Rose wondered why that image had occurred to her. Half hidden? Surely Sir Niles hid nothing. His escapades were well known, even notorious, though she asked herself how so indolent a man could have found the energy for questionable pursuits.
“Nevertheless,” she said, “if we could expedite this matter...”
“Certainly, certainly,” Mr. Crenshaw said, absently patting his pockets. “There’s the matter of the receipt and, of course, the inspection. Shan’t take but a moment more.” His patting hands slowed. “Oh, dear, now what did I do with it?”
Rose prided herself on the evenness of her temper. In a household where her father brooded, her mother enjoyed ill health, and her brother was prey to a restlessness that invariably plunged him into trouble, she was constrained to be coolheaded. All too often, the responsibility for a smoothly run household devolved onto her. She liked to think she handled the matters that fell within her compass with skill and poise, but she had no authority over a doddering old man. As for Sir Niles, how he would make game of her if she lost her temper.
Fortunately for her reputation, Mr. Crenshaw thought of looking in the top drawer of his battered desk. “Here it is,” he crowed.
He laid out a long sheet of paper and a small box carved from some reddish wood accented with brass. A faint scent, exotic and strange, wended through the dusty, book-flavored air. For the first time, Rose felt a flutter of excitement. What had her mysterious godfather left to her?
Sir Niles cleared his throat softly. “I shall wait outside the door if you require my services, Miss Spenser.”
‘You are very kind, sir, but I think we can dispense with your services. No doubt Mr. Crenshaw’s clerk can assist us if any papers require a signature.”
“As you wish, ma’am. Good afternoon, Spenser.”
“Eh? Oh, quite. ‘Til this evening, eh?” Rupert hastened to open the door for his friend. Returning, he threw himself petulantly into the other chair. A small puff of feathers came out like punctuation. “Rose, you don’t talk to Sir Niles Alardyce like that,” he hissed in an angry undertone.
“And how did I speak to him?”
“Like you prefer a dashed clerk’s services to his. As if he don’t matter.”
“I assure you he doesn’t matter. Not to me.”
“But... but he’s Sir Niles Alardyce,” he said, almost in a panic at her female incomprehension. “Dash it. He invented the St. George lapel. He bested the Prince Regent’s time to Brighton. He brought
caramel au chocolat
into fashion.”
“Admirable as all his gifts may be,” Rose said, “I hardly think any of them qualify him to be privy to my private affairs.” She turned toward Mr. Crenshaw. “I beg your pardon, sir. If you would care to proceed?”
For a moment, a gleam of a great and kindly intelligence appeared in Mr. Crenshaw’s eyes, twinkling at her from behind his rimless glasses. “I had a younger brother myself, Miss Spenser.”
He cleared his throat and became the perfect lawyer. “This is the last will and testament of Mr. Gavelison MacElroy. ‘Being of sound mind and body, and with a due regard for the mercy of heaven which I pray to receive in my life hereafter, I declare this to be my final will...”
Mr. Crenshaw read on in his thin voice. Rupert leaned forward, his hands dangling loosely between his knees as he concentrated on the involved sentences and legal language of the will. After a few minutes, however, the rolling sentences seemed to overwhelm him. He leaned back in his chair, adopting a more relaxed posture. His brown eyes, so like her own, became glazed as his jaw slackened. Soon he was yawning.
Rose confessed she shared her brother’s confusion. Most of the will seemed to concern itself with individual bequests to servants and friends in India. She heard strange names and tried to picture, for example, what a statue of Lord Ganesha or Lord Hanuman must look like. She had no difficulty at all imagining her father’s reaction if a cartload of Indian curiosities arrived at Berling Manor and hoped her godfather had not left her any of his collection.
Rupert’s head had begun to nod when the words, “and to my beloved goddaughter, Rose Redcliffe Spenser, I devise and bequeath” snapped his eyes open.
“What’s that?”
Mr. Crenshaw increased the volume of his mumble. “The sum of one hundred pounds and the jewel known as the Malikzadi.”
“A jewel, b’Jove!” Rupert exclaimed, sitting bolt upright.
“What does it mean, Mr. Crenshaw? Mal ...
malikzadi?”
“I believe it means
queen,
Miss Spenser. How the ruby came by that name, Mr. MacElroy did not divulge.”
He reached out with his dry hand and twisted the key in the front of the sandalwood box. The lid opened slowly, as if by clockwork.
Drawn forward without realizing it, Rose left her chair to peer into the velvet-lined depths. “Oh.”
“Stand aside, old girl.” Rupert flipped the lid fully open with his thumb. “By George! Is that it?”
Reaching in to grasp the contents, he suddenly pulled his fingers back. “I say!” he exclaimed, shaking his hand vigorously. “Something bit me!”
“Rupert!” Rose started forward, her heart like a cold lump in her breast.
Rupert looked at his hand curiously, turning it palm up. “No, it’s all right. Not a mark on me. But I swear...”
“Ah,” the attorney said, taking up the box. “I neglected to set the thief catcher back. Very clever device,” he added, twisting a small section of inlaid brass. “It seems the former owner liked to smear poison on a blade set into this little swinging arm. Should anyone attempt to steal the contents, the blade would cut the thief s hand.”
“And you let my brother... Rupert, are you certain you’re not hurt?”
“Devil a scratch, Rose. Don’t fuss. I’m sure the blade has been taken out. Hasn’t it, Mr. Crenshaw?”
For a heart-stopping instant, Mr. Crenshaw crinkled his brow and studied the ceiling. “Oh, yes, certainly. That is ... yes, certainly. There’s nothing to fear. Come and see.”
With some trepidation, Rose took the richly ornamented box in her hand. When she opened it fully, the sight within wiped away the memory of her brother’s near miss.
Cut like a pyramid, the strawberry-red ruby jutted up from a nest of purple-shaded smaller rubies. Though of impressive size, as big as the top joint of Rupert’s thumb, the depths of the main stone were foggy, the color weakened by a white web of inclusions. As every stone was set in bright yellow gold, all the colors clashed instead of mingling. Rose had never seen anything so ugly. It was as if some craftsman had set himself the task of making the most hideous piece of jewelry possible. And it was hers, all hers.
“What’s it worth?” Rupert asked.
“I have no information about that, Mr. Spenser. Of course, your sister should have some competent authority appraise the jewel as soon as possible. Rundell and Bridge, for example. Or, if you wish to know at once, Sir Niles has a very fine understanding of precious stones. I believe they have been his hobby for several years.”
“Aren’t you going to try it on?” Rupert urged.
Rose took the ring from its faded velvet slot. It slipped on easily, too easily. Whoever had owned the Malikzadi before must have had the hands of a prizefighter. By pressing her fingers together, she could keep the ring on the top of her hand instead of slipping around to her palm. It seemed to squat on her middle finger like a warty red toad.
“It’s not very practical for day wear,” she said.
Her brother laughed shortly. “Speaking for myself, I’d prefer you didn’t wear it at all. Great gaudy pieces of jewelry went out with Charles the Second.” He stepped to the door. “Let’s have Alardyce in. He’s an expert, you know, and we could do worse.”
“No, Rupert,” Rose said, but not quickly enough.
It seemed Sir Niles would be only too happy to serve the Spensers by looking at the Malikzadi. Before Rose could slip the ring off, he took her fingers in his and bowed over the ring. His fingers were warm and dry, his nails beautifully kept. Though his touch achieved the impersonal, the continuation of his hold made Rose feel oddly trapped. With a strong tug, she freed her fingers, leaving the ring in his possession. He brought out his quizzing glass for closer inspection.
“Indian manufacture, of course. Probably cut in Bombay. Very finely cut, even the smallest stones. Twenty-four-karat gold, which accounts for the color. The beadwork between each stone is really quite remarkable.”
“So it’s valuable,” Rupert said, peering eagerly over Sir Niles’s shoulder.
“A few hundred pounds, perhaps, to a collector.”
“Such as yourself, Sir Niles,” Rose said, narrowing her eyes.
“Not at all, Miss Spenser. I possess all I desire of the Indian ruby. No, the poor color and clarity condemns it. A pity, as otherwise the size and cutting of the stone would recommend it. So much effort wasted over so poor a specimen.”
“Well there’s one good thing to remember,” Rupert said, with the air of one who can find good in any situation. “At least the Black Mask won’t come calling on you, Rose.”
“The Black Mask?” she repeated.
“Spenser, there’s no need to frighten your sister,” Sir Niles said, his drawling voice sharpening.
“Oh, I’m not afraid,” Rose said. Was there a maiden in London who hadn’t secretly thrilled to hear the whispered tale of the daring thief no lock could stop? The Countess of Hopewood had awakened to find a huge figure of a man, clad all in black, rifling her dressing case. When pressed on why she did not scream for help, the countess had confessed to believing that she dreamed, for surely no mortal man could be so massive. The count had not been pleased.
‘You have more cause to be frightened than I, Sir Niles. I hope your jewel collection is in a safe place.”
“I keep those items too precious to lose in a locked box under my bed, Miss Spenser. No thief would think to look there.”
“Perhaps not. But the Black Mask seems a most unusual thief.”
Two nights ago, the house of a man grown hugely rich on cotton manufacture had been raided and his newly purchased and very vulgar diamond-headed cane had been stolen. The thief wasn’t seen, though a beggar, sitting on a curb, later gave witness that a black shadow had stooped over him and left the countess’s emerald diadem in his lap. Not knowing how to turn such a piece into cash money, he turned it in at Bow Street, collecting a considerable reward.
The Black Mask, it seemed, had a passion for equality, as well as for jewelry.
“Have you heard the latest?” Rupert asked of no one in particular.
“What is it?” Rose forgot to be cold and blasé in front of Sir Niles.
‘That fellow he robbed—Curtis, was it?”
“Curtman,” Sir Niles supplied.
‘That’s it. Curtman. Turns out the fellow was nothing but a cursed slave trader, selling the poor devils to plantation owners. Had any number of ships moving, all the while pretending to ship cotton. They say he’ll be up before the beak come tomorrow, and dashed well serves him right.” He glared around as though daring anyone to contradict him. “I know this Black Mask fellow is nothing but a common thief, but this time I say jolly well done!”
“But what did the Black Mask have to do with Mr. Curtman’s slaving?” Rose asked.
Mr. Crenshaw obligingly answered. “The, er, gentleman in question was unwise enough to entrust to a secret strongbox his collection of accounts pertaining to the acquiring of his fortune. It seems in the course of his other activities, the thief discovered this cache.”
“How?” Rose asked, agog.
“It’s believed one of Curtman’s servants must have betrayed the secret, though they all deny it stridently.”
“There, you see, Sir Niles,” Rose said triumphantly. “If he could find this person’s secret lockbox, he could find yours.”
“Very true. I shall invent a new hiding place at once.”
Tell her who got the papers,” Rupert said, chuckling, as he drew out his snuff box. He didn’t wait for Mr. Crenshaw. “The prime minister!”
“The prime minister?”
Mr. Crenshaw coughed, disapprovingly. “The incriminating documents were, so it seems, laid under Lord Liverpool’s eyes at breakfast when his butler attempted to pour him a cup of tea. There was no tea in the pot, only the papers. A deplorable thing to happen at breakfast. They say poor Lord Liverpool suffered from indigestion the rest of the day.”
“However did the Black Mask put the papers into the teapot?” Rose asked, smiling at Mr. Crenshaw’s belief in the sacredness of breakfast.
“No one knows that either,” he said. “But it does show that the fellow in question suffers from a rather juvenile sense of humor.”
“Of course,” Sir Niles said, “slavery itself is not yet illegal. Only the actual trafficking in slaves.”
Rose turned cool eyes upon him. She had no wish to be fair to Mr. Curtman, and thought it very like Sir Niles to see the immoral side of what was a very plain issue.
“An excellent point, Sir Niles,” Mr. Crenshaw said. “And this Curtman was clever enough not to transport his slaves in ships of British registry. Nonetheless, I think even if he should escape fining—which, at a hundred pounds a head for each slave mentioned in his very complete records, is no bagatelle—Mr. Curtman will find life most unpleasant in London.”
Rupert sneezed and laughed at the same time, a bizarre sound. To be sure,” he said, bringing out an overlarge handkerchief. “There’s not a hostess will receive him, and his marriage to Miss Stonebridge has been broken off.”
‘The daughter of ‘Liberator’ Stonebridge?” Rose asked. “I met her only last week. She’s a sweet, sweet girl.”
“She’s better off,” Rupert said, sneezing. “This Curtman was giving money to the antislavery cause with one hand while making money from slaves with the other hand. That’s the kind of hypocrisy we fought the French over, and here it is right in London. Why, the very thought makes me want to shout!”
“Poor Miss Stonebridge.”
“She’s better off,” Rupert repeated. “If it were you, Rose, being made up to by such a cursed hypocrite, I’d hang the fellow before I’d let him marry you. The Black Mask did the girl a good turn.”
“I’m sure she’ll come to see that in time,” Mr. Crenshaw said. “Now, er, regarding your inheritance ...”