Unbuttoning Miss Matilda. Lucy Ashford

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.’