A convenient companionship...

...and a passion neither expected!

Former army officer Jack Rutherford is on the run—he must go to Aylesbury to prove his innocence! Opportunity strikes in the unconventional form of Matilda Grey, who needs help to pilot her canal barge. Jack is captivated by her unusual beauty, vulnerability and resilience. But traveling together in such close quarters, their mutual craving becomes as impossible to ignore as the secrets that still lie between them...

LUCY ASHFORD studied English with History at Nottingham University, and the Regency is her favourite period. She lives with her husband in an old stone cottage in the Derbyshire Peak District, close to beautiful Chatsworth House, and she loves to walk in the surrounding hills while letting her imagination go to work on her latest story. You can contact Lucy via her website: lucyashford.com.

Also by Lucy Ashford

The Major and the Pickpocket

The Return of Lord Conistone

The Captain’s Courtesan

The Outrageous Belle Marchmain

Snowbound Wedding Wishes

The Rake’s Bargain

The Captain and His Innocent

The Master of Calverley Hall

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Unbuttoning Miss Matilda

Lucy Ashford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08924-1

UNBUTTONING MISS MATILDA

© 2019 Lucy Ashford

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One
London—June 1816

Jack Rutherford hauled himself up from the mattress on the floor, poured water into a bowl and began to wash. The water was ice cold, but he scrubbed his face and chest all the harder because he damned well deserved the discomfort. For the third morning in a row, he’d left it till nine o’clock to struggle out of bed—and what was more, he had a hangover clanging like a set of church bells inside his head.

You, he told himself, are an almighty fool.

He looked around the cramped attic room. Now, where on earth were his clothes? Lying in a heap on the floor, of course, exactly where he’d flung them before falling asleep at past three this morning. He began putting them on. Buckskin breeches and a frequently mended linen shirt. An old leather waistcoat and a pair of scuffed riding boots. After glancing at the mirror hanging lopsidedly on the wall he ran one hand through his tousled black hair, noting that his jaw was dark with stubble.

He looked like a ruffian. Felt like a ruffian. The morning sun pouring in through the high window was hurting his eyes and his head—and it was all his own stupid fault, because he’d drunk far too much brandy last night at Denny’s gaming parlour.

He was twenty-six years old and his life was going precisely nowhere. Yes, he’d made some money at the card tables, but he needed to make a lot more and fast.

He clattered down two flights of twisting steps to emerge in a ground-floor room that was crammed with relics of the past, all set out on dusty shelves and counters. Then after pulling open the shutters and unlocking the front door, he stepped out into the cobbled lane and gazed back at the building from which he’d just emerged. A faded sign painted with the words Mr Percival’s Antiques hung over the door, although ‘Antiques’ was, in this case, a polite way to describe utter junk.

As for the rest of the street, it was crammed on both sides with terraces of three-storeyed shops and eating houses in various states of disrepair. His abode was distinguished by a window displaying just a sample of the wares inside—chipped chinaware, clocks that didn’t work and dog-eared books. Yet when Jack had taken on the lease two months ago, he’d been assured by Mr Percival himself that the business was a gold mine.

Jack had been dubious. ‘It’s a bit off the beaten track, isn’t it? Paddington?’

‘On the contrary! You’ll find, my dear Mr Rutherford, that the fashionable set from Mayfair and Westminster simply love to drive out to west London in their carriages, so eager are they for historic rarities with which to embellish their town mansions! Now, we decided on a six-month lease, did we not? And you are to pay me twenty guineas for all contents and fittings—are we agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ Jack had said warily, shaking Mr Percival’s hand. He’d had a splitting headache that day as well—again, the result of too much brandy and too little sleep the night before. He hadn’t a clue about antiques—still hadn’t. But he’d known he had to do something to earn his living, something other than winning at cards, because winning made you enemies.

So Jack became an antiques dealer and he had tried to make a success of it, he really had. For the first two weeks he’d opened every morning at eight without fail, dusting the displays of bric-a-brac and cheap jewellery, making valiant attempts to impose some kind of order. Prices? He hadn’t a clue, but he took a guess and stuck on labels galore. He slept on a mattress in the attic, he bought lunch from the nearby pie shop at midday and drank his ale in the local public house.

He also acquainted himself with his neighbours. To his left was a furniture maker, though Jack saw him only rarely, since he appeared to spend his days drinking gin in a back room. To the right was the pie shop run by two lively girls called Margery and Sue, and they did rather better business, as did the noisy alehouse just beyond, which served the boatmen from the canal wharf close by.

All in all there were certainly plenty of people around, but as for the carriages of the rich rolling up, for the first two weeks there wasn’t one—in fact, to begin with, Jack’s only visitors were other dealers, all of whom glanced around and said something like, ‘You’ve a heap of worthless stuff here, haven’t you? I’ll take it all off your hands for a few pounds and believe me, I’ll be doing you a favour.’

Jack shook his head. But at the same time he was noticing that their rather greedy eyes always alighted on the items that actually were starting to sell. War relics.

It was almost a year since the long war with the French had come to an end and, in London, many unemployed ex-soldiers drifted around on the streets. Though they had little enough money in their pockets, quite a few still possessed relics of their soldiering days: items such as belts and knives, brass buttons from old army jackets, pistols and spurs.

Jack got talking to some of them one night in an alehouse. ‘I’ve an idea,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll see if I can sell these things for you.’ So he paid for a small advertisement in The Times.

For Sale at Mr Percival’s Antiques Repository in Paddington.

Military Mementoes of Wellington’s Campaigns

The day after that advertisement appeared, a smart carriage rolled up outside Jack’s premises and an exceedingly well-dressed man entered. ‘I’ve come,’ he announced pompously, ‘to see these military mementoes of yours, young fellow.’

* * *

Half an hour later, another rich man arrived, then another. ‘Ah, the heroes of Salamanca and Waterloo!’ they would declare as they gloated over the pistols and spurs. Each time, Jack nodded politely. Each time Jack concealed his silent contempt for their fascination for these relics of war, guessing that they’d faint on the spot were they to get one glimpse of the horrors of a battlefield. And he made them pay—oh, yes—in hard cash.

But his calculations told him he was making just about enough to cover the rent, no more, which meant that some time soon he’d have to make a major decision about his future. As for now, it was surely time for a belated breakfast—and just down the road he could see a girl selling fresh-baked bread from a laden basket. He went to buy a couple of warm rolls, then strolled on, eating as he walked, to where the narrow street opened out to offer a completely different view.

For here, in front of him, was the newly built canal basin—Paddington Wharf. Thanks to this fresh waterway link with the north, the whole area heaved with industry and commerce. Jack walked on almost to the water’s edge, where boat after boat were moored.

This busy scene fascinated him. The canal was busy from dawn till dusk with boats arriving from the Midlands, mostly laden with coal which was rapidly—noisily—transferred on to the waiting carts and taken to be stored in the nearby brick warehouses. The bargees, he’d noticed, scarcely paused to draw breath because the minute their loads were delivered they set to work again—the men, their wives, their children—to scrub down their boats, refill the holds with timber or grain, then once more head north.

It was mighty hard work for the boatmen—hard work, too, for the horses who hauled the laden vessels, although those horses, he’d noticed, were tended with as much care as a cavalryman would lavish on his mount. As it happened, just then Jack’s eyes were caught by a big grey horse that was being led right past him, its halter firmly held by a youth in a long coat and battered, wide-brimmed hat.

The horse stopped to look at Jack inquisitively and he reached out to stroke his neck. ‘Hello there, old fellow,’ he murmured. ‘I’d guess you have some stories to tell.’

‘Best watch yourself, mister,’ the youth in the battered hat warned him. ‘He doesn’t take kindly to strangers.’

‘Doesn’t he, now?’ Jack tickled the animal behind one ear until it gave a soft whicker of pleasure.

The lad’s face was shadowed by that big hat, but Jack was pretty sure he looked irritated by the horse’s evident delight. The lad tugged at his horse’s leading rein and moved on, but called back over his shoulder, ‘Hear that noise? You won’t find those tar barrels quite as friendly as my horse.’

Indeed, there was an ominous rumbling sound getting louder and Jack spun round, jumping out of the way just in time to avoid being hit by some huge barrels that were being rolled along the quayside. Damn! That was close. Breathing rather hard, he took one last look at the grey horse and its slim owner both heading for the blacksmith’s forge, from which came the clanging of hammers on hot iron.

The noise and clamour reminded him that everyone around here was busy except for him and slowly he set off back to his shop, but he was sorry to leave the wharf with all its bustle and energy. More than once he’d found himself envying the sense of community these people who lived around the wharf seemed to enjoy, the sense of belonging. They were also a watchful set and it hadn’t taken long for the regulars to get to know where Jack lived—they called him Mr Percival, or sometimes just Mr Percy, the antiques man. Right now, a bunch of young women from the boats were walking back with full baskets from the local food market.

‘All right there, Mr Percy?’ one of them called. ‘D’you need a hand with anything today?’

They were casting eyes of approval over his curly black hair, his leather waistcoat and breeches and boots. He smiled back. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’m all right.’

But that wasn’t entirely true.

Letting himself into the dust and disarray of his shop, he lit a couple of candles to highlight the debris and wondered what on earth to do next. For several years he’d served with the British army in Spain—in fact, he’d been an officer and Lord Wellington himself had valued him highly. ‘You’re my man for tactics, Rutherford,’ Wellington used to say to him. ‘You’re my man for digging out the enemy’s secret plans.’

And what were Jack’s plans now? He was aiming to get back his inheritance, that was what. He was plotting revenge against the man who’d robbed him, while he’d been away, of his home, his heritage and his pride.

Who’d robbed him, in other words, of pretty much everything.

Chapter Two

‘There. That’s Hercules sorted for you, young Matty!’ The blacksmith checked the horse’s freshly shod hooves, then nodded his head in approval. ‘He’s a fine old fellow. Let me know if you’re thinking of selling him off, will you?’

The blacksmith’s forge, Matty always thought, was like a goblin’s cavern, glowing with the heat of the furnace and the glitter of molten metal. In answer to the blacksmith’s question, she shook her head. ‘I’ll not sell him, ever. He’s an old friend, and we won’t be parted.’ Carefully she counted out some coins into the blacksmith’s sooty palm and began to lead Hercules back to the wharf.

Of course, the blacksmith never suspected she was a girl. Nor had that man who’d nearly been felled by those rolling tar barrels a little earlier. She shook her head at the memory; he’d looked like some arrogant ne’er-do-well and he’d taken more notice of Hercules than he had of her. Like most people, he’d assumed Matty was just another local lad and she was fine with that. Yes, thank you very much—just fine.

As Hercules clopped along beside her, she stroked his neck. ‘Pleased with your new shoes, are you, old fellow?’

He nuzzled her neck in reply and she smiled as they walked on past the warehouses to the canal basin.

She had never deliberately set out to deceive people and her long coat and big hat weren’t intended as a disguise—it was just that she found men’s clothes more comfortable, more useful. She was nineteen years old and her full name was Matilda Grey. She’d lived on the canals all her life and as she walked by the moored boats, people stopped what they were doing to greet her. ‘Morning, young Matty! How’s Hercules? Did you get him sorted out at the forge?’

‘Hercules is fine,’ Matty called back. ‘He needed shoeing, of course. But the blacksmith said that now he should be ready for anything.’

Yes, all her canal friends knew she was a girl, but strangers didn’t realise, not unless they got up too close. And she didn’t normally let anybody get too close, no, indeed; she kept her chestnut-brown hair cropped short, she wore a shirt and trousers together with an old coat that reached past her knees and some strong leather boots—no dainty shoes for her. She found it so much easier to dress like that. It helped her to look confident and carefree.

Even though today she felt anything but, because the blacksmith’s fee had reminded her that she only had enough money left for three or maybe four more months of this way of life. This can’t go on, Matty. The bills came in regularly for berthing her boat as well as for Hercules’s stabling and food and that nagging little voice of worry had been wearing away at her for days now. Some day soon either her horse or her boat would have to go. Then what?

She looked around for inspiration, noting that as usual at this time of day the canal basin was packed with boats being laden with grain and timber for the journey north. ‘One boat drawn by a single horse can carry six times as much as a cart pulled by four horses,’ she remembered her father telling her when she was small. ‘Canals are the future, Matty!’

He had died two years ago and recollecting his voice rekindled her sense of loss, together with her fears. Yes, canals might well be the future—but perhaps not for her.

She realised a woman was calling out to her from one of the nearby boats. ‘How’s things, Matty, love? Getting ready for another trip, are you?’

Bess, one of her oldest friends, had a big soapy scrubbing brush in her hand. She was always scrubbing something—her boat, her laundry or her children. ‘I’m making plans, Bess,’ Matty replied. ‘You know?’

‘You and your plans!’ Bess shook her head and tutted, but in her eyes was nothing but kindness. ‘Just be sure to let me and my Daniel know if you need any help, won’t you?’

‘I will. My thanks, Bess.’ And Matty walked on towards her boat, The Wild Rose, where she tethered Hercules close by.

She’d been only three when her mother died and Bess in particular had taken Matty to her heart, cooking meals for her and her father, offering company when it was needed and easing the pain of loss for them both. Matty counted Bess and her husband among her most loyal friends, but Bess would still be watching her, she knew, and just now she needed some privacy. Making for the solitude of her tiny cabin, she dragged off her boots and sat down on the narrow bed.

She still missed her father, so much. An Oxford graduate, he had earned his living by writing articles for historical journals and occasionally giving lectures. He could have made a comfortable living as a tutor, but he loved the canals as much as he loved history—and Matty always suspected that, well educated though he was, he enjoyed the company of the canal folk as much as that of the Oxford men. There was nothing he relished more than to sit by the waterside with fellow travellers on a summer night listening to their tales and he looked after The Wild Rose as well as any true bargeman, seeing to the tarring and caulking, retouching the paint and polishing the brass work all by himself. From an early age Matty would follow him around, saying, ‘Let me help, Papa!’

‘We’ll do it together,’ he used to say.

Of course, the loss of his wife was a sharp grief, but he’d found a kind of peace, Matty always believed, in travelling with his young daughter from one town to another along the waterways. And everywhere they stopped, he would explore the surrounding countryside for old battle sites or castle ruins. Sometimes, her father unearthed valuable relics—though since the last thing he wanted was to make money out of them, he often gave his finds to museums or to other scholars to assist with their research. ‘Our treasure hunter,’ the canal folk liked to call him proudly.

From time to time Matty heard strangers whisper that it was a lonely and unnatural way of life for her father to inflict on his daughter, but in those days Matty was never lonely, for she had all of the canal community as her family. The women took special care of her and did what mothers do, explaining about growing up, giving her dark warnings about men—and oh, how they yelled at their own sons if they were too familiar with her! ‘Don’t you try anything with our Matty! She’s special, d’you hear?’

It was indeed a special life with her father on The Wild Rose. In the summer months he taught her all about the birds who lived by the canals, the flowers and the water creatures; while on winter nights, when often the water on the canals would freeze over, they’d sit snug in their cabin and he told her enthralling tales of times gone by. He taught her practical things, too, like how to look after the boat and navigate the locks or how to make sure she was never cheated by the innkeepers or blacksmiths. Matty had grown up both capable and knowledgeable—and it was just as well, because two years ago her father had suddenly died.

‘A heart attack,’ the doctor had told her gravely. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself in any way, my dear. There was clearly nothing you could do.’

Her friends had gathered round after the funeral and offered their advice. ‘Maybe now’s the time to give up the boat, Matty, and consider another life.’

They were anxious about her, she knew. ‘A girl her age, on her own in a boat,’ she’d heard them whisper. ‘It’s not right. Not safe.’ More than anything, it was becoming unaffordable—but what other kind of life could she possibly consider, after living so long with the freedom of the waterways?

For the last two years, she’d earned occasional money by carrying light loads on her boat for short distances only, taking on parcels of fabric or chinaware or other delicate goods. Hercules might be old, but he was also well trained—he knew exactly how to plod calmly along the towpath without starting at a flock of ducks or shying at an oncoming barge, while Matty, manning the tiller, dreamed of travelling farther some day and finding the lost treasure her father thought he was close to discovering only days before he died.

‘You’re one of us, young Matty,’ the canal folk were always telling her. ‘You always will be, lass.’

But Matty knew that in reality she was alone, cast adrift somewhere between the world of the Oxford scholars and the community of canal people, yet belonging to neither. She also knew this way of life couldn’t carry on for much longer without a regular income and some day soon—by the autumn, most likely—she would have to sell The Wild Rose. Already the sharp tang of loss was making her cold. She’d told Bess she had a plan—if only she did.

Slowly she went to fetch a tin cash box from under the bed and unlocked it. The money won’t have magically multiplied since you last looked, you fool.

Inside were some things she’d carefully kept over the years—three bronze Celtic brooches, an Iron-Age amulet and two small silver candleholders, Tudor most likely. And, wrapped in a soft piece of cloth, there was a golden coin. A Roman coin.

Holding the coin up to the light, she thought she would never, ever forget the reverence in her father’s eyes as he’d brushed the dirt from it two years ago. ‘Where there’s one coin like this, Matty,’ he’d said, ‘there’ll be more.’

The Roman coin she would never, ever part with. But perhaps she could sell the Celtic brooches to a collector, then maybe have enough for all the extra expenses involved in journeying to find her father’s treasure, though there was yet another problem. It would take three days at least to get to the site where her father had found the coin and for that length of journey she needed someone to help with the boat. But since there were no women for hire on the canals, that someone would have to be a man—and her heart sank at the thought. Sighing a little, she carefully slipped the coin, the brooches and other treasures into a purse, then climbed back up on deck.

‘Matty, lass!’

It was Bess again on the wharfside, waving a sheet of paper. ‘Look,’ Bess was saying, ‘someone’s just handed me this letter. And bless me, I can’t make head or tail of it.’

‘A letter? Let me see.’ Matty scanned it quickly. ‘Bess, it’s from the corn merchant in Brentford. He’s offering you a new contract, for a whole year!’

‘Really?’ Her friend gave a whoop of joy. ‘Wait till I tell my Daniel! And he pays well, really well. How about coming to dine with us tonight, girl? This deserves a celebration!’

‘I’d love to.’ Matty really meant it. ‘But, Bess, I’ve an errand to make first. I’ve decided I need to sell a few of my father’s things—some old trinkets he gave me—so you see, I might have to head into town.’

‘Lass, if you’re in money trouble, maybe me and Daniel can help...’

‘No! Bess, I wouldn’t dream of it. And I might not even sell them, but I would like some idea of their value.’

‘Well, instead of tramping into town and back, why don’t you call at that place just up the lane there?’

‘Which place do you mean?’

‘There’s a sign over it that says “Mr Percival’s Antiques”. Now, it all seems a bit rundown, but we’ve seen the young fellow who runs it and my Daniel reckons he looks a clever one all right. Why not try him?’

It was indeed a long walk to the antiques dealers in the centre of London. ‘I might just do that,’ Matty said thoughtfully.

‘Just make sure, though, that Mr Percival doesn’t swindle you. And you’ll come to us later on for your supper, won’t you? Then...’ Bess hesitated ‘...maybe we can have a little chat. You see, we’ve been thinking, me and Daniel, that maybe you should stop this travelling about on your own. You’ve got an education, and this just isn’t the life for a girl like you.’

Matty faced her steadfastly. ‘But this is the only life I know. The only life I want, Bess, truly—’

It was with a sense of relief that Matty realised two of Bess’s children were running towards their mother, one of them carrying a kitten. ‘Mama! Mama! Look what Joe the coalman gave us for looking after his horse for him! The kitten’s called Sukey and she’ll be as good as gold, Joe says. Can we keep her, Mama? Please, can we?’

And so Matty was able to escape Bess’s forthcoming lecture and seek the solitude of her own cabin again.

But she didn’t really feel any better for it at all.

Bess was probably right to say this was no life for a girl like her. But how could Matty abandon it, when she’d known no life other than this, ever?

She’d not expected her father to die so suddenly. Even now a fresh wave of sadness hovered close, but there was no time for grief or any other indulgence of emotions. Her father had taught her everything she needed to know to survive on the waterways—and survive she would. She would not sell her father’s boat, she would not sell Hercules. And she would never, ever abandon her father’s final dream.

Chapter Three

It didn’t take Matty long to find her way to Mr Percival’s Antiques. Just as Bess had described, the sign was swinging lightly in the breeze; but her heart sank as she drew close.

She’d realised, of course, that Mr Percival was unlikely to resemble the antique experts her father had loved to visit in Oxford, but neither had she expected his premises to have such a general air of dereliction. Squashed in between a furniture maker’s and a bakery, it would in fact have escaped her notice altogether were it not for that faded sign. And as she drew closer to the grimy window, she could see a variety of junk—yes, that was the word, junk—littering every available surface inside.

Should she even bother? Yet her father used to tell her appearances could be deceptive. ‘You never can tell,’ he would say.

She could only hope so.

Since the door was already ajar, she pulled her hat down more firmly, pushed the door open farther, and squeezed her way in past racks of old brass pots and pans that clanked together as she brushed by. Inside, a single oil lamp cast its dim light over shelves that were full of dusty books and ornaments. On the walls were paintings, most of them hung crookedly. As for the counter, she couldn’t even see it thanks to a clothes rail full of old coats; but the sound of raised voices was hard to ignore.

‘You let go of my son Tommy’s jacket, do you hear?’ a woman was squawking. ‘You great brute of a thing. Why, Tommy’s not a quarter your size!’

‘Then,’ came a man’s calm voice, ‘your son should know better—madam—than to come in here and steal my goods.’

‘He wasn’t stealing, my Tommy wasn’t. He was just looking!’

‘Oh, was he?’ The man sounded interested. ‘A peculiar way of looking, to stuff those various items rather deep in those pockets of his, wouldn’t you say?’

Matty could see that the man who held a small, squirming lad by his collar was tall and dark-haired, maybe in his midtwenties. And she recognised him. He was the man who’d admired Hercules down by the wharf and he spoke in that calm, surprisingly educated voice that had so startled her earlier.

The woman was far from calm. ‘You leave my Tommy alone, you villain, or I’ll call the constables!’

‘You do that,’ the man agreed. ‘Save me the trouble.’ The woman hesitated. Meanwhile the man went on, ‘Tell your angelic little son to empty his pockets, will you?’

Just for a moment Matty wondered if the woman might try landing a punch on the man’s stubble-darkened jaw. Most unwise, Matty decided as she assessed the breadth of his shoulders beneath his coat. All in all his shabby attire concealed, she guessed, some rather powerful muscles—and clearly the woman thought the same, because she said, ‘All right, then, our Tommy. Clear out your pockets, you young fool.’

Tommy scowled, but out came the goods—a pewter snuffbox, a brass signet ring and a silver-plated spoon. Tommy handed them over sullenly, one by one.

‘Right,’ said the man. ‘Now clear off, the pair of you. And listen, young Tommy—’ he bent down close to the lad’s ear ‘—if I ever catch you in here again, you’ll get a wallop on the backside and that’s a promise. You hear me?’

Tommy’s mother, with one last baleful glance at the man, dragged her boy outside and began yelling. ‘Listen here, our Tommy. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a dozen times...’

As the sound of her voice faded at last into the distance Matty stepped forward, still careful to keep herself away from the light of that single lamp. She cleared her throat. ‘Mr Percival, I presume?’

He almost jumped. ‘Ah. Forgive me. Didn’t see you there.’ He’d been examining the spoon the lad had tried to pinch, rubbing it on his sleeve before putting it back on an already crowded shelf. Matty couldn’t see any order at all to what was already there—it seemed a higgledy-piggledy mess to her.

Then he turned to look at her full on and she felt her breath hitch a little. There was just something about him, something about his hard cheekbones and jutting jaw that gave her a physical shock after the almost lazy calmness of his voice. ‘I believe,’ he said, ‘that we’ve met before. Thank you for warning me about those barrels heading my way.’

She nodded briefly. ‘I had no wish to see you flattened.’

He laughed, but she was confused because she sensed that behind those amused blue eyes there lurked something rather dangerous. Though perhaps that was her imagination, because now he was sighing and saying to her almost sadly, ‘So. Welcome to my abode—though I don’t suppose that by any chance you’ve come to buy something, have you? Or perhaps—like young Tommy—you’re hoping to do a bit of pilfering?’

Matty felt an angry retort springing to her lips, but she answered him coolly, ‘That’s a rather careless assumption, Mr Percival.’

‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I find myself growing rather cynical these days. And as it happens, I’m not Mr Percival—Mr Percival is in fact somewhat elusive, except, alas, when his rent is due. My name is Jack Rutherford. And you, young sir, are here because...?’

He was trying to peer down at her but Matty, glad of her wide-brimmed hat and the general gloom in here, kept her distance. He assumed she was a boy. Let him. ‘I have some antique brooches I’d like valued, Mr Rutherford.’

‘Let me guess.’ He sighed again. ‘They’re worth a fortune, yes? They date back to Tudor times at the very least, but as a special favour you’ll let me have them for a guinea. Am I right?’

‘They’re not Tudor!’ Matty was stung out of her usual caution. ‘The brooches are Celtic, and—’

‘Now that’s original,’ he said, breaking in. ‘I’ll give you credit for that.’ He put his hands together and gestured applause. Well-shaped hands, Matty noticed. Elegant hands... Suddenly angry with herself for even noticing, she jerked her attention back to what he was saying.

‘But if these brooches of yours are genuine,’ he went on, ‘I’ll eat my hat. I do grow rather weary of fraudsters. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll have to turn you away, because I have a rather urgent appointment elsewhere—’

Matty interrupted calmly, ‘You’re the one who’s a fraud.’

He looked rather startled. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You’re the fraud.’ Matty strolled over to point at one of the crowded shelves. ‘You’re selling overpriced rubbish. These vases you’ve labelled as early eighteenth-century Delftware are nothing of the sort—they were most likely made last year, not in Holland but in Stoke-on-Trent.’

She saw him looking rather bemused. ‘Stoke? Really? But how on earth do you—?’

‘Because I’ve had an education in antiques, which clearly you have not.’ She gestured towards another shelf. ‘Those bowls you’ve labelled as Chinese, from the Ming dynasty—they’ll have been made in a factory in east London. They’ll be two years old, not two hundred. And as for that piece of wood labelled “Egyptian Oar”—do you want to know what it really is?’ She indicated a six-foot length of wood leaning against the wall.

‘I’m not at all sure that I do.’

Matty told him anyway. ‘It’s an old barge pole. It’s probably been rotting in the Thames mud for the last twenty years or so.’

‘What a pity.’ He looked a little sad. ‘Though I thought the Egyptian bit was rather fanciful.’

Matty was growing exasperated. ‘I can see, Mr Rutherford, that my visit is clearly a waste of time.’ She was also realising it might be risky, too, because he suddenly appeared more interested in her than in what she was saying.

Normally strangers didn’t give Matty a second glance—they just assumed she was a lad and that was that. But Mr Jack Rutherford was looking at her a little too closely for her comfort and frowning, too. Swiftly she turned to go. But he called out, ‘Wait! Please.’

She swung round in spite of herself.

He said, ‘I don’t suppose by any chance you’re looking for a job, are you?’

She was astonished. ‘A job?’

‘Yes. As my assistant. You see, I only took over this place two months ago and I’ve been trying my best to label and price everything, but you’re absolutely right.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know nearly as much as I should.’

‘Then why on earth did you take the business on?’ She really couldn’t hide her scorn. ‘You’re clearly not making much of a success of it.’

‘I’m afraid it was just a stupid idea of mine. I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion that the place should be run by someone who might know rather more about antiques than I do.’

‘Finding someone of that description shouldn’t be difficult.’ She pointed to another table, laden with pistols and swords. ‘Though I imagine you don’t have any trouble selling these things? These mementoes from the war?’

A shadow had crossed his face. ‘No,’ he said in a quieter voice. ‘Actually, I don’t.’

‘Cheating old soldiers.’ Matty smiled up at him brightly from beneath the brim of her hat. ‘My goodness, you must be really proud of yourself.’

Something dangerous flashed through his blue eyes then and her heart skipped a beat. You fool, Matty. Deliberately antagonising a rogue like him. It was most definitely time to go.

She looked round to where the door beckoned temptingly. But then he smiled—and it was a smile that shook her badly, because there was something so very bitter about it. ‘Proud of myself?’ he echoed. ‘Just the opposite, in fact. And as for you—you really are rather bold, you know. For such a young...fellow.’

She felt her throat go suddenly dry at that momentary hesitation. Had he realised she was a girl?

So what if he had? she told herself quickly. What did it matter? Though she was unsettled, because she guessed this man knew an awful lot about women one way and another. For a moment his eyes arrowed into her, surveying her from the top of her head down to her toes, but she met his blue gaze and retorted, ‘So you think me bold because I happen to tell you you’re selling items that are wrongly labelled and wrongly priced? Surely you know that already?’

He’d come from behind his counter—to do what? Punish her for her cheek? Kidnap her? Don’t be stupid. But even so her heart hammered and her imagination whirled. Then—then he laughed. And there was something about the rich, sardonic timbre of his voice that was more dangerous than words.

‘Then help me,’ he stated calmly, ‘why don’t you? Get everything here priced and dated correctly and I’ll pay you a wage that’s pretty generous for a lad like you. How about it?’

So he hadn’t guessed her secret. Relief flooded her, but she shook her head decisively. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that you should find yourself an occupation more suited to your talents.’

‘The trouble is, I’m not exactly sure what my talents are.’

‘How about smooth talking? Pulling the wool over people’s eyes?’ Oh, Matty. She silently groaned at her rashness. Stop talking so much, will you?

He was still smiling, but his blue eyes had narrowed again and she found that her blood was pounding rather hard. She needed to get out through that door right now but there was one slight problem. This man, nearly six foot of muscle and sinew, was still blocking her way.

Just when she was considering how best to make a run for it, she heard the sound of men’s raised voices from outside. ‘Here we are, lads,’ someone shouted. ‘Mr Percival’s Antiques—let’s give this one a go, shall we?’

And in marched four roughly dressed men. When Jack Rutherford turned in surprise, one of the new arrivals pulled out a nasty-looking knife. ‘Careful now,’ the man growled. Another of them pounced on Matty and pinned her hands behind her back. ‘Keep still, young ’un,’ he hissed in her ear, ‘or you’ll find yourself at the bottom of the canal.’

She kept very, very still and she saw that Jack Rutherford was motionless, too—he didn’t have much choice, with that man’s knife pointed at his neck.

‘Now, then,’ said the man with the knife, who was clearly their leader. ‘I didn’t realise Mr Percy’s place had a new owner. And you, my friend—’ he leered at Jack ‘—perhaps didn’t realise you owe us a fee for the privilege of running the place.’

‘A fee? What the hell for?’ Jack lunged forward, but two of the men grabbed his arms while the man with the knife waved his blade tauntingly. ‘That was a bit silly, wasn’t it? Now, listen. The money’s for your own safety—you pay us ten shillings a week and in return we protect you from thieves and robbers. Simple, right? All the businesses round here pay up ’cos they’re smart. So don’t you try playing silly games with us.’

Matty had already guessed what they were up to. Most of the London districts had gangs like this who frightened the business owners into paying them a regular fee—protection, they called it. But Jack Rutherford didn’t appear to quite understand.

‘You say that everyone pays you?’ Scorn etched his voice. ‘Not me, my friend. The hell not me.’

Even as he spoke, Jack lashed out to free himself, then lunged at the man with the knife and chopped at his arm so hard that the knife went flying. At exactly that moment, Matty kicked the man who held her and darted sideways to heave over a display case full of vases. It fell with an enormous crash, bringing the other ruffians to their knees under an onslaught of heavy pottery.

Next Matty picked up the barge pole—an Egyptian oar? I don’t think so, Mr Rutherford—and swung it against the legs of the man who was fighting with Jack. The man howled and fell to the floor. The others were getting to their feet, but Jack grabbed the pole off Matty. ‘Great idea,’ he said. ‘Thanks. Keep well clear.’ Then he swung the pole round with far more force than she could manage, catching the ribs, arms and knees of their attackers.

Soon all four were stumbling out through the door and limping off down the street. Matty heard their final words. ‘A madhouse in there,’ they were muttering as they glanced back. ‘A damned madhouse...’

Jack, who’d put the pole down, rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. ‘Well done,’ he said to Matty. ‘My thanks.’

She was assessing the wreckage of the room. ‘Mr Percival should have warned you.’

‘Warned me of what?’

‘That there’s a protection racket in this area. They’re dangerous.’

‘But this time they met rather more than they bargained for. Didn’t they?’ He grinned. ‘You and me together, youngster. What a team!’ He put his hand on her shoulder.

She pulled away quickly. By now he, too, was surveying the mess on the floor—he’d lost interest in her—but she was still unnerved, because when he’d touched her just now, she’d felt that touch ricochet all through her body. Matty spent her time avoiding men, not encouraging them. She didn’t even like anyone to come near her. But something about this man made her wonder what it might be like if he touched her again... Ridiculous.

He was shaking his head as he looked round the room. ‘I suppose,’ he was saying rather regretfully, ‘that I’d better start clearing up this mess.’

Matty shoved at the pieces of shattered pottery with her booted foot. ‘You could look on the bright side, Mr Rutherford.’ In control again, thank goodness. ‘At least you know now that your pottery wasn’t worth the shelf space you gave it.’

He put his hands on his hips and laughed outright. ‘You’ve certainly received quite an education from somewhere.’

‘I had an excellent tutor.’

‘And did this tutor of yours teach you how to fight, too?’

‘That? Oh, that comes naturally.’

Again he laughed, but this time she refused to allow herself to be distracted by his sparkling blue eyes or his merry grin; instead she straightened her hat and headed directly for the door. Come on, girl. Get out of here while you can.

‘Wait.’ His voice from behind stopped her in her tracks. ‘Wait,’ he repeated. ‘Those brooches you were telling me about. I would be quite interested in seeing them, you know.’

She almost gave a snort of disbelief. ‘Too late.’ Her hand was already on the door.

‘Very well. Though could it be—’ and his voice softly pursued her ‘—that your so-called treasures are fakes? Just as you say mine are?’

This was a challenge she couldn’t refuse, so she swung round and headed towards him once more, already extracting her silk purse from her pocket. ‘I don’t imagine,’ she said with a fresh edge to her voice, ‘that you’ve actually come across genuine objects like these. But here—’ and she laid them on the counter ‘—are two Celtic brooches.’

He whistled under his breath. ‘Even I can see these are quite something. So you weren’t joking when you told me they’re valuable?’

‘I don’t joke about matters that are important, Mr Rutherford.’ She gathered up the brooches to slip them in her purse again. ‘And I came here because I wanted an expert opinion on their value. A pity I came to the wrong person.’

‘You certainly did.’ He looked mildly regretful. ‘But what’s that?’

Because as she was putting away her brooches, the Roman coin fell from her purse. And before she could stop him, he’d picked it up and held it to the light. ‘It’s beautiful,’ he said quietly.

‘Yes.’ Her eyes never left the coin as it winked between his fingertips. ‘It dates back to the first century, when Tiberius was emperor of Rome. You can tell by the image—do you see?—which changed in the year of—’

‘Stop. Stop!’ He was almost laughing again. ‘How do you know all this?’

‘My father was a historian.’

‘And where did he find this coin?’

‘He dug it up in a field.’

‘Dug it up in a field? But—’

Just at that moment the door opened again and they both turned quickly. This time, though, it wasn’t ruffians, but two women with aprons over their plain brown gowns and merry smiles on their faces. And they weren’t smiling at her.

‘Jack,’ they called, ‘we need your help! Two days ago that thieving innkeeper down the road ordered five dozen of our pies and he’s not paid us for a single one! The horrid man takes no notice of us when we ask for our money, so will you close up for the day and come to sort him out for us? Please?’

It was only then that they noticed the shattered pottery lying on the floor. ‘What’s been happening in here?’ Then they saw Matty. ‘Who’s this?’

Jack nodded towards Matty and began, ‘Here we have a young scholar, who has certainly proved his worth—’

Only then he broke off and he was saying, ‘No. Please, wait,’ because Matty grabbed back the coin and was heading for the door.

‘I can see it’s time for me to go,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Goodbye, Mr Rutherford. This has certainly been an...interesting encounter.’

The girls were staring at her, open-mouthed. ‘Ooh,’ said one. ‘Now, don’t you speak in a fancy way? Just like our Jack. Only our Jack’s friendly and nice—’

Matty was already out of there and walking down the street—in fact, she’d gone quite a way before she stopped to steady herself. Jack Rutherford knew nothing about antiques, but doubtless he had plenty of other skills. Vain, witless man.

* * *

She hurried on towards the wharf, where as usual the quayside was lined with horses and heavily laden carts and the air was filled with the banter of the teams of Irishmen building the new warehouses close by. Once on board The Wild Rose, she stowed her purse in the cabin locker, then went through her list of jobs to be done.

I need to put more varnish on the tiller, she reminded herself. And I’ll take my mattress on deck to air for an hour in the sunshine...

She began to roll her mattress in order to carry it up the steps. But as she did so, she caught sight of her reflection in the little mirror hanging on the cabin wall.

Something seemed different somehow about her eyes and her expression. And there was an unfamiliar sensation fluttering in her stomach like a light and teasing touch, making her restless and unsettled. Unfortunately she thought she knew exactly what—or rather who—had caused it. Shaking her head, she carried her rolled cotton mattress up on deck and spread it out.

Jack Rutherford was a rogue, undoubtedly. He truly hadn’t a clue about the fact that the majority of his goods were worthless trash—and even worse, he didn’t seem to care. But he’d also shown he could be rather formidable—his ruthlessness in tackling those villains had been quite chilling. Despite his teasing ways there was a stark maleness about him that thoroughly rattled her—and when he’d rested his hand on her shoulder, the warmth of his fingers had sent little sparks of surprise tingling all along her veins.

She thumped hard at the mattress. That man must have more dark secrets than she’d had hot dinners. Yes, his smile was light-hearted, but Jack Rutherford was made for trouble—trouble she could most certainly do without.

She went back down to her cabin. There were plenty more jobs to be getting on with, but something made her want to take out her silk purse again from her locker and examine her treasures once more.

So she did. And it was then that she realised, with a jolt of sickening shock, that the most precious of them all—the golden Roman coin—was not there.

For two years now, she’d been haunted by memories of the day her father found that coin. He’d believed it marked the site of an old Roman settlement—believed, in fact, that he was on the verge of the most exciting discovery of his career—but he’d died soon afterwards. On the day of his funeral, Matty had stood beneath the solemn yews by his grave and silently repeated the vow she’d made to her father as his life slipped away. She would pursue his dream and she would find that site herself, whatever it cost, whatever it took, to ensure that her father’s name was always remembered with reverence.

But instead, she’d lost the only proof of the site’s existence—the Roman coin.

For a moment Matty couldn’t move. Then she went over to check her coat, just in case, but both pockets were empty. Her heart was hammering now and her throat was dry.

You fool, Matty. You absolute fool.

Chapter Four

It didn’t take long for Jack to persuade the reluctant innkeeper to pay the pie girls, after which he announced to them that he had another visit to make that afternoon.

‘I’m going to Mayfair,’ he told them.

‘Mayfair?’ The women gasped a little. ‘My, aren’t you the fancy one?’

But if the girls imagined him arriving in Mayfair’s streets in style, they were mistaken. True, Jack smartened himself up by giving his one decent coat a good brush and cleaning his boots; he’d tied on a plain cravat and he’d shaved. But the effect was rather spoiled by the fact that he hitched a ride from Paddington with the driver of a corn cart, a chatty fellow who was clearly surprised to have an apparent member of the gentry as a passenger. When Jack told him to stop at the corner of fashionable Park Lane, the driver looked even more startled. Of course, thought Jack, the people who lived hereabouts wouldn’t usually arrive on a corn cart, unless it was for a drunken bet.

He tipped the driver handsomely—which again caused the man’s mouth to gape—and walked on to nearby Grosvenor Square where, on reaching an imposing mansion, he struck the door so loudly that the butler opened up with a look of distinct apprehension on his face.

But the butler’s caution swiftly melted away. ‘Why, Master Jack! It’s truly good to see you, sir!’

‘Hello, Perkins,’ Jack responded. ‘It’s good to see you, too. How are you? Keeping well, I trust?’

‘Well enough,’ answered Perkins darkly, ‘considering the circumstances, if you understand what I mean. If you’ll wait here a moment, I will see if Lady Fitzroy has come down yet from her bedchamber.’

Lady Fitzroy. Damn, would he ever get used to that? And—her bedchamber, at this hour? ‘Are you saying she’s been unwell?’

‘She is, as you know, sir, in a delicate state of health. But I will ascertain if she’s risen.’

So Jack waited, which meant he had time to think about the events of the day so far—in particular the lad in the long coat and the hat pulled down low. The lad with the brooches and the Roman coin.

Jack had become well used over the years to summing people up. Sometimes in the army he’d had to decide in the blink of an eye whether a man was friend or foe, because it could mean life or death. That lad had loitered in the shadows, which was enough in itself to set alarm bells ringing. His long coat was scruffy, he was slightly built and that wide-brimmed hat shaded half of his face. His voice was a little gruff, which you could say was typical of a lad trying to sound older than he was.

Except he was a she. The boy was a girl.

If he—she—had kept the visit short, Jack might have been fooled. But in no way could the girl keep up the pretence during the fight with those bully-boys. During that brief but vicious scrap her voice had slipped back to its natural register and she’d been forced to abandon her male swagger completely as the action speeded up.

Then when that big hat of hers slipped back to let the candlelight fall on her face, he’d felt the breath hiss from his lungs—because her chestnut hair, cropped like a boy’s, gave her an unusual elfin charm. Her features were refined, her skin delicate—and her clothes, drab and over-large though they were, still couldn’t obscure the fact that she was slender and graceful. Before she crammed that ridiculous hat back on, he’d had a full view of her pretty green eyes and charming little nose and, most noticeable of all, he’d observed an extremely kissable mouth.

Only it seemed she preferred using her lips for verbal sparring than for any kind of amorous encounter.

He paced the hall as he waited for Perkins to return. The girl had a sharp tongue—and she used it. She’d been damnably rude, yet somehow he’d felt more thoroughly alive trading insults with her than he had for a long time. But then, there was another puzzle.

She knew about antiques. She knew about history. She couldn’t be more than what, eighteen or so?—but in her scornful assessment of Jack’s premises, she’d betrayed the education of a scholar. And there was yet another surprising facet to her character. Jack could have been in real trouble when those villains burst in on him, were it not for the way she neatly came to his rescue. She had courage and ingenuity, as well as learning.

A puzzle indeed.

It was at this precise point that Perkins returned. ‘I am pleased to say, Mr Rutherford, that Lady Fitzroy will see you in the morning room.’

Jack declined Perkins’s offer of escort and made his own way along the hall, briefly glancing at the grandiose objets d’art positioned everywhere—paintings, sculptures and onyx-topped tables.

His first thought: I could sell all this for a tidy sum.

His second: I’d prefer to sling the lot in the Thames.

Darkly relishing the notion, Jack climbed the wide staircase to the first floor, where his mother was in the morning room, reclining on a sofa. She looked extremely pretty in her gown of flowered muslin—fragile, too. Then again, thought Jack grimly, anyone would be fragile if they were married to Sir Henry Fitzroy.

‘Jack,’ she said as he crossed the room to bow over her hand. ‘Oh, Jack, how good to see you!’

He drew a chair up close. ‘How are you, Mama?’

She sighed. ‘I feel that I could be well again, if only I could return to Charlwood. If only I could live there again, in the countryside. London doesn’t suit me, I fear.’

It was all too clear London didn’t suit her, thought Jack. And it ought to be clear to her brute of a husband also! Suddenly he felt all kinds of emotions well up inside—regret and more—but for now he forced his feelings down and drew a slim little jewellery case from his pocket. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘A present for you, Mama.’

He handed her the leather case and watched her open it. Inside was a bracelet he’d discovered in a cluttered drawer at the back of Mr Percival’s place—a pretty little thing made of gilt and paste, hardly worth any more than the case he’d put it in. But he guessed his mother wouldn’t care in the slightest.

He was right. ‘Oh, Jack, darling,’ she declared. ‘I love it! It’s so pretty!’ And she fastened it round her wrist straight away.

His mother was like a child in her enjoyment of simple things. She was also like a child in her underestimation of how cunning some people could be—take his recently acquired stepfather, for instance, Sir Henry Fitzroy. Jack watched her as she stroked and admired the bracelet, thinking that, although in her late forties, his mother was still like a china doll with her blue eyes and fair hair and delicate skin. And like a china doll, she was so easily broken.

‘Is he here?’ Jack asked shortly. He didn’t need to spell out who he meant.

His mother hesitated. ‘No. Henry had an appointment with his bank and then he was going on to his club.’

‘Good timing,’ Jack said. His mother knew very well what he thought of her second husband. ‘That means you and I can talk without being interrupted.’

His mother raised sorrowful blue eyes to his. ‘What is there to talk about, Jack? Charlwood Manor is Henry’s now. There’s nothing to be done, so perhaps we should all try to get on together.’

Me? Get on with that arrogant bastard? Never. Fitz hated Jack and Jack hated Fitz—it was as simple as that. He drew in a deep breath. ‘Anyone else,’ he said in a low voice. ‘If only you’d married anyone else...’

Immediately he regretted it, because his mother suddenly looked very tired again. ‘You warned me about him,’ she whispered. ‘When you were home on leave, before you went off again to fight in Spain. But, Jack, after you’d gone, I was so lonely! And then, when you were taken by the French, Henry told me all the awful things they do to their prisoners of war—floggings, chains, starvation. Darling, I really couldn’t bear it. So when Fitz showed me the letter, about having to pay a ransom for your freedom, well, I just had to do what he advised. And of course he helped me with everything!’

I bet he did, thought Jack grimly. I just bet he did.

‘Your ransom was such a great deal of money,’ his mother went on. ‘I didn’t have anything like such a sum, nor could I afford the repayments if I were to borrow it. Fitz explained he would gladly have paid it himself, but he hadn’t got the money to spare. He said the only solution was for me to marry him, so the Charlwood estate would be his—then he could raise a loan on it to pay those wicked men for your freedom. So in the end I got you back safely, for which I’m so grateful. But how I miss Charlwood!’ She put a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes. ‘Gracious me, I feel a little faint...’

Swiftly Jack went to ring the bell and within moments a maid hurried in and took one look at Lady Fitzroy. ‘Oh, m’lady. Are you feeling unwell again? Let me fetch some of the tisane the doctor ordered for you!’

On her way out she paused to whisper to Jack. ‘Sir, your mother—it’s so sad. We do our best for her.’

‘I can see you do,’ he said gently.

She curtsied and left. Thank God, he thought as he closed the door behind her, that his mother still had some of her loyal staff from the old days, though goodness knew how they put up with Fitz and his overbearing ways. Soon the maid was back to offer his mother the tisane and some soothing lavender water to dab on her brow while Jack moved away to gaze out of the window. But he wasn’t seeing the street full of carriages or the grand London houses. No, he was seeing the green countryside of Buckinghamshire and an old, pretty manor house just two miles from the market town of Aylesbury. He was picturing the house’s gabled roofs and mullioned windows, and the yellow-pink clusters of honeysuckle that climbed the walls.

Charlwood Manor. His childhood home.

He was remembering how his mother used to wander happily through the garden picking scented blooms for her parlour. How he, as a boy, used to climb trees or go shooting in the woods with the gamekeeper, or maybe roam for miles on his pony pretending to be a soldier, as his father had been.

Two years ago, while Jack was a prisoner of war in France, his mother had remarried. And Charlwood—the house, the gardens and the three tenanted farms—belonged by law to her new husband, Sir Henry Fitzroy, who was an old enemy from Jack’s army days.

When Jack had returned from France he was still physically weak from his long captivity, but straight away he’d gone to tackle Fitz. ‘Why did you lie to my mother, you bastard? There was no ransom demand!’

‘You can protest all you like, dear boy,’ Fitz had drawled. ‘Your mother agreed to marry me because I told her I could get you home. And—one way or another—you’re here.’

‘No thanks to you. You’re a liar and a cheat.’

Some of the colour had retreated from Fitz’s cheeks at that, but he’d merely shrugged. ‘You try proving your wild accusations. If I were you, though, I really wouldn’t bother. During your long absence she needed someone to look after her and she chose me. Charlwood is mine now, Jack. Stop fantasising over the place—it’s time to face up to a new reality, just as your mother has.’

The real irony of it was that Fitz had no taste for country living—in fact he preferred to spend most of the year in this Mayfair mansion. Indeed, Jack thought grimly, its garish opulence suited Fitz right down to the very last crystal chandelier.

The maid had left now and Jack went back to sit beside his mother.

‘Oh, Jack,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so tired.’

‘Rest, Mama. I’m here. Rest.’

Soon her eyes were closed and Jack took her hand to stroke it very softly, though inside his thoughts were ablaze. She’s been married to Fitz for less than two years. But he is destroying her.

Yet what could he do? His mother really believed she’d saved her son’s life by marrying Fitz; but what she didn’t know was that Jack’s freedom owed nothing at all to Fitz—for there had been a secret exchange of prisoners, carefully negotiated between the French and English governments. Fifty French officers were released from prison camps in England in return for fifty English ones, and Jack remembered anew how he and his fellow officers had been told about it one morning in their prison near Lille. Shackled and half-starved, they’d been lined up and told that they were going home.

Only Jack found out soon enough that he had no home to go to.

Suddenly he heard voices in the hall below: the sharp words of an order followed by some servant’s meek reply. After checking his mother was still asleep, Jack left the room, straightened his coat and headed downstairs.

It sounded as if Fitz was back.

* * *

Sir Henry Fitzroy was fifty, twenty-four years older than Jack. He’d been with the British army in Spain for a year and had briefly been Jack’s superior. He had proved himself an atrocious officer.

And now, as Jack descended the stairs, he saw that Fitz was reprimanding poor Perkins about something or other. There was no trace of the army officer about Fitz now—indeed, with his carefully coiffed pale hair and his expensive blue coat with its padded shoulders, he looked more like a city fop than a man of action.

Something must have alerted Fitz to Jack’s presence, perhaps the servant’s straying glance, because Fitz turned round in irritation, only to flinch slightly on seeing who it was. But he recovered quickly enough, waving his hand at Perkins in an impatient gesture of dismissal. ‘Well, well,’ he said, facing Jack full on. ‘I only wish I could say this was a welcome surprise.’

Jack walked towards him. ‘You,’ he said, ‘are a despicable excuse for a man. My mother is not well. She wants to return to the country. She needs fresh air and peace.’

Fitz drew out his snuff box to take a leisurely pinch. ‘My God, Rutherford. Still harping on about Charlwood? The house became mine on my marriage to your mother—do I really have to keep reminding you of the fact?’

‘She only married you,’ Jack stated calmly, ‘because you forged a ransom demand and told her you would pay it.’

Fitz laughed. ‘As I said before—prove it.’

Jack clenched his fists. It just might be possible to extract some evidence of the secret prisoner exchange from the War Office, but his mother had agreed to marry Fitz because of the faked ransom letter. How could Jack prove Fitz’s trickery, when Fitz would surely have destroyed the letter long since? Jack’s mother was no doubt the only person who’d seen it—to force her to bear witness to her new husband’s lies without physical evidence of the forged document could quite possibly destroy her.

‘I will find proof,’ promised Jack. His voice was harsher now. ‘I swear I will. Even if I have to rattle every bone in your body to do it.’

Fitz looked a little pale again, then recovered. ‘Get back to your drinking and gambling dens,’ he tried to scoff. ‘That’s all you’re good for these days—’

He broke off as Jack moved closer. ‘I’m good at fighting,’ Jack said. ‘I’m really very good at that, Fitz. Never forget it—do you hear me? Never.’

Fitz was perspiring now. ‘You lay one finger on me and—’

‘No need to panic.’ Jack took a step back. ‘You’ll be relieved to hear that I’m leaving. But I’m going to prove that it’s you who’s the liar and the cheat. You wait. You just wait.’

* * *

He took a cab back to Paddington, which was stupid of him because it was an unnecessary extravagance. Should have walked, you idiot. It was almost six o’clock by the time he unlocked the door of what was currently his home and he looked around the cluttered shop in mingled exasperation and gloom. That girl dressed as a boy had been absolutely right. He was completely hopeless at running this place.

He ran his fingers over some vases and heard her scornful voice again. ‘They were most likely made last year, not in Holland but in Stoke-on-Trent.’ For heaven’s sake, he’d been mad to even think he could make money from this venture—and now the place was even more of a wreck thanks to those villains who’d paid him a visit this afternoon! Pieces of broken pottery still lurked in every corner.

And so, surrounded by fakery and memories, he sat there with a large glass of cheap red wine for company and steadily drank his way through it while playing with a well-worn pair of carved wooden dice, left hand versus right. That way, a soldier friend once told him, you never lose. You could also, Jack reflected, say that you never won, either.

That particular friend had died in the French prison. Jack had survived, but he’d been wasting precious time ever since. He rubbed his hand tiredly through his wayward black hair, acknowledging that he had to pull himself together.

After returning from France, he’d taken lodgings with some old soldier friends and started playing cards for money in various disreputable gambling dens. He had an excellent memory and the card sharps avoided him because he could always detect their cheating—but by God, it was a risky way of life because if you won too often you made bad enemies. Taking on Mr Percival’s small business had been an equally impetuous venture—and this afternoon’s encounter with that knife-wielding gang had forced him to admit that the shop had been a stupid idea from the start.

His priority now was to claim back the Charlwood estate from Fitz, but he needed money to put any plan into action. Rifling through his pockets, he found only small change—but there was also an invitation card sent by an old army acquaintance to join him tonight at White’s. A visit to the exclusive gentlemen’s club might be just what Jack needed, because there would be gambling and the stakes would be high.

It was now eight o’clock and the night was yet young. He drained his second glass of wine, then rose to prepare himself. Maybe he had sunk low. But from there the only way was up—and a little more money wouldn’t go amiss.

* * *

For the first couple of hours, his visit to the club in St James’s Street actually went rather well. There were quite a few former army officers present in addition to the friend who’d invited him and, once they’d all moved to the card tables, it wasn’t long before Jack started winning, though the sums he won weren’t vast. Being full of good intentions—quit while you’re ahead for once—he was about to pocket his profits and leave when someone else walked in.

Fitz.

‘Ah,’ said Sir Henry Fitzroy. ‘The failed soldier. The card sharp—’

Jack had already risen to his feet. ‘Say that again,’ he said softly, ‘if you dare.’

Jack’s fellow officers were already on either side of him. ‘Careful, now,’ one of them murmured in Jack’s ear.

Another was addressing Fitz. ‘Be prudent, sir. Rutherford tends to react rather badly to insults—’

‘Especially when they’re damned lies!’ Jack had shaken himself free. He said to Fitz, ‘I’ll tell you what. How about a game of piquet? Shall we set the stakes at say, five shillings a point?’

The onlookers gasped at the amount. Jack’s friends shook their heads in dismay. Sir Henry Fitzroy said grimly, ‘With the utmost pleasure.’ Within minutes the word had spread and men came in from all parts of the club to watch.

Jack won steadily at first—it was almost too easy, because he was more skilful at calculating the odds and knowing just how far to push his luck, whereas his opponent was a careless braggart. Heated and slightly flustered, Fitz kept throwing tricks away and turned far too often to his wineglass. But then Fitz started to win—slowly to begin with, then more and more steadily. Jack’s expression didn’t change as his own pile of chips grew smaller, though once the game drew to an end he rose to his feet.

‘I hope, Rutherford,’ Fitz drawled from his chair, ‘that you’re not thinking of leaving without paying your debts?’

‘The remainder of my cash is in my coat,’ Jack said calmly. ‘Which I left with the porter out in the lobby. If you’ll follow me there, I’ll settle up with you.’

Jack led the way out of the room, but the minute they were outside and on their own he spun round and jabbed his finger at Fitz’s chest. ‘You were cheating. You treacherous, jumped-up apology for a man, you were cheating.’

Fitz’s face was a little pale now. ‘That’s ridiculous! Just because you’re not as good a player as you thought you were...’

‘Your sleeve.’ Jack bit the words out. ‘You hid some cards up your right sleeve. Didn’t you?’ And before Fitz could move, Jack had grasped the cuff of his coat with one hand and was reaching up the sleeve with the other—to pull out half a dozen cards. Jack stepped back, splaying them scornfully in his hands. ‘Oh, Fitz,’ he said softly. ‘You just cannot bear to lose to a better man, can you?’

Fitz was blustering. ‘That’s impossible. I don’t see how that can have happened...’

Jack was gazing at him steadily. ‘Of course, I could have challenged you in there.’ He nodded towards the card room. ‘In front of all and sundry. But it would be rather bad form since you are, by great misfortune, my stepfather—so give me back the money you won and I’ll leave.’

Fitz must have seen the deadly intent in Jack’s darkened eyes, because he reached into his pockets and handed the money over without a word. Jack took the coins and checked them. What a specimen. What a coward. Fitz, still perspiring, was looking around nervously as some other club members entered the lobby and hailed him by name.

Jack said with scorn, ‘It’s all right, Fitz. I’m going now. As a matter of fact, I find that I’m in extreme need of some fresh air.’

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?’

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