Perhaps these visits meant nothing to him. Or perhaps their interaction was becoming too expensive. The ruby necklace had been very dear. Even the pockets of a marquess must have some limit to their depth. But he must realise he did not need to make a purchase to command her attention. She would have happily poured out the wine and invited him to sit and rest himself. Anything to have him here, for even a few minutes, to lighten her spirit and ease the passing of the day.
It was not as if she did not enjoy her shop. But at some point in the last month, she had come to think of the marquess as a part of her day. His absence was like coming to the tea tray and finding the pot empty.
Not quite. At least one knew that there would be more hot water and a few leaves left in the bottom of the tin. But suppose India ceased to exist and there were to be no more tea ever? Or, worse yet, that the tea had simply gone back to London, or to somewhere even further?
Or to someone else?
It was all the more troublesome that she could not share her fears with those around her. Her sister would remark that it served her right for growing accustomed to those unnatural visits. Mr Pratchet would inform her that it was for the best. Even now, she could sense him lingering in the doorway of the workroom, trying to catch her attention.
She turned and caught him squarely in her gaze. ‘Is there something I might help you with, Mr Pratchet?’
‘If you are not too busy.’ He glanced behind him, as if to indicate that their discussion was better unheard by the small group of customers already in the shop.
She sighed and walked towards him into the back room, shutting the door behind her.
When he was sure that he could not be heard, he announced, ‘The Marquess of Fanworth has not visited in almost a week.’
‘Only two days,’ she said, without thinking.
His eyebrows rose. ‘It is a great relief to me that he seems to be losing interest. If he returns, you must not encourage him. People will talk.’
‘I must not encourage him?’ Margot laughed. ‘He is a customer, Mr Pratchet. I certainly hope people talk about his presence here. If people of a certain class notice that we get regular trade from the son of the duke, they will come here as well.’ And if, just once, he should give one of her pieces to a member of his family, rather than wasting them on opera dancers, there was no telling how much trade might result.
‘I do not like it, all the same.’ There was something in Pratchet’s tone that was more than concern for a vulnerable young woman. This sounded rather like jealousy.
Oh dear.
It was happening again, just as it had with Mr Perkins and Mr Jonas. He was becoming too familiar. He was acting as if he had any right to control her personal behaviour, as if she were just some woman and not the person who paid his salary. If it was not nipped in the bud immediately, she would be placing an ad for a new goldsmith within the week. ‘I fail to see what your opinion has to do with the workings of this shop,’ she said, using a voice that should remind him of his place.
Rather than take the tone as the warning it was meant to be, Mr Pratchet ruffled his feathers. ‘It need have nothing to do with the shop at all. I will not see you damage your reputation for base profit. You are a lady and must take care.’
‘I am your employer,’ she said and waited for him to realise his mistake.
‘One does not preclude the other,’ he said, still oblivious. ‘If we are to have an understanding—’
‘Clearly, we do not understand each other at all,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘Not if you think you have a right to dictate to me.’
He seemed surprised at the interruption, ‘You would be wise to listen to me.’ It was as if he was scolding an unruly child. ‘You could not manage the shop alone. You have some talent for design, I’ll admit...’
‘Thank you,’ she said in a way that should have put him on his guard.
‘But you know nothing of working in metal.’
‘I know enough to appraise the talent in a goldsmith. It was why I hired you,’ she said. ‘And why I pay you handsomely for your skill.’
‘But if we are to enter into a more enduring partnership, for example a marriage...’
‘Marriage?’ she said, glacial.
He blundered on. ‘You mentioned, when you brought me on, that there might be a chance to be a partner in the shop. What better way to establish such a partnership then with the most permanent alliance?’
‘What better way?’ She laughed out loud at this. ‘Why, with lawyers, of course. And an exchange of money, from you to me. At such time as I consider taking on a partner...a junior partner,’ she corrected, ‘there will need to be contracts and negotiations on both sides. I will expect you to buy a share of the business, just as you would if I were a man.’
‘But you are not a man,’ he said, as though she might need to be reminded.
‘I do not intend to marry you, simply to secure a partner for my business. With the current matrimonial laws in this country, that would be little better than handing you the keys to the front door and walking away.’
‘There is nothing wrong with the law,’ he said. ‘It is just as God intended.’ By the long steady look he gave her, it was clear that he thought any problems lay not with the state, but with the woman in front of him.
‘I will discuss the matter with God, when I meet him,’ she said. ‘But that will not be for a good many years. And when he greets me, he will still be calling me Miss de Bryun.’
The pronouncement was probably blasphemy. But it was clear by Mr Pratchet’s shocked silence that he finally believed she was in earnest.
She continued. ‘You have been labouring under a misapprehension about your future here. I hope I have corrected it. If I have not? As your employer, I am well within my rights to let you go, no matter how good your work might be. But one thing I am most assuredly not going to do is marry you, Mr Pratchet.’
‘Yes, Miss de Bryun.’ The answer was respectful, but there was something in his expression that did not match the agreeable tone. He seemed to be recalculating, like a chess player who had found another path to mate. When he spoke again, it was in a more humble voice, though there was no apology in his words. ‘All the same, I stand by my warning to you about the Marquess of Fanworth. Do not trust him, or his family. I am sure what he intends for you is more than a simple transaction. If he is no longer coming to the shop, then you are lucky to be rid of him. And now, if you will excuse me, there is work to attend to.’ He turned and walked away.
As Margot went back to the main salon, she realised that she had just been dismissed from her own workshop. She sighed. It did no good to become preoccupied over the mysterious marquess, if it meant that she was not paying attention to more important matters. The erosion of her authority over Mr Pratchet should be foremost in her mind. One more such unusual outburst and she would have to let him go, for both their sakes. She would give him a letter of reference, of course. He did excellent work. In a shop run by a man, he would be no trouble at all.
But she had no intention of allying herself to a man who thought he could choose who she did or did not talk to, or who thought that a marriage was the next logical step after a position as an underling.
The idea left her in such a mood she barely remembered to smile in welcome as a customer came into the shop. He waved away the assistance of the nearest clerk, but remained at the front counter, staring thoughtfully down at a tray of inexpensive rings. Then he removed a pair of spectacles from his pocket and consulted a small notebook, nodding to himself and making notes with the stub of pencil that was tied to the binding.
Margot