Midnight Quill Trio

July 1763: Part Two

July 1763: Part Two

Will strolled past a watchmaker, a confectioner, and a purveyor of spirituous liquor. He halted in front of a shop selling lamps—silver, brass, crystal, lacquer. Directly across the street was Number 32, Ludgate Hill, London, the premises of Theed and Pickett, jewelers and goldsmiths.

He checked his wig one last time. It was hot and uncomfortable on his head. This is it.

Will took a deep breath and crossed the street. A bell tinkled overhead when he pushed open the door. The shop was much larger than the one in Salisbury. Shelves and glass-fronted cabinets held an impressive display of gold plate.

Two shopmen were inside. One was in discussion with a macaroni wearing a tall powdered wig and high-heeled shoes, the other came towards him, bowing. “Good morning, sir.” The man’s glance was comprehensive, assessing the cut of Will’s coat, the deep ruffles at his wrists, the polished buckles on his shoes. “May I help you?” The man’s manner—polite but not obsequious—told Will that he’d been judged as possessing only moderate wealth.

Will reached into his pocket and drew out the case he’d bought from a pawnbroker, red morocco leather lined with silk. “My mother recently died,” he said, laying the case on the nearest counter and opening it. “She left me her possessions.”

“Ah . . .” The utterance seemed involuntary. The shopman leaned forward to examine the necklace. He touched one ruby with a fingertip, and glanced at Will. “May I?”

Will nodded.

The shopman reverently lifted the necklace from the case. It hung from his pale hands, half a dozen bloodred stones set in an intricate filigree of gold. Beautiful, barbaric, and expensive. Very expensive.

“I wish to sell it,” Will said.

The shopman replaced the necklace on its bed of silk. He observed Will for several seconds, and then stepped back. “Please wait, sir.” He exited the shop through a door at the rear.

Will shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and then made himself stand still. I could be transported for this. But for a future with Rose, the risk was worth it.

He fixed a slightly bored expression on his face and gazed around the shop. Marble busts looked down at him. A magnificent pair of gilded candelabra had pride of place in the nearest cabinet. Golden trinket boxes and vinaigrettes shone brightly. Jeweled snuff boxes sparkled. Silver tea sets and chocolate pots gleamed.

The shopman returned with an older man. “This is the piece, Mr. Theed,” he said, gesturing to the necklace in its case.

The jeweler examined the necklace with a magnifying glass. Then he straightened and subjected Will to an equally thorough scrutiny, doubtless reaching the same conclusion the shopman had: that he was a man of moderate means, neither poor nor wealthy, but comfortably in between. A respectable man, not a thief or a swindler.

“You wish to sell this?”

Theed’s tone made Will uneasy. Was that a note of suspicion?

“Yes.”

“You had it from your mother?”

“She had a long association with a nobleman. He gave her a number of gifts.” Two truths, put together to imply a relationship that hadn’t existed. Will sent up a silent prayer of apology: I’m sorry, Mother.

Mr. Theed’s eyebrows lifted slightly. Behind him, the shopman smirked.

Will ignored the smirk. The shopman was unimportant; it was Theed he needed to convince.

Theed picked up the necklace again. “French setting,” he said, with a frown. “Exceptionally superior. I’ve only ever seen one other necklace like it. Very similar, that piece was.”

Understanding came abruptly. Will’s heart seemed to stop beating for an instant. Theed had seen the necklace before—and when he’d seen it, it had belonged to a well-born French lady, not a nobleman’s mistress.

“Remarkably similar,” Theed said, his frown deepening.

The wig felt as if it was tightening around Will’s skull. I should have gone to Birmingham, not London.