A Ring from a Marquess. Christine Merrill

When he was not speaking directly with Margot, he behaved just as his father did: as though the rest of the world was far beneath his dignity.

      ‘Surely someone must have remarked upon seeing you there,’ his brother said quite reasonably. ‘You said yourself that her sister is connected to Bellston.’

      He had seen the sister more than once and she had acknowledged him as if she knew perfectly well who he was. Had he expected her to remain mum on the identity of the man visiting her shop? She must have told her sister. ‘Even if she knows who I am...’

      ‘Then it is still an amazing coincidence that she put these very stones back into your hands. How much did she charge you for them, I wonder?’

      A small fortune. But considering the reason for the necklace, he had not thought twice. ‘I was the one who requested rubies,’ he said. But a clever criminal might have led him to the idea before he’d even noticed.

      ‘I suspect she had a good laugh about it, once you were gone from the shop,’ his brother replied gently, placing one hand on his shoulder and returning the necklace to him with the other.

      ‘She would not.’ She would not dare. If he did not allow the Duke of Larchmont to make sport at his expense, he certainly would not take it from a Bath shopkeeper.

      Or there might be an explanation. There had to be. If not, he had been behaving like a mooncalf over a heartless jade. And all because she had not laughed in his face when he spoke.

      Arthur continued, unaware of his darkening mood. ‘Well, in any case, thank God we discovered the ruse before you had given this to Mother. She would have recognised the stones immediately, I am sure. And Father...’

      He did not need to finish. They both knew what would have happened. His father would have proclaimed that his heir was an idiot, just as he did every time they met. It was why they no longer spoke.

      ‘If what you say is true, Larchmont will never hear of it.’ If Margot de Bryun proved false, he would see that she was punished, as she deserved. Then he would distract himself with any number of females who were too awed by his rank and temper to comment upon his flaws. The whole mess would be buried and forgotten before his parents arrived later in the month so that the duke could take the waters for his gout.

      ‘Let me handle this,’ Arthur said, his voice still soft with understanding. ‘We will show the stones to an enquiry agent. If I am right, than he can go to the shop and take her into custody.’

      ‘Certainly not.’ Perhaps the girl had made a fool of him. Or perhaps there was still some perfectly innocent explanation for the reappearance of the stones. But if there was a decision to be made, he would do it himself. His heart was not so tender that it needed coddling. Nor would he endure, for another moment, the pitying look his wastrel brother was giving him now.

      He glared back at Arthur until he felt his brother yield, as a dog might when it saw a wolf. Then he spoke. ‘I will take the stones to your enquiry agent, so they might be identified. Then I will deal with the shopkeeper.’

Chapter Three

      Margot stared out the window of the shop, leaning her elbows on the glass case in front of her. She would never have allowed such slack behaviour from the people in her employ. But they were not as dejected as she was, after another day alone in the shop.

      Lord Fanworth had not come yesterday, as he had promised when their conversation had been interrupted. She’d hoped he’d at least visit long enough to tell her how the necklace had been received. She liked to be told that her designs made others happy.

      Of course, if the happiness meant that her Stephen Standish was currently entwined in the arms of some ruby-bedazzled Cyprian, she was not so sure she wanted to know. It was foolish of her to be so obsessed with a man who spent so much of his time buying jewellery for his lovers. But to her, the time they spent together, just talking, was more valuable than anything he had purchased at her shop. Surely he must realise that true affection could not be bought with rubies.

      Once again, the worrisome thought occurred to her. Her sister and Mr Pratchet were right. He had seduced her mind, convincing her that she was more important to him than the other women he courted. On the day he finally asked for her body, she would give herself freely, without a second thought. It would be the death of her reputation, if they were not very discreet. But to refuse would mean that she would never know his touch. To imagine such a future was intolerable.

      Of course, it might be the only alternative available. He had not come yesterday. Today was almost through and there had been no sign of him, either. One more day and it would be longer than any interruption since the first day he had found her. How long could one stay in bed? It was another question she did not want an answer to. If he gave even a hint of what he had been doing, it would surely make her cross. Assuming he came back at all.

      Perhaps these visits meant nothing to him. Or perhaps their interaction was becoming too expensive. The ruby necklace had been very dear. Even the pockets of a marquess must have some limit to their depth. But he must realise he did not need to make a purchase to command her attention. She would have happily poured out the wine and invited him to sit and rest himself. Anything to have him here, for even a few minutes, to lighten her spirit and ease the passing of the day.

      It was not as if she did not enjoy her shop. But at some point in the last month, she had come to think of the marquess as a part of her day. His absence was like coming to the tea tray and finding the pot empty.

      Not quite. At least one knew that there would be more hot water and a few leaves left in the bottom of the tin. But suppose India ceased to exist and there were to be no more tea ever? Or, worse yet, that the tea had simply gone back to London, or to somewhere even further?

      Or to someone else?

      It was all the more troublesome that she could not share her fears with those around her. Her sister would remark that it served her right for growing accustomed to those unnatural visits. Mr Pratchet would inform her that it was for the best. Even now, she could sense him lingering in the doorway of the workroom, trying to catch her attention.

      She turned and caught him squarely in her gaze. ‘Is there something I might help you with, Mr Pratchet?’

      ‘If you are not too busy.’ He glanced behind him, as if to indicate that their discussion was better unheard by the small group of customers already in the shop.

      She sighed and walked towards him into the back room, shutting the door behind her.

      When he was sure that he could not be heard, he announced, ‘The Marquess of Fanworth has not visited in almost a week.’

      ‘Only two days,’ she said, without thinking.

      His eyebrows rose. ‘It is a great relief to me that he seems to be losing interest. If he returns, you must not encourage him. People will talk.’

      ‘I must not encourage him?’ Margot laughed. ‘He is a customer, Mr Pratchet. I certainly hope people talk about his presence here. If people of a certain class notice that we get regular trade from the son of the duke, they will come here as well.’ And if, just once, he should give one of her pieces to a member of his family, rather than wasting them on opera dancers, there was no telling how much trade might result.

      ‘I do not like it, all the same.’ There was something in Pratchet’s tone that was more than concern for a vulnerable young woman. This sounded rather like jealousy.

       Oh dear.

      It was happening again, just as it had with Mr Perkins and Mr Jonas. He was becoming too familiar. He was acting as if he had any right to control her personal behaviour, as if she were just some woman and not the person who paid his salary. If it was not nipped in the bud immediately, she would be placing an ad for a new goldsmith within the week. ‘I fail to see what your opinion has to do with the workings of this shop,’ she said, using a voice that should remind him of his place.

      Rather