Unbuttoning Miss Matilda

Chapter Five

Jack walked all the way back to Paddington. It was late by now and cold yet clear—scattered stars could be glimpsed high above London’s rooftops—yet he wasn’t alone on the streets. True, most respectable folk were abed, but there were plenty of others for whom the night was yet young: drunken bucks who staggered along arm in arm singing bawdy songs, ladies of the night who loitered in search of customers, thieves who lurked down dark alleys. But all of them took one look at Jack’s dangerous expression and gave him a wide berth indeed.

Once he was home Jack headed straight up to his attic bedroom where, after stripping off his coat and shirt, he poured cold water into a basin and used a well-soaked cloth to douse his face and shoulders. Reaching to wash his back, he winced briefly as the rough cloth skimmed the scars from the floggings he’d had in that French prison. They’d healed, but he knew he would always bear those marks, on his body and in his soul.

He’d survived because of the secret prisoner exchange. But Fitz, the wretch, had convinced Jack’s mother that there had been a ransom note from the prison’s governor: ‘I saw the note, Jack!’ his mother had told him time and time again. ‘Even though it was in French, I was able to understand most of it. It said that unless your captors received five hundred guineas within two weeks, you would die in that dreadful place.’

That letter had been forged by Fitz—Jack was sure of it. He was equally sure Fitz would have destroyed it as soon as Jack’s mother had married him. And he would never forget the look of outright triumph on Fitz’s face when the odious man first presented himself as Jack’s stepfather.

‘Were you looking forward to going home to Charlwood?’ Fitz had asked softly. ‘What a shame. The place is mine now—and you can rest assured that you will never set foot inside there again. Never. You understand me?’

Jack towelled himself dry and realised he’d run out of brandy. Hell, he’d need a good dose of the stuff to help him sleep tonight. Then he remembered that the landlord of the alehouse along the road was always ready to sell a bottle to late-night customers, so after pulling his shirt and coat back on he headed downstairs out into the lamplit street, bought brandy from the alehouse and set off home again.

But suddenly his eyes were caught by something bright and shiny that peeped out from beneath some rubbish gathered in the gutter. Frowning, he bent to pick it up.

It was a gold coin. Holding it in his palm, seeing how it seemed to wink up at him, he let out a low whistle of surprise. Because it was a very old gold coin.

Roman, if he wasn’t mistaken.

* * *

The next day Matty stood outside Mr Percival’s antiques shop, rapping at the door. It was midday and the public house down the road was filled with lunchtime drinkers who spilled out into the street. She knocked again. She’d already called last night and twice this morning, but each time the shop was closed. People were everywhere—but it looked as if Jack Rutherford had vanished into thin air.

She tried to peer through the window. ‘Mr Rutherford? Are you in there?’

One of the lunchtime drinkers came wandering over. ‘You’ll be lucky, young ’un. That Mr Percy’s not opened up at all this morning—he’s most likely done a runner for not paying his rent.’

And Matty’s fears gathered.

Yesterday, after her visit here, she’d lost her gold coin. She’d searched the lanes between the wharf and here, but she was growing more and more convinced that she’d mislaid it in this shop and Jack’s absence only served to confirm her suspicion. The man knew not a thing about antiques, but he would have known her coin was valuable because she, like a fool, had told him so.

She suddenly found herself remembering the warmth of his strong hand on her shoulder. ‘You and me together, youngster. What a team!’ But the memory made her shiver now. If Jack Rutherford had found it, he probably couldn’t believe his luck.

It was starting to rain and most of the drinkers had retreated inside the alehouse. She knocked one last time and was about to depart when something caught her eye. She’d already noticed that a few cheap posters had been pasted to the nearby wall advertising all sorts of services, most of them rather dubious. But one of the posters particularly drew her attention, because it said An Auction Of Historic Artefacts and Heirlooms.

She examined it more carefully. The auction was to be held at a sale room in Oxford Street in two days’ time. She peeled the poster off the wall and folded it so it fitted in her pocket. And an idea bloomed.

* * *

The scent of delicate perfume hit Jack’s senses from the minute he entered the luxurious room around midday two days later. ‘Why, Jack, my dear!’ came a sultry female voice. ‘What a delightful surprise!’

This was a far warmer welcome, Jack reflected, than the one he’d received from Sir Henry Fitzroy in Grosvenor Square the other day, though this was in an equally imposing mansion. Lady Vanessa Lambert didn’t rise from her chaise longue, but her eyes were dancing with merriment as Jack strolled over to raise her fingers to his lips.

‘Now, what brings you here, Jack?’ She was dressed in an exquisite and rather low-cut day gown of blue silk. ‘Some errand of pleasurable intent, I hope?’

‘How,’ responded Jack gallantly, ‘can a visit to you be anything other than a pleasure, Vanessa?’

She laughed. ‘Scoundrel. Sit down, do, and tell me what you’ve been up to.’

Lady Vanessa had become an extremely wealthy widow a few years ago at the age of thirty-two and was eager to enjoy the various pleasures of her new-found independence. She had other admirers, of course, but Jack was a firm favourite. Now she pointed to a chair by the window and Jack settled himself there, reflecting that to tell Vanessa what he’d been up to recently might puzzle her rather—because Jack had been searching the lanes and alleys of Paddington without success, looking for a girl dressed as a boy who happened to have left something rather valuable by his shop. In the end he’d reluctantly given up. He’d also given up the shop as a dead loss, which meant it was time to make fresh plans.

He leaned back in the chair, adjusted his carefully tied cravat and looked straight at Lady Vanessa. ‘I need your help,’ he said.

She looked amused. ‘So what can I do for you this time, Jack? What mischief are you plotting?’

Jack couldn’t help but notice how she’d allowed her blue silk gown to slip even farther from her shoulders to reveal an expanse of creamy skin. ‘Vanessa,’ he said, ‘you make me sound like some rogue adventurer.’

She leaned closer. ‘But you are a rogue adventurer! Which is one—just one—of the many reasons why I’m rather partial to you. Now come along, confess—you have some naughty plan in mind. Don’t you?’

Just then a footman entered with champagne and two glasses; Jack waited while the champagne was poured and once the footman had gone he raised his glass and said, ‘Your health, Vanessa. You’re right, I do have a plan in mind. Now tell me—am I right in thinking your late husband visited the auction houses quite regularly? Did you ever go with him?’

She sipped her champagne and eyed him over her glass. ‘As rarely as I could. I have always preferred to spend my time more enjoyably.’

‘Very wise of you. But what exactly happens at these sales? I gather there are catalogues to study and then you make your bid. Does a good deal of money change hands?’

She laughed aloud. ‘Whatever is this, Jack? You’re not taking that peculiar little shop of yours too seriously, are you, my dear?’

‘Oh, I’m bored with it.’ Jack made a dismissive gesture. ‘But perhaps it’s made me realise there could be some other way to make money in the antiques business.’

‘Plenty of money to be lost, too,’ she answered, rising from her chaise longue. ‘But I’ll find you some of my husband’s boring old catalogues, shall I?’

She left and Jack realised that almost without knowing it, he’d reached inside his pocket for that gold coin. It brought back an immediate picture of the young woman who’d shown it to him—and unfortunately he could imagine all too well how she must have felt when she found that she’d lost it.

‘I could not,’ Jack muttered to himself, ‘have done any more to find her.’

He’d tramped the streets of the neighbourhood asking about her, but she was difficult to describe because to the casual eye she just looked like all the other lads who hung around the area. The words needle and haystack kept springing to mind—in other words, he’d got precisely nowhere, just received odd looks, some of them hostile. In the end he gave up, but he still remembered her melodious, cultured voice. He also remembered the appealing tilt to her nose and her clear green eyes; then there was her hair, cut very short but in a way that made you want to run your fingers through its cropped softness...

‘Jack!’ Vanessa was back in the room. ‘I’ve found these old catalogues in my husband’s study.’

He took them. ‘May I borrow them?’

‘My goodness, you can keep the lot and welcome. They’re only gathering dust. But you’re not leaving already, are you? You’ve only just arrived!’

He was draining his glass and standing up. ‘Vanessa, you are a true friend. But I have several plans to set in motion.’

She sighed. ‘I rather thought you might. What are these mysterious plans? Are you going to stop being a tease and tell me?’

‘Well,’ he began, ‘there’s this auction in Oxford Street this afternoon—’

‘Goodness!’ she broke in. ‘You really are taking this antiques business seriously, aren’t you?’

He grinned. ‘You know me. I’m always open to new experiences.’

She laughed in reply. ‘Oh, I do know it. And I like to share these experiences with you, Jack.’

He suddenly leaned close. ‘Then share this one with me. Will you accompany me to this auction today?’

Chapter Six

Oxford Street—that afternoon

Matty realised the minute she entered the vast auction room that all eyes were upon her. Big mistake, Matty. You’re the wrong age. You’re wearing the wrong clothes.

She had walked breezily in past the porters at the door, but once inside she found herself in the presence of dozens of well-dressed gentlemen and dealers, most of whom turned to stare hard at her. One of them even came up close to peer at her through his pince-nez. ‘You a delivery boy, youngster?’

‘That’s right.’ She touched her hat as a gesture of respect. ‘I’ve been doing deliveries, sir. I’m just taking a peek before I go.’

Quickly she’d glided back into the shadows and after that she was ignored, much to her relief, because it was almost three o’clock and time for the sale items to be brought on to the stage by the auction-house porters. Time, too, for the auctioneer to climb to his podium and spread out his papers, but Matty wasn’t watching him. She’d managed to pick up a catalogue in the entrance hall and was scanning it for what her father used to call Cinderella pieces.

‘If you’re lucky,’ her father once said, ‘there’ll be at least one in every auction. Something that may be neglected, unnoticed—but it could turn out to be the best of the bunch!’

Her father had found the Roman coin close by the canal at Aylesbury some fifty miles north-west of London. The coin was gone, thanks to Matty’s unforgivable carelessness—and if she was to reach her father’s lost treasure site and make amends for losing the coin, she would need money to travel there. She’d thought fleetingly of finding a buyer for her Celtic brooches, but dismissed the thought. I will not be parted from any more of my father’s treasures. So she’d sold a pair of copper cooking pots she never used to Bess, who’d always admired them, and she had Bess’s coins in her pocket now. She was praying there would be a Cinderella piece for her today, so she could make enough money for her journey. She needed some luck—she really did.

It was then that she realised two latecomers were being ushered in, much to the annoyance of those who had to move out of their way. And Matty’s pulse suddenly raced, because, my goodness, there was no mistaking the first of the latecomers, with his dark, unruly hair and his casual arrogance.

Jack Rutherford. Even now, as if completely unaware of the disruption his arrival had caused, he was chatting to his companion, an elegant woman in a green gown and matching pelisse, who was laughing merrily at whatever he was saying while resting her gloved hand on his arm.

So his shop might be closed, but he still took a lively interest in the antiques trade—even though he didn’t know the difference between ancient Chinese pottery and earthenware made in Stoke! Matty frowned. He looked considerably smarter than when she’d seen him last, for he was wearing a dark coat, a starched cravat and polished boots. But there was still something about him—perhaps it was those angular cheekbones and the hint of blue-black shadow already darkening his jaw—that caused the other men in here to gaze at him with some suspicion.

Matty, too, couldn’t tear her eyes from him. My coin, she was thinking. Did he find my coin? She wanted to make her way over and tackle him right now, but she would have to wait, because the auctioneer was banging his gavel for attention and the sale was about to begin. A hush fell over the room.

‘For our first item, ladies and gentlemen,’ called the auctioneer from the stage, ‘we have some very fine English silverware! Seventeenth century and of exceptional quality!’

Normally Matty was fascinated by antiques, but today she couldn’t concentrate and it was, of course, because of that man—she could see him from the corner of her eye, exchanging whispered comments with the woman in green as one item after another went under the hammer. Her mind wandered, especially since there was nothing here she could afford—all the items for sale, from eighteenth-century watercolours to alabaster statuettes, were far too expensive for her. Then, suddenly, she caught her breath.

Because the auctioneer was holding up something small but gleaming bright. ‘Here we have a rarity indeed, ladies and gentlemen!’ he was calling out. ‘This is a last-minute but welcome addition to our sale today. A rather fine Roman coin...’

It was hers. She knew it was hers. She found her eyes flying to Jack Rutherford and saw that his gaze, too, was fixed on that coin. The woman at his side had tightened her hand on his arm and was watching also.

The auctioneer was describing the coin with relish. ‘Now, this golden coin is in almost perfect condition, except for a slight dent on one edge. And in a few moments, I shall be inviting you to make your bids—’

He broke off, because one of the clerks had come on stage to have a word in his ear.

Matty’s heart was thumping against her ribs. That dent on the edge proved it was hers beyond all doubt. ‘How interesting,’ she remembered her father murmuring as he examined the coin. ‘This jagged mark here, Matty—do you see it? It must have been hit with a sword, or maybe an axe. This coin might have seen battle!’

And it had been put in the auction by Jack Rutherford—she had no doubt of that now. Even as she watched, she saw how he had detached himself from his female companion and was moving through the crowd to get closer to the podium, no doubt eager for the bidding to start—but his face was a picture when Matty pushed her way through and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’re a thief, Jack Rutherford,’ she said. ‘That coin is mine, and you know it.’

People were turning to stare. Jack’s first expression was one of surprise, but very quickly recognition dawned. ‘You,’ he said. And by then the lady in green had come to join them, looking puzzled.

‘Jack, who is this young fellow? What on earth is going on?’

Jack turned to her swiftly. ‘There’s been a slight misunderstanding,’ he said. ‘I’ll explain to you later, Vanessa—’

A slight misunderstanding? Matty was incensed. She put her fists on her hips. ‘You’d better explain to me first, if you please!’

More people were listening in, wide-eyed, and Jack muttered to Matty, ‘Look. Not here. We can talk later—’

‘Hush!’ The auctioneer’s strident tones rang out across the room and once more he banged his gavel. ‘The sale of this rare Roman coin is about to commence!’

The bidding began at one guinea, but the offers came in swiftly and Matty’s heart sank lower as the price rose. ‘Five guineas,’ she heard the auctioneer declare. ‘Ten? Yes, we have ten. And now—now, I’m offered fifteen guineas, ladies and gentlemen...’

That was when Matty realised that Jack Rutherford’s elegant female companion was raising her gloved hand to catch the auctioneer’s eye. ‘Twenty guineas,’ she called.

Matty felt her breath catch. What? Jack’s lady friend was bidding for the coin?

‘Any more bids?’ called the auctioneer. ‘Twenty guineas I’m bid, by the lady in green. Twenty-five guineas, anyone?’

For a moment silence reigned, but then an elderly man at the back raised his hand.

‘Twenty-five,’ called the auctioneer. ‘Twenty-five guineas, to the gentleman at the far end of the room in the black coat. Have we any more bids?’

This time the silence remained unbroken. Jack’s companion—Vanessa, he’d called her—smiled at Jack. Then, with a rustle of silks and a hint of very expensive perfume, she slipped away.

And Matty realised the woman had been there to push up the bidding. She was his accomplice.

Matty turned on Jack, feeling dizzy with loss. ‘You must have known that coin was mine! How could you do such a thing?’

‘Look,’ he began, ‘let me explain. I found it a few hours after you visited me. It was lying in the road. You must have dropped it. And of course I realised it was yours.’

‘Then didn’t it occur to you to try to return it to me?’

He was looking exasperated now. ‘Yes, it most certainly did! I’ve been up and down just about every street in the area, knocking on doors, calling at shops, but I got nowhere, because I couldn’t even give them your name...’

‘It’s Matty,’ she said abruptly. ‘My name is Matty. And I don’t live in a house, I live in a boat on the canal.’

‘The canal?’ He clasped his hand to his forehead. ‘Of course. I should have guessed...’

‘Quiet!’ The auctioneer was banging his gavel again. ‘Silence, please, ladies and gentlemen! Now, for our next item...’

Matty felt chilled to her core with disappointment. It was her fault for being so careless with the coin in the first place and now it had gone for good. She looked directly into Jack Rutherford’s blue and rather sombre eyes. ‘I shall never forgive myself for losing it,’ she said steadily. ‘And I won’t be able to forgive you, either. I went to your shop again and again, but you were never there. As far as I could tell, you’d vanished.’

‘I had to close up, because I had certain matters to attend to. And about the coin—yes, I’d given up hope of finding you, but it’s not what you think—’

She waved her hand dismissively. ‘Ming,’ she scoffed. ‘Delftware. My goodness, what a complete fraud you are. I’ve no proof at all that the coin was mine, so there’s nothing I can do except to say that I hope you’re proud of yourself.’

And with that, she vanished into the crowd.

‘Matty!’ he called. ‘Listen to me. Please!’

But by the time he’d fought his way to the door, she’d gone.

* * *

‘Damn it,’ Jack muttered softly to himself. ‘Damn it.’

He strode over to the desk at the back of the room where the elderly man in the black coat was handing over his twenty-five guineas for the coin. Jack slammed his hand down on the desk, making the clerk there jump. ‘Keep your money,’ he said to the elderly man.

‘What on earth...?’

‘I said, keep your money. Look, it was me who put the coin in the auction, but unfortunately, I’ve just been informed that it’s a very clever fake. I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

‘I’m not at all sure that it is a fake, young fellow. I know a fair bit about these things!’

‘It’s a fake,’ Jack declared, ‘believe me.’ He picked up the coin and, as the man spluttered with indignation, he headed for the door. Once outside Jack stood and cursed again under his breath.

What a mess.

That girl Matty. He really had tried his hardest to track her down. There’d been no sign at all—and now he knew why. She lived on the canal. And he knew it was common for the young women on those working boats to dress in men’s clothes, which were far more suitable for working life than dainty frocks.

The problem was, she wasn’t a typical canal girl. She was well spoken and intelligent—and hadn’t she told him her father was a historian? She’d intrigued Jack from the moment she walked into his shop and he’d relished both her knowledge of history and her smart tactics in helping him foil those bully-boys. Her outright courage had made him smile.

Women were usually just a pleasant distraction in Jack’s life. But this one! She was independent, she was brave and when she’d spoken to him just now—what a complete fraud you are—her green eyes had blazed with passion. They were rather stunning eyes, he reflected, with those long dark lashes, and her anger gave a charming pink tinge to her cheeks that stirred up thoughts he really shouldn’t be having...

Like wondering what else might make her blush so charmingly.

Stop it, you fool. Because it must appear to her that he had let her down horribly.

* * *

By now it was late afternoon and he decided to walk the four miles back to Paddington. The distance was nothing compared to the marches he and his fellow soldiers had had to make across Spain, and soon enough he was leaving behind the shops and houses to be surrounded instead by the warehouses and brickfields to the west of the city. Here every street was busy with tradespeople going about their business and he attracted hardly a second glance—when suddenly he saw five men coming purposefully towards him.

‘Jack Rutherford,’ the first one said.

At first he wondered if they were part of the same gang who’d demanded money for protection, but it was unlikely since this lot knew his name. Jack braced himself. ‘Gentlemen. To what, I wonder, do I owe the pleasure of your company?’

They looked taken aback by his mocking tone, but quickly gathered closer. ‘We have a message for you, Rutherford,’ their leader growled. ‘Get out of London right now. Or you’ll find yourself in Newgate.’

‘Newgate? Whatever for?’ Again Jack spoke lightly, although his brain was working like mad.

‘For thievery, that’s what. Fancy a nice long spell in gaol, do you?’

Surely they weren’t talking about the Roman coin? He found himself reaching to touch the outline of the coin that sat deep in his pocket. ‘What, precisely, am I supposed to have stolen?’

For answer, the man handed him a note and Jack glanced at the scrawled initials at the end. HF. Sir Henry Fitzroy. Damnation! Quickly he scanned the rest of the writing.

You recently gave your mother a bracelet, made of gold, diamonds and sapphires...

What? He read it again in disbelief. This was absolute nonsense! The bracelet he’d given his mother was a pretty trinket, that was all! There were no gems. No gold. The ridiculous note went on.