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“Mr. Carson is here, and he’s brought a friend,” their butler said with a long-suffering sigh. Beatrice was surprised Mr. Finley had taken the time to find her and tell her. “They’re in the parlor, miss.”
“Thank you.” Curious as to whom Greer had brought, she went to the closed parlor door and tried to push it open. It didn’t budge, as if someone were leaning against it.
“Mr. Carson?” she called through the door.
“Yes, hang on a moment.” She waited. “All right, come in.”
This time, it opened at her touch, and she spied Greer holding a skittish-looking Miss Sylvia.
Beatrice couldn’t help smiling. “How nice of you both to come calling.”
“Please close the door,” he urged. “She’s been trying to escape my room for days and today, she did. I think she’s a little out of sorts after I caught her running down the hotel hallway.”
Beatrice’s smile vanished as she shut the door firmly behind her. “How awful! You could have lost her. How did she escape?”
“I was robbed!”
She gasped, and he rubbed his cat’s head absently.
“In point of fact, I wasn’t. My room was broken into, but nothing was taken. Perhaps the thief didn’t like my taste in clothing. Maybe the fellow hoped I had something valuable, but he ran out after Miss Sylvia did. I saw him leave.”
“I’m so sorry. This would never have happened if you were still at the Langham.”
“True enough. May I put her down?”
“Of course.” She watched him set her carefully on the floor, and she immediately slunk under the large sofa.
“She’s had a lot of travel and upheaval in her life for a cat.”
“For anyone,” Beatrice agreed.
“I’ve brought her with the hopes you will keep her safe until I ... until I find a better situation.”
“You hesitated. What aren’t you telling me?” she demanded.
He looked thunderstruck, and then he grinned. “We do know each other very well, do we not? I don’t believe I can keep anything from you, nor should I try.”
“No,” she told him, “you shouldn’t. If you’re going to start hedging and not being my frank American friend, then you can leave and take Miss Sylvia with you.”
“Right you are.” He came closer and took hold of her hands. “I simply didn’t want to raise false hopes.”
Beatrice cocked her head at him, her heart thumping at his closeness. “Meaning?”
His gray-blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “I love the way you make demands.”
She rolled her eyes. “Explain yourself.”
Instead of doing any such thing, he kissed her. He didn’t take his time, but simply planted his mouth upon hers, making her gasp again, and as she did, he swept his tongue between her lips and touched hers.
And while she was still processing this extraordinary turn of events to her otherwise humdrum morning, he lifted his head and rested his forehead upon hers.
“I apologize. I know kissing you here, in your parents’ home is probably even worse than in Rare Confectionery—”
“Is it?” she asked.
“Most disrespectful,” he added, “especially with their being away. They are away still, aren’t they?”
She nodded, feeling giddy at how his tongue had stroked hers and the way he still clasped her hands so tightly.
“But as soon as I’m near you ...,” he trailed off.
“I know. I feel the same.”
“I don’t want to lead you on,” he said with a groan and released her. “Where has that cat got to?”
“She’s ...,” Beatrice scanned the room. “Miss Sylvia is now under the sideboard. Why?”
“Her collar,” he said simply. “I think you hit the nail upon its head, and I was too stupid to realize it.”
“Frankness, Greer,” she admonished him.
“I believe her collar, the one my devoted, loving mother bestowed upon her, is encrusted with real gemstones after all.”
“Dear God!” Beatrice approached the long walnut cabinet, crouching low so she could peer under it.
Miss Sylvia hissed and turned her back.
“She is definitely out of sorts.” Beatrice stood up and turned to him. “What makes you think so?”
“The painting. Did I mention there is one hanging at Carsonbank, in the study?”
“You did. You said it was the spit and image of your own father.”
“My grandfather is holding a strange, clunky chain with jewels upon it.”
“We call that a necklace,” Beatrice quipped.
“I know. I know. But it was, at least to my eyes, ugly. I mean look at the collar. Would you wear all those stones at once around your neck, even if they were on a gold chain rather than a leather strap?”
Beatrice tried to imagine such a gaudy display. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t.”
“In any case, I remembered seeing the necklace and thinking it odd. Then something distracted me, one of the rats racing about the place, perhaps—”
“Rats?” She shivered. The very notion of them scurrying about made her skin crawl.
“I told you, it’s derelict in places. There was a hole where the fieldstone wall had caved in and no one had done more than stuff straw there and hang a blanket. It’s not the bloody Langham.” He gave a bark of laughter. “I thought about asking the caretaker if he knew about the painting, but he wasn’t around, if there even is anyone besides the maid and the shepherds.”
“Who is the executor of the trust?”
His eyes opened. “You are so sensible. I knew I came to the correct place to go over my own scattered thoughts. I’ll write to the trustee in Edinburgh and ask about the jewels. Can I borrow a piece of stationery?” He ran a hand through his hair and walked around the room distractedly as if his mind were racing. “Meanwhile, I have a friend who offered to appraise it.”
“You do? Who? Where?” Beatrice hadn’t heard of such a person in his life.
“I have some men I meet with once a week,” he said.
“Oh, yes, those at the chophouse.”
“Exactly. One is an antiques dealer who knows about jewelry.”
She shook her head. “Next door to Rare Confectionery is a world-class, fine jeweler. Haven’t you noticed it? Asprey’s?”
“Truthfully? No.” He cocked his head and looked so appealing she almost sighed. “When I am anywhere near your shop, I’m usually in an almighty hurry to get inside and see you. I have my blinders on, my pace quickens, and I rush for the door.”
“You should probably take the collar to Asprey’s,” she persisted.
“Maybe to sell it, yes. But I think I should let Mr. Molino take a look. I already said I would. Tomorrow.”
“Are you taking Miss Sylvia with you?”
“No, I was hoping you would keep her safe here. Today. Right now, actually. If I had been a minute later going back to my room, she would have been gone.”
Beatrice could hardly imagine his horror. “And with a potential fortune around her neck!”
“Exactly,” he said again. “You understand the situation. May she stay with you? And I’d like to leave the collar here, too. I can’t risk it at my fleabag hotel. I’ll come pick up the collar tomorrow, about this time.”
“Of course, but I have to go to work in an hour. We can lock Miss Sylvia in my room, once we catch her, and I’ll tell the maid not to open my door. I’ll go ask if we have some sardines in the pantry.”
“Perfect. Thank you.” He took hold of her hand. “May I escort you to the confectionery in an hour?”
“I would like that.” She considered a moment. “But only if you’ll let me go with you to see the antique dealer tomorrow.”
Greer laughed at her suggestion.
“Why is that funny?” she demanded.
“You may come,” he agreed. “After all, you’re so good at charming people.”
***
BEATRICE MIGHT NOT be the most affable of people, nor get along with everyone as Charlotte and Amity did, but she considered herself a good judge of character. And from the moment she entered Mr. Molino’s dimly lit antique store the next day, the back of her neck prickled.
Perhaps over a meal at a chophouse, the man seemed like a good sort of fellow, but the way he looked at her when Greer introduced them made her think he had something to hide. That and the layer of dust on many of his wares had her questioning his business sense. If she were running the shop, she would add more lamps, sweep the place, dust everything, and paint the walls a cheerful color.
Greer shook the man’s hand. “As promised, I’ve brought my cat’s collar for your appraisal.”
When he drew it out of his pocket, Beatrice almost wished he would put it away at once. Mr. Molino’s glance landed on the collar as quickly as Miss Sylvia had pounced on the sardines the day before, and his eyes flickered with interest. His face, however, remained impassive. From behind the counter, he brought out a black velvet pad and gestured for Greer to place the collar atop it. Then drawing out a magnifying glass, the man peered through it, his face inches from the stones.
When he raised his head, the evidence of several thoughts crossed his face. Beatrice wondered what they were.
“Well?” Greer asked, and she could hear the hopefulness in his tone.
After the briefest hesitation, Mr. Molino shook his head. “I’m sorry to say, I think they are imitation jewels. A few look like good quality paste.”
“Paste?” Beatrice questioned. She imagined the pasty chocolate fondant Amity made or Charlotte’s marzipan paste.
“That means hand-cut leaded glass, Miss Rare-Foure. Sometimes the glass is polished with colored metal or, alternately, it is set upon a foil base, colored to match whichever type of gem one seeks to imitate. Then it’s polished until it resembles a ruby or an emerald.”
She felt Greer’s disappointment emanating from him.
“So they are worthless?” he asked.
“Not necessarily,” Mr. Molino said. “I think these were made in the 1730s or thereabouts. Good quality fakes, I would say, over a century old. Someone will pay handsomely for them as each can be set in a ring or a pendant.”
“How much?” Greer asked, sounding defeated. “I don’t expect paste is worth what a true gemstone would be.”
“No, certainly not. A fraction of the value, but not worthless, by any means.”
‘Thank you,” Greer said, “for looking at them.”
Mr. Molino set the collar back upon the velvet and gave Greer a long look. “I know this is important to you.” His glance took in Beatrice, too. “There are many ladies who want to have fine but inexpensive jewelry that appears to be what it is not. Leave it with me, and I can fetch you the best price.”
As he began to close his fingers around the collar once again, Beatrice reached out and snatched it from his grasp, holding it tightly in her own.
“Eh?” Mr. Molino exclaimed in surprise.
“Consider Miss Sylvia,” Beatrice said to Greer, “and your mother. If it’s not worth much, then—”
“Who is Miss Sylvia?” Mr. Molino interrupted, his glance darting to the collar in her hand and looking more animated than he had since they’d arrived.
She just knew in her gut if she hadn’t taken it, he would never have given it back.
“My cat,” Greer said, his tone amused. “Miss Rare-Foure, I doubt Miss Sylvia will care about her collar, and my mother is no longer of this world to have an opinion. Let’s leave it with my friend and see what price he can get for it.”
Mr. Molino put his hand out, palm up.
“Well, yes, we could certainly do that,” Beatrice agreed, opening her satchel and dropping the collar inside so there would be no possible way either of the men could recover it. “And perhaps we will. However, you know what they say about decisions made in haste.”
“What do they say?” Greer asked, looking surprised at her forcefulness in taking his cat’s collar.
“Something about haste in every business brings failure — from Herodotus, I believe.” She blinked at the antiquarian.
Mr. Molino folded his arms, looking displeased. “Perhaps you were thinking of Congreve’s comedy The Old Bachelor, a favorite of mine in which he warns about marrying in haste and repenting at leisure.” He nodded to Greer as if sending him a message, and Beatrice was sure she had been insulted.
“In any case,” the man continued, “perhaps your lady friend is correct. Hold onto it until you decide. However, even paste gems should be kept safe. Your hotel is not the best, as I recall.”
“You’re right about that,” Greer said. “My room has already been broken into once. Miss Rare-Foure will hold onto the collar for me.”
Back outside, he turned to her. “What was all that about?”
“I didn’t like him, nor trust him.”
Greer smiled. “He’s never given me any reason to distrust him, and he suggested we keep the collar safe.”
“It sounded to me as if he wanted to know where you intended on keeping it.”
This time he laughed. “Such devious thoughts. I will trust you to keep the paste stones safe, but I would still like to know how much I can sell them for.”
***
HAVING BEEN DROPPED off directly at the confectionery after the dingy antique shop, Beatrice told Charlotte of the morning’s events.
“Such a shame,” Charlotte said. She’d said the same thing the night before when trying to make friends with their home’s new resident. Naturally, Miss Sylvia had hissed and retreated under Beatrice’s bed with an angry swish of her absurdly fluffy tail.
“It’s not your fault,” she’d assured Charlotte who’d looked disenchanted. “I think Miss Sylvia has experienced too much upheaval and is fair sick of it.”
“The way you behaved the first night we were away in France last time,” her sister had teased.
“This is more than a mere shame,” Beatrice said, removing her coat and hat, and tying on her apron. “This could be the ruination of my future happiness, and I don’t intend to give in so easily.”
“What can you do?” Charlotte asked.
“I’ll get the toffee made first, and then I’m going next door to ask for a second opinion. I know Asprey’s is not strictly a jewelry store, but if anyone will be honest, it is a company that holds a royal warrant.”
“That’s a grand idea,” Charlotte agreed.
Two hours later, she entered the neighboring shop. It smelled like polish and leather, as well as the heady aroma from the sumptuous fresh flower arrangements in crystal vases dotted around Asprey’s displays. She was greeted immediately by a shopgirl, dressed in a well-starched uniform.
Was she interested in a dressing case, the clerk wanted to know, or one of the leather travel cases that could withstand the rigors of the railway? Beatrice shook her head. Passing between the advertised “articles of exclusive design and high quality,” as Asprey’s proudly proclaimed in the papers and in their window, Beatrice reached the inobtrusive counter on one side of the store. Her mother had a long-standing friendly relationship with the store manager, Mr. Russell, and Beatrice asked for him at once.
Whenever Asprey’s held a special function, they served Rare Confectionery, and when Beatrice and her family had left London for their country home the year prior, Asprey’s had taken the rest of their confectionery inventory, selling the sweets as a favor. Her father had been most impressed how Mr. Russell kept an account to the penny of what he owed them, not a piece of toffee or a chocolate unaccounted for.
While she waited for Mr. Russell to be summoned from his office in the back, Beatrice couldn’t help admiring all the pretty things. Some were for the house, some for personal adornment, everything well-crafted, refined, and beautiful. So much so that Queen Victoria herself had recognized their achievement.
What if she were bringing them jewels made of paste?
“Miss Rare-Foure,” came the booming voice of Mr. Russell. “To what do I owe this pleasure? Did you bring me something? Chocolate-covered toffee, perhaps?”
She smiled. She might be considered crabby, but she knew how to butter her bread. Setting a shiny silver Rare Confectionery tin on the counter, she said, “Toffee with chocolate for you, Mr. Russell.”
“You are a sweet girl.” Immediately opening the tin, he popped a piece in his mouth. “Help yourselves, girls,” he called to the shopgirls on the floor, who came over like bees to pollen.
“But you didn’t come by to bring me a gift, did you?” he asked, the toffee tucked into his cheek, which she politely ignored.
“No, sir. May I speak with you alone?”
He raised his eyebrows, then nodded. “Nancy, take the tin of sweets, make sure everyone gets a piece and save me some, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” and the shopgirl moved away with three others around her.
“Now, how can I help you?”
“I have a cat collar with jewels. They may be merely paste, but I thought you might know, or one of your jewelers could take a look.”
“Nothing wrong with paste,” Mr. Russell said while she set her bag on the counter and opened it. “Marie Antoinette wore paste jewels along with precious stones. Sometimes if something is pretty, it gives as much pleasure as something expensive.”
“These are not particularly pretty, to tell you the truth.”
She withdrew the collar and held it out to him on her palm. He swallowed loudly and then coughed. She hoped he didn’t choke on her sweet offering.
“A moment, if you will.” Still coughing, he bent behind the counter and opened a drawer, extracting a jeweler’s loupe fixed to a strap. He put this around his forehead before picking up the collar.
“Hm,” he said. “Hm, yes. As I thought. Yes.” He turned it over and over, examining each jewel, and then looked at the leather itself. “For Greer, with all our love.”
Her heart caught. Was that message from his mother? After all, she’d given him the cat.
“How did you come by this?” Mr. Russell asked.
“It belongs to my friend, Mr. Carson. He’s from America.”
“He may be, but the stones are European. And I was right, Marie Antoinette might have worn the like.”
Her blossoming hope withered. “Then they are paste?”
“Oh no, Miss Rare-Foure. These are very fine stones that any queen would be pleased, even honored, to wear.”
Her heart had sped up at his words and was threatening to burst from her chest.
“Are you saying they are actual gemstones? Real jewels?”
“Quite real,” he said. “And worth a king’s ransom.”
“Dear God!” she exclaimed.
“Precisely, Miss Rare-Foure. If I were you, I would tell your friend not to put this back on his cat but in a safe at a bank.”
“I believe he wishes to sell the jewels. Can you help?”
“Of course,” Mr. Russell said, with a small nod. “But he should allow me to sell each separately. He will get more than if he sells it as a cat collar.”
She felt almost light-headed. A cat collar worth a king’s ransom!
“I shall need to speak with him in person,” Mr. Russell continued, “and have him sign a contract making Asprey’s his broker, and he must agree to our commission. It’s fair, I assure you. Any jewel we don’t buy ourselves, I will find a jeweler or patron who will. In any case, your Mr. Carson will be a wealthy man.”
Her Mr. Carson!
Mr. Russell reached into the drawer again and drew out a satin sack, dropping the collar inside. “There, that seems more fitting. I’ll be here on Saturday morning if you want to—”
Suddenly, a commotion on the street interrupted him. Yelling and loud whistling, reminding her of Charlotte except it was plainly coming from a bobby’s steel whistle, as she could see two of them in front. Taking the small sack from Mr. Russell, she returned it to her satchel.
“Let’s see what’s happening,” he said, “shall we?”
Together, they walked to the spacious front of the shop with its wall of windows and double doors. He opened one and they stepped outside. And that’s when she saw the hubbub was coming from Rare Confectionery next door.
“Charlotte!” she exclaimed, running as if her bustle were on fire toward the open front door of the shop, terrified at what she might find.