Page 19 of The Duke's Stolen Heart
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.
