Dex’s throat closed and he had to fight to draw breath. If Miss Crewe had fallen into such dire straits that she’d been forced to sell her body he’d never forgive himself. Never.
“Do you have the jewelry?”
“That depends. Do you have my forty quid?”
“I’ll make it fifty if you show it to me in the next two minutes.”
That lit a fire under the man. He jumped up from his stool with an unexpected vigor and unlocked a glass case behind the counter. “Been keeping them safe, yer lordship. Wouldn’t let no one buy them. Sure and it’s the pieces you’re searching for—the clasp of the necklace is engraved with the initials A.C., like your notice said would be there.”
The necklace was composed of delicate strands of gold chain interspersed with bands of emeralds, the matching earrings featuring emerald drops hung by the same intricate gold chain. They looked like the ones Analise had worn in the miniature portrait, but he must be certain he wasn’t being swindled. He borrowed Arkwright’s loupe and studied the engraving. If it had been done recently, the patina would be brighter, but everything had the dull finish of age. The scrolling initials stood for Albertine Crewe, Analise’s French mother.
Dex gave the loupe back to Arkwright. “Who sold these to you?”
“Well now, that might be difficult to remember... I’m an old man and my memory isn’t what it used to be... Perhaps if you upped your reward to—”
Losing patience, Dex grabbed him by the collar, twisting until the man clutched at his neck with both hands. “Does this refresh your memory?”
“No need for... violence,” Arkwright grumbled, scrabbling at Dex’s fingers.
Dex released his hold. “Well? The seller. I want every detail you remember.”
“It was a girl. About eighteen years old, I’d say. A redheaded wee slip of a thing. Had a very fast and confusing way of talking. Gave me her whole life history, she did. Her father was a cavalryman went missing in the war and on and on about how she was going to find him and this was her mother’s jewelry and she’d be back to retrieve them just as soon as she sold some sort of novel she was writing.”
Finally! It must be Miss Crewe. “How long ago was this?”
“The ear drops came in weeks ago. The necklace only two days past. You’re lucky I saw your advertisement before I sold them.”
“Did she say where she was living?”
Arkwright closed his lips mutinously and stared pointedly at Dex’s coat pocket. “You promised thrice the price of the jewelry.”
Dex laid the required amount of banknotes on the counter, pocketing the jewelry.
“Miss Flanagan’s boarding house—down Old Nichols Street and turn right on...”
Dex was out the door before he’d finished the sentence.
Ana Crewe was surrounded by tempting books yet marooned on an uncomfortable oak chair with nothing to read. Every time she made even the slightest twitch, the officious clerk occupying the desk outside of Mr. Norwood’s office fixed her with such a glare that she instantly froze.
She longed to run to the shelves lining the room and caress the spines of the illustrious novels published by Norwood & Pennington. The reception chamber smelled of woody ink, earthy leather, and her most cherished ambition: becoming a published author.
Her former employer, Lady Muriel Claridge, had sent Ana’s manuscript to her publisher. Lady Claridge had been the authorof a successful series of domestic romances set in the fictitious village of Clovercote. Ladies across Britain had written her letters almost weekly, gushing about how much they loved her novels, begging her to write a book featuring their favorite side character, or asking questions about contentious plot points.
Ana recognized the blue velvet bags embroidered with the gold publishing house insignia occupying one of the bookshelves. Lady Claridge had received one of those elegant bags by special delivery upon the publication of each new novel. Inside the bag was a personal note from Mr. Norwood, her editor, a bottle of port wine, and a small gift—usually gold jewelry.
Ana dreamed of the day when she would receive one of those velvet bags. The attached note on thick cream-colored stationery written with flourishing blue ink would read:Dear Miss Crewe, we at Norwood & Pennington are delighted by the unprecedented success ofThe Dragon and the Blue Star. We await your new manuscript with eagerness. Yours devotedly, Theobald Norwood.
Mr. Norwood had kept Ana’s manuscript for nearly a year with no word as to its suitability for publication. She’d inquired at the publishing house every day since she arrived in London two months ago. Finally, she’d been granted an audience. She’d waited forever for this meeting. What was a few more hours? An eternity when her entire future was at stake.
This meeting could change the entire course of her life, or it could leave her friendless and alone in London, with no means of paying her rent.
The door to Mr. Norwood’s office opened slightly, and the clerk leapt to his feet.
Ana perched on the edge of the chair. Finally she’d be face-to-face with the great man himself.
“Mr. Norwood will see you now, Miss Crewe,” the clerk intoned, holding the door wider.
Ana fairly flew into the office, ignoring the pins and needles in her legs. “Mr. Norwood, it’s an honor to meet you, sir!” He was smaller than she’d pictured him to be, balding, with a sour expression as though he’d been sucking on a lemon before she arrived.