Chapter Three
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
