Chapter One
Amber Gold was dancing with the Prince of Wales when the summons came. She pretended she hadn’t heard it. She was at the most glorious ball and would not be distracted. Especially since her partner was not the old, fat prince, but an imaginary royal who had a laugh that brought colors to her mind, such as could not be imagined on this mortal Earth.
He was, needless to say, an exceptional prince and thoroughly devoted to her.
“Quit yer lollygagging!” Hippolyta grumbled. She was the pit boss in this gambling den and in charge of all the dealers. Also, she despised anyone who sat still for more than five seconds. “The Lyon wants to see you now, and with your best manners, no less.”
“Go, girl,” her grandfather said. Hippolyta had woken him from his doze.
Amber stood, shaking out her dull gray skirt in the equally dull light from a single lantern. The cage room of the Lyon’s Den gambling house was cramped and noisy, but most of all, to Amber’s eyes, it was boring. Dark wood, dingy paper on the walls (if it had ever been papered), and a window with no curtains. Even the night sky was muted, covered in London’s perpetual fog.
She pulled the cage door open, nodding briefly to the Abacas Woman, who sat with her and her grandfather. Then she walked quickly along the walls of the main floor. She knew all the workers here from the injured soldiers who guarded the doors, the pretty, boy dealers who smiled often, and most especially the girls who worked upstairs or down. Of course, she did. She spent every horrible hour of every evening here until her eyes burned from the smoke, and she despised the sound of men’s laughter.
Knocking twice on the door to Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s private parlor, she was quickly bid to enter.
She stepped inside, keeping her hands tucked neatly together while her scarf obscured most of her face. The proprietress stayed seated at her tea table with a cup in hand. Across from her reclined a man Amber disliked immediately for his somber attire. All in black except a diamond stickpin piercing straight through his white cravat.
Why would anyone—man, woman, or child—wear black when there was a world of colors available? He was clearly not a man of the cloth, though he had never come into the Den before as far as she could remember. He was wealthy because his jacket was of the highest quality and quite fashionable, but it was also drab, and today she despised dull above all things. Would she never escape her very black and gray life?
“How may I serve?” she asked, keeping her voice modest though the words stuck in her throat. She was not an employee like the others. She was an extension of her family’s jewelry business. Whatever arrangement this man and the Lyon had did not involve giving her any coins at all.
“Thisbe, welcome,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said in a soft voice. She referred to Amber by the name of a character in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. All the workers in the Den had a character’s name except Amber, who had been given the name from the play within the play. Stupid and annoying, but such was the shadow part she played in this place. “Let me introduce you to Lord Byrn. He has come here with a very specific request.”
She’d just bet he had. It was the somber ones who wished for the oddest things. But given that she was not one of the upstairs girls, she had no idea what any of that would have to do with her. Still, she had to be polite. “My lord?”
“A young man came here a month ago, Mr. Laurence John. His father is Lord Morthan.”
She remembered him well by the clashing colors of his waistcoat. Which, come to think of it, she still preferred to Lord Byrn’s attire.
“He sold a brooch to your grandfather. Heavy gold, a single blood-red ruby surrounded by eight diamonds.”
It had been seven diamonds as one had gone missing, and the piece had been filthy beyond belief. It had been a joy to see the original gemstones revealed once she’d cleaned it and melted down the gold. Either way, they were not in the habit of discussing what had been bought or sold or remade into something much more spectacular. She gave a delicate shrug.
“If you say so, my lord, but there is no such piece in my family’s collection now. There is, however, a large selection of brooches in the Dragon’s Hoard.” The store sat at the corner of this building, just below the den. It made for easy and secure movement of jewelry pawned by the Den’s customers. “If you would go downstairs—”
“I have already been there,” he interrupted. “There are no rubies below, such as I describe.”
Because the rare gem was locked up in the depths of the store where she intended to fashion it as the heart of a bird in flight. She had sculpted the wax yesterday, and her father declared it the most beautiful piece she’d ever done. But already, she could see that her dream was about to be destroyed. If this lord wished a ruby for a different reason, then money would certainly trump art.
“Have you spoken with my father?” she asked, finding it hard to keep her smile in place. “Perhaps he can design what you wish.”
“I have spoken with him.” Lord Byrn leaned forward in his chair. “He said to discuss matters with you.”
Never. Her father and grandfather had dedicated their lives to keeping her talents hidden. They claimed it was to keep her respectable since women did not fashion jewelry. She thought it was so they could sell her designs and keep all the praise—and profits—for themselves. But she couldn’t say that aloud. Instead, she pulled on her most addlepated tone, pitching her voice high and stupid.
“I cannot fathom why my father would say such a thing.”
“Perhaps because it is you who have the piece.” He smiled. “I have seen your grandfather. His eyes are rheumy, and his hands shake. He sleeps most of the evenings here except when you rouse him to tell him what to say about some gemstone or another. You are the fence here, and it does you no credit to claim otherwise.”
Amber rocked back on her heels, surprised that any man had seen so much. Her grandfather was kept in the back in the dark, so none would see his condition. They had taken as many pains with her grandfather’s weakness as they had to hide her talent. But before she could think of an appropriate response, Lord Byrn pressed his point with a voice that was surprisingly compelling.
“I have seen you take walks with him in the afternoon,” he said in a gentle tone. “You look a pretty pair, and there is genuine love between you.”
“Of course, there is!” she said. “He’s my grandfather.”
“Even so,” he said, dipping his chin in agreement. “But if he was capable of creating such pieces as are sold below, that time has long since passed.”
He had been an artist of great renown, once upon a time. And the family name—the original name of Gohar—still had a fine reputation on the continent. But not here where they were known simply as the Gold family, selling jewelry beneath a disreputable gaming hell.
“I need that brooch, Miss Gold,” he said, his voice growing stronger. “I don’t care why you have hidden it from your family, but that piece was not his to sell. It belongs to the dowager countess, and she has a great deal of influence among the elite. If you—and Mrs. Dove-Lyon—wish to keep your business dealings private, then I suggest you return it to me now. Otherwise, I cannot answer to what she will do. Her granddaughter is to be presented at court in a few weeks’ time, and every female Morthan has worn that brooch during their presentation since the time of William the Conqueror.”