? I will be a laughing stock, if word of that got out.’
Red’s mouth dried. Featherstone set great store by his reputation for shrewdness. Indeed, he was known for his business acumen and for getting the best of any bargain. Many would delight in seeing him get his comeuppance. ‘I certainly do not intend to discuss it beyond these walls, sir. It does not reflect well to my credit or that of my family.’
Featherstone frowned. ‘I believe we should postpone any thoughts of a wedding until this matter is settled, don’t you?’
Red gaped at him. He had never seen this side of Featherstone. The old gentleman had always been ready with advice and guidance with regard to the estate and matters of business, perhaps a little too ready, but Red had quelled his impatience at the attempts at interference. On the other hand, he had more than once seen Featherstone bluster and rage about being overcharged. He’d tended to ignore it, since it did not affect him personally.
‘You surely do not think I deliberately sold you a fraud?’
Featherstone made a face of distaste. ‘Whether you intended it or not, I am defrauded. Am I to think you are no better than your grandfather?’
The accusation caught Red on the raw. Yes, he’d sown a few wild oats while at university and had kept a mistress or two before he had formally offered for Eugenie, but compared to his grandfather, and his younger brother Jonathan, Red had led an exemplary existence.
His heart sank. Was it possible his father had known of the fraud? God, he hoped not.
‘You will have your money. I swear it, upon my honour. But I will need some time—’
‘Next week, then, after which we can announce the date of your marriage to Eugenie.’
The engagement had never been formally announced, though it had been understood for years. It should have been celebrated two years ago, but two deaths in the Featherstone family had forced them to put it off.
Still, Red had considered himself betrothed. He gritted his teeth. If he had to negotiate a loan, it would likely take more than a week. ‘I need two weeks at least.’
Featherstone shook his head slowly. ‘Very well, but not a day longer.’
He really did not like Featherstone’s begrudging tone. ‘Does Eugenie know?’ His fiancée was exceedingly strict in her notions of propriety. Like her father, she set great store by the Featherstone name and abhorred any sort of scandal. He had been fortunate she had not changed her mind about marrying him when there had been so much gossip caused by his siblings. First his brother’s death, along with his sisters’ husbands, then his sisters’ mad idea about going into trade.
‘Eugenie was the one who discovered the forgery,’ Featherstone said. ‘She dropped the blasted thing. She is as shocked at the deception as I am.’
Not nearly as shocked as Red. ‘May I speak with her? Explain?’
Featherstone made a gesture of assent. ‘Two weeks, remember.’
How could he forget? Fuming, Red bowed and left. Outside the door he discovered Eugenie, hovering anxiously. Tall and slender to the point of thinness, she looked as if a stiff breeze might blow her away. She looked harried, when she usually looked calm and cool.
He reached out and took her hand. ‘My dear Eugenie,’ he said. ‘I—’
Her hand was as cold as ice and limp in his grasp. She slipped out of his hold and twisted her hands together. ‘I am shocked, Westram. Truly I am.’
‘You cannot believe I knowingly sold your father a forgery.’ He softened his tone. ‘You must trust that I would never do such a thing.’
Her gaze slid away. ‘I do not know what to think. Papa is quite put out.’
His spine stiffened. He had expected her to be supportive. Sympathetic to his situation given their impending marriage. But they were not married yet and Eugenie would never go against her father while she still lived under his roof.
He smiled encouragingly. ‘I intend to see your father repaid.’
She gestured to the door. ‘I heard. It is all so very unfortunate.’
Unfortunate. She had said the same thing when his sisters had been widowed and again when they had gone into trade, trying to establish their independence. She’d used those very words. She spoke them now, as if she thought this was his fault. Unease filled him.
She turned her face away. ‘I also heard him say he was putting an end to our wedding plans.’
So that was the reason for her upset. Poor Eugenie. Their marriage plans had been put off several times. First to give him time to put his finances in order, then because she had been in mourning. He, too, had thought they had resolved every impediment and had been looking forward to bringing home his bride. Not only because all his financial problems would be solved, but because it would fulfil his most important duty to the earldom, providing the next generation of Earls of Westram.
‘It is a temporary setback, I promise you.’
‘I do hope so.’ She turned back, lifting her chin and looking down her nose in a manner that always reminded him of a queen observing the lower orders. It was a mannerism, nothing more. ‘There have been so many scandals attached to the Greystoke name. Your brother. Your sisters’ husbands. Should I now fear for my reputation, I wonder?’
He had always admired her high standards. But right now her attitude was like salt in a wound. Anger, which was as hot as his hair was red, rose in his gorge. With difficulty he squashed it. He’d learned to control his temper over the years, but right now it seemed to be slipping its leash. And he had never discussed with Eugenie the real reason his brother had left for France with his brothers-in-law. After all, she was not yet a true member of his family. ‘Come now, you must admit that my sisters have made the most advantageous of matches and their new husbands are beyond reproach. All of that other nonsense is in the past.’
Her eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘Yes, of course. But you know how the ton likes to dredge up past transgressions if there is even the hint of a scandal.’
His jaw tightened. ‘There will be no scandal, Eugenie.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘I look forward to your return.’ She gestured to a footman who ushered him out of the room.
Dammit all! He was going to find out who had defrauded his father and bring him to justice. Then there would be no possibility of scandal and Eugenie’s worries would be put to rest.
Harriet hummed as she dusted the china shelf, making sure the prices were clearly visible. Today had been an excellent day. Two giggling housemaids out on their day off had decided that miniature erotic statuettes would make excellent gifts for their beaux and a gentleman dandy had discovered the naughtiest snuffbox to show his friends.
Trade was looking up. Hopefully those satisfied customers would send other customers her way. If her shop caught on with the well-to-do, she would never need to worry about money again.
It had taken a lot of scrimping and scraping to make a go of this little shop. She had to throw out all her father’s lofty ideas about antiques and stock items that cost a whole lot less and that people could afford. One thing she would never do was let herself get into debt the way her father had. She never bought anything unless she could pay for it right then and there.
The string of bells attached to the door tinkled. She pinned a welcoming smile on her face and turned to attend to her customer. She relaxed. ‘Mother. I did not expect you back for an hour or more.’
Small and frail with faded brown hair and hazel eyes, her mother always reminded Harriet of a wren, whereas her own black hair, dark eyes, and sturdy frame must likely remind others of a crow. Black hair ran in her father’s family. Papa had often remarked that she was the spitting image of his own sister, Harriet’s Aunt Maud.
Not that the Godfreys recognised Harriet as a relation. A third son of Admiral Lord Godfrey and slated to join the navy, her father had abandoned his family’s plan for his future when he discovered a fascination for the ancient world and took a ship heading east. When he returned, his marriage to her mother, the daughter of the owner of an antique shop in Bond Street, had been the final straw for his parents. They had disowned him.
Unfortunately, Father’s enthusiasm for antiques had far outweighed his head for business and, after inheriting the shop and running it for many years, he’d sunk into debt. After the family had spent months in one of the worst debtors’ prisons in London, he was forced to sell everything at a loss and move to these smaller and less well-appointed premises. She could still feel the anger rising in her breast at the memory, the anger tainted by the fear she had felt when locked up in that dreadful place. Up until then, she had thought her father could do no wrong. When she learned that her mother had begged him not to invest every penny in items that were touted as coming from Versailles, but were, when they arrived, very poor imitations of French masterpieces, she could not forgive him. If he had listened to his wife, they would never have ended up in the King’s Bench prison.
While Mother had forgiven him, Harriet had never been able to see him the same way.
When he became ill, not long afterwards, Harriet had taken over the shop, determined they would never get into debt again. Papa’s sudden death a year ago had been a huge shock. She wished she had told him she had forgiven him, even if she could not quite let go of her resentment. And, unlike her mother had, never would she give a man the power to decide her fate.
But she had pulled things together and now it seemed that they were emerging from the mire because she had a flair for finding ‘unusual objets d’art’.
Mother drifted along the shelves and peered at the pewter mug with a phallus for a handle. ‘What is this?’ she asked, tilting her head this way and that. Over the past few years her vision had deteriorated badly.
‘It is a mug for ale, Mother,’ Harriet said.
Mother nodded. ‘You will never guess what Mrs Beasley told me?’
Mrs Beasley was the cobbler’s wife, and his premises were a few doors away. The two women took tea together once a week followed by the reading of the leaves. Mrs Beasley was famous for her predictions.
Harriet repressed a smile. ‘Well, if she told you our fortunes are secure, I shall be very happy.’
‘I am not talking about what she saw in the leaves, though I want to discuss that with you also. No, lovey! It is about the robberies.’
Harriet’s stomach dipped. ‘Robberies?’
‘Yes. Three shops were robbed this week, one of them only half a mile from here. There is talk of a gang. All the shopkeepers are taking precautions.’
Harriet’s stomach churned. ‘A gang?’
Mother nodded vigorously. ‘According to Mrs Beasley, the constables are involved.’
Harriet would not be in the least bit surprised. ‘What sort of precautions are the other shopkeepers taking?’
‘The jewellers have hired men to stand watch at night. Mr Beasley is having a locksmith add new locks to his doors, front and back. Mrs Beasley says that is what most of their acquaintances are doing.’
The lock and bolts on their doors were sturdy enough. ‘I doubt they will trouble with us. We have very little worth stealing.’ A fence would give little more than a penny or two for most of their stock and anything valuable was locked away in their safe upstairs at night. One of Papa’s more practical purchases.
‘How do they know that?’ Mother asked. ‘We could be murdered in our beds. We have no man to protect us.’
One of Mother’s frequent complaints. ‘You are not suggesting we hire a watchman? We can barely manage the rent as it is.’
‘No, of course not. But if you found a husband... Mrs Beasley saw I would become a grandmother if you followed a difficult path. It made me think now was the right time for you to approach your granddad.’
Harriet’s stomach plummeted. ‘Mother, dearest—’
‘Your father always said you ought to have a proper come out. If we do not do it soon, it will be too late.’
Harriet sighed. This old desire of her father’s was completely impractical, like so much of what Papa had wanted for his family during his lifetime. Unfortunately, it was plain to Harriet that while her father’s parents might, just might, take Harriet under their wing, they absolutely would not accept her mother. The snobs.
Her mother was a kind, sweet, loving woman, and was far more important to Harriet than trying to join a social circle that would never accept her as one of their own.
‘It is already too late,’ she said, more calmly than she felt. ‘I am four and twenty and long past the age for come-outs. Even if I wanted one. I am happy here, Mama. If things continue as they have, we will be able to buy the shop and then we will be set for the rest of our lives.’ Never again would they have to fear the landlord increasing their rent.
‘Nonsense. Four and twenty is no age at all. You must marry. Someone your father would have approved of. Perhaps if we moved to Bond Street...’
Her mother had this odd idea that a nobleman would only have to catch a glimpse of her daughter and be smitten. Well, they were beginning to attract some of the lesser nobility to this shop and, so far, not one of the gentlemen who had browsed her wares had given her so much as a glance.
Nor she them.
The only man who had shown a romantic interest in her, and on whom she had begun to rely, had announced that when they married he had grand plans for her shop and was not interested in the least in her opinion on the matter, despite the fact that his ideas were unrealistic. It was then that she realised it was the shop he wanted, not her. And, of all things, he fully intended to turn it into a butcher’s shop when it became his. The disappointment had cut deeply. She’d felt like a complete idiot.
Why did she need to marry? She was providing for herself and her mother very well and no man making protestations of affection was going to lay his hands on her hard-won earnings.
Marriage would not suit her one bit.
Although, she had sometimes thought about the idea of taking a lover. Given some of the artefacts her father had brought back from the East and some of the curiosities she carried in her shop, she was no stranger to erotic images. Visions of them had returned to her in the dark reaches of the night and left her restless and intrigued. But so far, she had not met a man who intrigued her nearly as much as her own imaginings.
‘Write to your grandfather, lovey,’ Mother said. ‘Admiral Lord Godfrey would surely want to see you suitably wed.’
She shook her head. ‘I am perfectly happy as we are. Please do not mention the Admiral again.’
Mother sighed. ‘One day you will come to your senses and regret not taking my advice.’
‘When that day comes, I will let you know. How is dinner coming along?’
She would not eat until after the shop closed. Trade was always brisk in the evenings and they did not close the shutters until nine.
‘We are having the rest of the stew I made yesterday. There is enough left, if I add a couple more potatoes. I will have it ready for when you close up.’
They always had leftovers on the days Mother went to Mrs Beasley’s. Not that it was a hardship, Mother was a wonderful cook though her bad sight slowed her down.
‘I shall look forward to it.’
Mother gave her a hug and disappeared through the curtain that separated the shop from the stairs to their living apartment above.
This business of robberies was worrying. But what could Harriet do? Hope and pray the burglars did not choose this shop for their nefarious activities was about all.
The string of bells attached to the door tinkled and a broad-shouldered, tall gentleman strolled in, glancing about him with emerald-green eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He removed his hat and revealed a head of neatly styled dark auburn hair.
Her heart missed a beat. He had to be the handsomest man she had ever seen. Her pulse speeded up. Her throat dried as if she had swallowed a feather from her duster. Heat flowed up from her belly all the way to the top of her head.
Shocked by the intensity of her reaction, she turned away, flicking her duster wildly over the articles on the shelf. So aware of his presence was she that she had no clue whether she had cleaned this shelf before or not. Every fibre of her being strained to sense his movements as he strolled around her little shop.
Her hand was trembling so hard, she dropped the duster. She bent forward.
Her forehead knocked against a forearm that had appeared from nowhere. Prickles darted across her shoulders, painful little stabs of pain. Red-faced, she stumbled back and collided with an umbrella stand. Knobby sticks and parasols clattered to the floor.
‘Allow me, miss.’ His voice was deep and smooth and, of course, terribly refined. The sort of manly voice one could listen to all day.
With a grace she could only gawp at, he picked up the duster and held it out to her with an incline of his head.
When she did not move, he lifted her hand by the wrist and pressed the duster’s stick against her palm. Somehow, she managed to close her fingers around it. She watched dumbfounded as he righted the stand and scooped up its contents.
The charm of his smile when he had completed this task was like a vision of heaven.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘I did not mean to startle you.’
Her whole body sighed with pleasure at the sight of that smile.
Oh, good Lord, what was the matter with her? She gave herself a mental shake. He must think her a complete nodcock standing here staring at him as if he had arrived from another planet.
He might just as well have done so. From the quality of his coat and the elegance of his manners, he was clearly a gentleman from the highest of society. The sort who only shopped on Bond Street and likely belonged to all the best gentlemen’s clubs. He must have lost his way to have ended up here.
‘I—’ she stuttered. She inhaled a deep breath and started again. ‘May I be of assistance?’
His mouth hardened. He looked a little less friendly than he had a moment before.
‘I seek the owner of this establishment.’ He nodded at the sign behind the counter. ‘H. J. Godfrey.’
A chill went down her spine at his icy tone. Why on earth would a man like him be seeking her father. ‘H. J. Godfrey passed away last year, sir. I am H. A. Godfrey.’
‘I see,’ he said, pointing at the sign with the tip of his cane. ‘Then the son will do.’
Papa had had the sign made before Harriet’s birth in a burst of hope. Unfortunately, no son had ever been born to her parents.
‘I am his daughter,’ she said. ‘His only offspring. How may I help you?’
The gentleman looked shocked. ‘You are the owner of this business?’
‘I am, sir.’ She could not understand his strange reaction. Was he embarrassed to purchase one of her novelties from a woman? Could he have such delicate sensibilities?
He dropped a black velvet bag on the counter with a solid-sounding thunk. ‘I am returning an item purchased here and I would like my money back.’
She frowned. She did not recall selling him anything. She would certainly have recalled him had he ever set foot in her shop. ‘What is it?’
When Red had entered the establishment, the woman, whom he had assumed was a shop girl, had turned and gazed at him. Despite the anger burning low in his gut, he could not help noticing she was remarkably pretty with large luminous eyes and black glossy hair pinned neatly beneath a lacy cap. Roses had bloomed on her cheeks.
The fact that she was the proprietor was an unpleasant surprise. He would much rather deal with a man than this young woman. Still, needs must.
He emptied the velvet bag on to the battered wood of the counter.
She stared at the broken idol and frowned. ‘A copy of Egyptian grave goods.’ She picked up the body and turned it around, regarding it closely. Her hands, as he had already noticed, were elegant, but work roughened.
‘Did you drop it?’ she asked. ‘Unfortunately, we do not carry items like this, so I cannot offer a replacement. You must have purchased it elsewhere.’
He was surprised at how pleasant her light voice was and how well spoken she sounded. Not the sort of tones one usually encountered in this quarter of London. Though if her father had been an antiquarian she was likely better brought up than most of the locals. An antiquarian? What was he thinking? The man had been a charlatan and a thief and a pair of pretty dark eyes were not going to divert him from getting his money back.
She raised her gaze to his and smiled.
His mind went blank.
For what felt like a very long space of time, but could only have been a second or two, he could do nothing but stare at the way her smile lit her whole face and added sparkle to velvet-dark blue eyes, not brown as he had first thought.
Pulling himself together, he gave her his best haughty stare. ‘I am certainly not mistaken as to where this item was purchased and, if you do not refund my money, I will see you arrested for fraud.’
She recoiled from him, clutching at the counter as if needing support.
Every instinct made him want to offer that support, but he knew better than to give in to it. He was the victim here and was not about to be gulled by a fraudster’s play-acting.
Her gaze shifted from the broken statue on the counter to his face. Her full lower lip trembled. She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. ‘What proof do you have that you bought it here?’ She folded her arms across her chest in a most challenging manner.
Good God, did she actually have the temerity to accuse him of lying? He’d had quite enough of people impugning his honour. What with Featherstone and then Eugenie—his chest tightened for a moment at the thought of the disappointment in Eugenie’s eyes. All the fault of this woman’s father.
Heat rose up from his chest. He clenched his fists at his side to hold his temper in check and forced himself to calm. He’d been so utterly furious after going over his conversation with Featherstone in his mind, he’d been almost blinded by rage. He’d given vent to his feelings by a bout of fisticuffs in Jackson’s Boxing Saloon. The trainer had been required to step in and call a halt to it, before his sparring partner got hurt.
He withdrew the receipt he’d found among his father’s papers from the bag and stabbed a finger at it. ‘The proof lies before you, madam. Signed by H Godfrey. Either you or your father signed this.’
‘It was not me.’ She picked the receipt up in trembling fingers, her white knuckles clearly indicating she was more nervous than she wanted him to think. She peered at it closely. Setting it on the counter, she raised her gaze to meet his. ‘Let me check that it is genuine.’
Seething at her ridiculous implication that he might have created a fraudulent receipt, he glared at her.
She went around behind the counter. As she moved away, he was fascinated by the sensuality of her walk and the curves of her figure. While she was nowhere near as tall as him, she was substantially taller than the average woman. She bent down behind the counter and pulled out an enormous ledger.
‘What is that?’ he asked.
‘If my father sold this item, it will be recorded in this book.’
‘If?’ Ice ran through his veins. ‘If? Are you saying you do not believe the evidence of your own eyes? That this is not a receipt from this shop?’ He pointed to the heading on the receipt. ‘Are you telling me that is not the owner’s signature?’
She winced. ‘It certainly looks like my father’s writing, but there is no need to shout.’
He lowered his voice to slightly above a whisper. ‘I can assure you, I am not shouting. If I were to shout, the people in the shop across the street would hear.’
Her eyes widened. Her lips parted on a gasp. Such inviting lips. Full and soft and rosy red. He shook the thought off. Now was not the time to notice a female’s allure.
‘Someone could have forged the receipt, the same way they forged the statue,’ she said calmly.
So that was her game. Well, he wasn’t going to put up with it. ‘Fiddlesticks. That article was bought in this shop. And you very well know it. For all I know, you father could have neglected to record it in his book.’
She looked at the receipt again. ‘November 1802...’ She opened the ledger and riffled the pages until she found what she was looking for.
She ran a neatly manicured nail down the line of entries, turned the page and...and frowned.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘I don’t understand.’ Her voice was rough around the edges.
He leaned over, pulled the ledger to his side of the counter and turned it around. There was the evidence, scrawled in the same handwriting as on his receipt.
Sold to the Earl of Westram, one Isis statue for the sum of one thousand guineas.
‘I told you.’ He picked up the receipt and tucked it in his pocket.
She leaned over, pointing at the entry, inadvertently giving him an unimpeded view of the rise of her breasts beneath the modest fichu tucked in the neckline of her gown. Good God what was he thinking? He was betrothed. Or he would be again, once he had sorted this out. He forced himself to look at her pointing finger, not the swell of that delicate flesh. As he focused, he realised she was not pointing at the entry he had read, but at the one above.
An entry indicating the purchase of the same item.
‘Clearly, he bought it from someone else. There is nothing surprising in that,’ he said.
‘Yes, but look at the date and the price. My father bought it for nine hundred and eighty-five guineas and sold it for one thousand all on the same day. It looks to me as if he was acting as some sort of intermediary for a small finder’s fee.’ She frowned at the name of the seller. ‘Mr Maxwell Clark. I have never heard of him, but he is the man you want. He is the man who committed the fraud. Ask him for your money.’
He stepped back, startled by her gall. ‘Oh, no. Your father vouched for this item. He was the seller. If this Maxwell fellow is the fraudster, then it is you who must chase down your money from him. Besides, how do I know your father and this Maxwell chap were not in it together?’
Her eyes widened.
Oh, yes, he had her on the ropes. Now he was going to get his money, and everything would go back to normal. His wedding to Eugenie would go on and all would be right with the world.
She sank down on to what must have been a stool on the other side of the counter, staring up at him, shaking her head. ‘Even if it was true, we do not have that sort of money.’
We? Red frowned. ‘Who is this we you speak of.’
‘My mother and I.’ She glanced about her. ‘Look for yourself. If I sold every item in this shop, I would not raise one thousand pounds.’
He grimaced. The place was full of knick-knacks, many of which were of a most lurid sort. The kind that appealed to youths and ladies of a certain ilk. There were a few nicer pieces, small figurines, the sort of thing one might find at a fairground, and some paintings by unknown artists, but the bulk of what crowded the shelves and hung on the walls was rubbish. Like his father’s statue.
Damn it all! She had to pay him back.
The woman, whom he judged to be in her early to mid-twenties, was watching him intently.
‘How do I know you do not have thousands of pounds tucked away somewhere?’ he asked. ‘No. You owe me this money. If need be, I will swear out a warrant and have you arrested for debt. You and your mother.’ Then Featherstone would know he had at least brought the fraudster to account. But only a refund would satisfy the other man. And what would Eugenie say? He could not help but wish she had taken his part in this matter.
Miss Godfrey shot him a look of dislike tinged with a healthy dose of worry. Her hands curled into fists. She let go a long sigh and flattened her hands on the highly polished but battered counter. ‘Then you must give me time.’
‘I do not have time.’
‘Nonsense. You cannot tell me that your need is so urgent that you cannot wait for me to get to the bottom of this matter.’ Her gaze sharpened. ‘Unless you have foolishly gambled away your fortune. I gather that is what men of your ilk like to do.’
‘Men of my ilk?’ He looked down his nose. ‘What do women like you know of men of my ilk, I should like to know.’
She stiffened. ‘I read the newspapers. I see the way members of the nobility flee the country because of their debts, rather than go to prison. Hah! Some don’t even have to go to prison because they have a title, leaving poor honest tradesmen to rot in the Fleet because the debts owed to them are not paid.’
‘Let me assure you, I have always paid the tradesmen with whom I do business.’ Though, dammit it, he had paid late on occasion, when the harvest was bad, or his cattle did not achieve the price he had hoped for.
Devil take it, now he was getting into a war of words with the wench. Worse yet, what she said made sense. And he had wangled a bit of time from Featherstone.
‘Very well. I will give you a week.’
She frowned. ‘Two.’
Two weeks was all the time he had to get Featherstone his money. ‘Why two?’
‘Because if I am to find this Mr Maxwell Clark, it will mean travelling to Bristol and back.’
A suspicion reared its ugly head. ‘Oh, no! If you think I would let you leave London and disappear, you must think me a complete flat.’
