Assuming she allowed him that. She was a thief and not to be trusted. She had likely used the same skills that got her the necklace to creep past his defences and conceal herself in his own room. But that had not mattered, once they had gone to bed.
It was even less important, this morning. The theft of the rubies was settled to his satisfaction. He had the necklace back again and the setting. The money spent on the replacement was back in his bank. He had found the culprit and she was far too pretty to be turned over to the rough hands of justice. To send her to the gallows would have been like smashing a priceless artwork.
But he would not go so far as to forgive her for making a fool of him. If was probably for the best that she had overreached herself by selling him the rubies. Otherwise, he might have married her and ruined the rest of his life. Now, she would be what she should have been from the first: a temporary amusement.
Three times more.
Or longer, if he wished it. Why did he need to honour the agreement that he’d made to such a person?
He sighed. Because he was a gentleman. He had given his word. How stupid had that been? He would lose her long before he had tired of her, unless he could convince her to extend the arrangement. Until he discovered what he might offer to convince her, he must be miserly with the time he was promised.
He leapt from the bed and hurried naked to the writing desk to scribble a note. Then he rang for a footman.
Thank you for a delightful evening.
Since you left so soon after, you are likely fatigued. Wait a week’s time before coming again, that we might renew our acquaintance when you are fully recovered.
Yours,
Fanworth
Damn him.
Margot crumpled the note, then noted the alarmed but curious look from the nearest shop girl and smoothed it again, folded it and tucked it into her bodice. It burned against her skin like a shameful kiss.
Yours, indeed. He was not hers, and she wouldn’t have wanted him if he was. He did not like her. He did not trust her. He had tricked her into his bed. Now he meant to draw the agreement out.
She had hoped to be free and clear of him, with her peace of mind returned, in less than a week. With too much time to brood on what had already occurred between them, she might never have a calm thought again. She glanced into the mirror kept on the counter, so that customers might admire the wares that they modelled. Did she look as changed as she felt?
She was tired, of course. She had left his room before the sun was fully up, taking the servants’ stairs, as she had when she’d arrived. From there, it was home to wash, grab a few hours’ sleep and be back downstairs in time to open the shop for the first customers.
She was hungry as well. She had missed supper, being too nervous to eat. Breakfast had been a hurried affair of cold tea and toast. Now she was coveting the Bath bun that Jasper was munching in the back room.
And she ached in strange places.
She yawned and caught another surprised glance from the girl polishing the class of the showcase.
Could she see something more than just fatigue? Worse yet, did Mr Pratchet suspect? Today, he kept looking at her with a vaguely disappointed glare, as though he had any right to concern himself over what she did after the shop closed.
Suppose that worldly poise she had admired in her older sister was actually the result of knowledge? The same light shining in the eyes of Eve as she had held out the apple to her husband.
She’d have preferred age-old wisdom to this feeling of smug satisfaction and the irrational desire to smile for no reason. She could not shake the feeling that there was something about her behaviour that signalled to the people around her what she had done.
Perhaps Fanworth was right. She would not have been able to stand another night like the previous one. If the first morning left her smiling, the next might make her laugh. By the fourth time, she would greet the dawn crowing like a rooster.
Oh, no, she would not. She shook her head to reinforce the thought, drawing a surprised look from the girl at the opposite counter. If she took to nodding and talking to herself, the employees would think she’d gone mad.
But that would be better than if they suspected the truth. She had lost her innocence. It was a disaster, not a cause for celebration. It was a good thing she had no desire to marry, for what man would want her now?
There was one, of course. Nothing about last night, made her think that Fanworth’s desire was abating. And even after learning his true character, she still wanted him, as well. Lord Fanworth was most decidedly not the man of her dreams. But he still had the face and body of her beloved Mr Standish. He might have tricked her into his bed, but once there his touch had been as sweet and gentle as she’d dreamt it would be.
The girl next to her was staring again and Margot frowned at her, then gave her a quick scold to send her across the room to dust the rings and polish the bracelets.
Her effort to contain herself came not a moment too soon. As soon as she was gone, Pratchet took the girls’ place. He leaned towards her, far too close to be proper, so that he might speak in a whisper. ‘I know what you have done.’
‘I beg your pardon.’ She managed the proper level of confused outrage, but was sure it was spoiled by the crimson flush that must be spilling across her hot cheeks.
He went on, as though she had confirmed his suspicions with a full confession. ‘I warned you, from the first, that the Marquess of Fanworth was a dangerous man. Now he has confirmed it with his actions.’
‘A receiver of stolen goods has no right to speak to me of honour,’ she said, hoping that it did not sound too much like a confession. ‘If you no longer like the working conditions here, I suggest you take your things and leave.’
‘And abandon you in the busiest season, with so much unfinished work on the bench?’ He glanced back towards his table which was heaped with orders. ‘It is almost as unwise for you to threaten me as it was to become involved with the marquess.’
His recriminations were almost as annoying as the amount of truth in them. She would have been better off had she never met Lord Fanworth. Not any happier, certainly. But her life would be far less complicated. She gave Pratchet a pointed stare. ‘While I know that you are capable of mending a broken watch, I have yet to see you successfully turn back time. Without that particular skill, what good can further conversation on the subject do either of us?’
He cleared his throat and straightened as though it were possible to present himself in a more impressive way. ‘I come to you as a friend, Miss de Bryun. I am not trying to censure you, no matter how it might sound. I understand and sympathise. Although you have run this shop successfully, it was inevitable that you would be bound by the limitations of your gender. The same qualities which are the virtues of the female sex, your softness and sweet nature, make you easily led.’
‘Do they, now?’ she said, in a tone that should have given him warning, had he known her as well as he claimed to.
‘You have fallen into the clutches of a devious and evil man. When it goes wrong, as it most assuredly will, you must come to me.’
‘And exactly what will you do to help?’ She tried to imagine Pratchet facing her seducer on the field of honour, only to be cut down like the weed he was.
‘I could give an unexpected child my name,’ he said, glancing around to be sure that no one was near enough to hear. ‘You and your family are far too well known in Bath to pretend that there was a legitimate marriage and a husband lost to sea or war.’
She