LITMIR.BIZ

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didn’t love these topics in the same way he did, but she’d always hoped her aptitude might make him love her, as well. At least they’d have something to talk about together.

      Her early memories of her father were few. Before the war made maritime travel impossible, he’d gone to the Continent for months on end, and it was only when he returned from a long voyage that she realised he did care about her, despite his awkward way of showing it. He always brought back the most exotic treasures: mysterious fragments of crumbling buildings, bits of sculpture, and, when she was seven, a beautiful, carved marble goddess taller than she. Even Napoleon hadn’t impeded his purchases; when hostilities prevented him from travelling, he’d had large numbers of artefacts shipped to London, sight unseen. He’d be so pleased with himself when they arrived that he’d tell her stories about each object, stories that lasted well beyond her bedtime: about Daphne turning into a tree to escape Apollo’s embrace, about Diana turning Actaeon into a stag. However, her father’s finds had filled the corners of their large house only until they found a buyer, and everything inevitably did. His ledgers read like a guide to the great and good, and he became renowned in his own right. George III had even created him Sir Walter Thomas—an ultimately useless title that had died with him three years ago.

      Unfortunately, it turned out that much of what he’d sold to those many fine gentlemen wasn’t what he claimed it to be. She’d learned that soon after his death, when Sebastian Cowes first came to call. He’d bought many objects from her father over the years, and when he looked at her his pale, liquid gaze had glided unpleasantly over her body, as if she, too, were for sale. She had disliked him immediately, but she’d still endeavoured to be polite…even when he had imparted terrible news.

      He’d just returned from Rome, he told her, where he’d seen a marble bust in a shop window. On closer inspection he realised it matched one he’d bought from her father, down to every chip and crack. When he queried the shop owner, Signor Ricci, he learned that the bust wasn’t old at all, but rather had been made by Signor Ricci himself in the antique style. Ricci claimed to know her father well, although apparently he’d visited the shop only once, and that many years ago, just as hostilities were breaking out in earnest with France. He’d arranged for Signor Ricci to send several large statues to England—a request he was to make repeatedly by correspondence throughout the course of the war. Only Ricci had not known that her father had sold his replications in England for many times his own asking price as genuine artefacts. Neither had Isabelle.

      Sebastian Cowes wanted his money back, and she agreed that he should have it. The problem was, she didn’t have much money to give him. She was shocked when he showed her the receipts for his purchases. Where had all her father’s profits gone? She could only assume he’d used them to fund further travels and further purchases, since all he’d left her was a modest annual income and a good house with a leaky roof.

      So she started to sell her possessions—china, dresses, silver, jewellery at first, and then finally her home. These monies, even combined with her inheritance, had covered only half the debt, and thus she’d ended up in London, looking for work. As if a governess’s meagre salary would help.

      She told herself she wasn’t running away. She knew she had to face Mr Cowes sometime…she just wanted to postpone the inevitable. Before she’d left home he’d hinted that they might come to some other arrangement if she couldn’t pay him. She wasn’t certain what he meant by that, but she sensed she wouldn’t like it.

      She also had to accept that he wasn’t the only man her father had swindled. She’d examined his books carefully. He’d meticulously recorded the sources from which he’d acquired every object, as well as each object’s eventual buyer. Nearly everything he had sold during the last fifteen years of his working life had come from Signor Ricci. Luckily, those items had been dispersed to only eleven buyers, but each of them had spent a fortune. If anyone else discovered the secret, she’d be ruined. Out of malice, Mr Cowes might start contacting her father’s other clients—and since the world of collectors wasn’t very big, he could easily determine who they were. How could she be certain that he wouldn’t tell them?

      It would be a disaster, and now she’d nothing left to sell—nothing that anyone wanted, anyway. She needed her remaining clothes, and she refused to part with her necklace for less than it was really worth.

      She glanced at the gold watch.

       No, she couldn’t.

      A loud noise interrupted her thoughts. Isabelle rose from her bed to look out the window. Her room faced the narrow mews that ran behind the house, and a rickety cart had just halted by the back door. Samuel, the coal boy, leapt from his perch and began unloading a week’s supply of fuel into the coal chute. He’d leave in a few minutes.

      She gave William Stanton’s watch one last, baleful look before sweeping up his sixpence from her dresser and racing down the stairs. Much as she’d like to sell it, she’d have to return it instead. There was a slim chance that Samuel could discover where he lived. He’d been useless when it came to pawnbrokers, but his job must take him all over London. He might be of some help yet.

      She slowed when she reached the ground floor, and then tiptoed past the sitting room, not wanting to disturb the pair of spinster sisters who were her fellow lodgers. Miss Standish had introduced them as Respectable Women, and when she’d said this she’d looked suspiciously at Isabelle’s red hair, as if it alone were indecent. They were always in the sitting room and always knitting, like two grey spiders. She couldn’t wait to escape from the oppressive house. Please, let her find a position soon…

      She walked faster as she neared the back door. When she stepped outside, Samuel had just finished his job. He was wiping his blackened hands on the front of his apron and preparing to leave.

      ‘Good morning, Samuel.’

      He blushed and mumbled something incomprehensible.

      Isabelle fumbled around her pocket for the sixpence. ‘I…I was wondering if you might help me. I, uh…you deliver coal all over town, do you not?’

      ‘Yes, miss.’

      ‘To lords and ladies, even? In Mayfair and Belgravia?’

      He nodded.

      ‘I’m trying to locate someone. The Earl of Lennox. Do you think you could find his residence?’

      He didn’t answer immediately, so she removed the sixpence. ‘I’ll double that if you’re successful.’ She descended the short flight of steps and gave it to him.

      He stared at the coin for several seconds. ‘Yes, miss. It won’t take long.’

      She wasn’t so sure. He was perfectly respectful, but his mind wasn’t as quick as one might wish. ‘Shall I write down his name?’

      ‘Can’t read, miss. The Earl of…?’

      ‘Lennox. William Stanton, Earl of Lennox. Please don’t forget.’

      He nodded again and climbed on to his cart. She watched as he jostled down the pitted road, feeling apprehensive. Sixpence meant a lot to her these days. She couldn’t afford to be so generous.

       Chapter Four

      A fortnight later, Isabelle stood on William Stanton’s doorstep, flanked by fluted, white columns and facing a glossy, black door. The house was so imposing she almost hoped she’d come to the wrong address. Which was silly, since she should be used to grand houses by now. During the two weeks that she’d waited for Samuel to return with his information, she had attended interviews for five governess positions at large houses in Mayfair—although none, perhaps, quite as large as this one.

      Unfortunately, she hadn’t been well received at any of those houses, which now only added to her discomfort. She’d actually felt quite optimistic at her first few interviews; she was polite and neat and well spoken, and even though she didn’t know how to be a governess she hoped those qualities would count for something.

      But the mothers of Mayfair

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