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.
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
