a mobcap, with only a few curls peeking out to betray its color.
As Gordon led Victor into the back, which did indeed prove to be a sort of workshop, he murmured, “Mary Grace is my brother’s granddaughter. She comes to the shop to get away from her plague of a mother, who’s always going on about her making a splash in good society.”
They passed through a labyrinth of locked cabinets and worktables, skirted a large furnace, and finally entered a cozy little room containing a leather-topped mahogany partner’s desk with brass fittings, two Windsor chairs on either side of the desk, a large cabinet, and a small fireplace.
Gordon closed the door, then gestured to one of the chairs. As Victor took a seat, the man went to stoke up the fire. From behind, Gordon resembled a priest with a tonsure, his gray curls surrounding a circlet of shiny bald pate.
“So,” the old fellow said, “you want to know about Mrs. Franke.”
“I understand that she and the baron have a . . . more than friendly relationship.”
“Humph.” Gordon sat in the chair opposite the desk from Victor. “You’ve been talking to his lordship’s mother.”
“What makes you think that?” As Tristan was fond of saying, Answer a question with a question if you don’t want to answer with the truth.
“Her ladyship is obsessed with getting the poor man out of Mrs. Franke’s so-called clutches. Don’t knowwhy. Mrs. Franke is a fine lass. The young baron would be lucky to have her.”
“But would she be lucky to have him ?” Victor countered, before he caught himself.
“Why should you care?”
Victor suppressed a curse, aware of the old man’s gaze on him. Steady now, you dolt. Stop letting your emotions rule your head. “I don’t. But I confess I was wondering what she could possibly see in the man. Aside from the obvious.”
“The obvious?” Gordon asked.
“His title. His fortune. His connections.”
“Ah.” Gordon’s gaze chilled, though when he spoke again, his tone was mild. “How well do you know Mrs. Franke?”
“I just met her yesterday.” That was certainly true. “Mrs. Franke” hadn’t existed for him until then.
“Then I should correct the impression of her that Lady Lochlaw has obviously given you. Mrs. Franke doesn’t care about title, fortune, or connections.”
Was every man who knew Isa completely smitten? Why did they all see her as such a saint, when she most certainly was not?
“Then what does she care about?” Victor snapped.
“Her—” Gordon paused. “Her work.”
Victor had a sneaking suspicion that the man had started to say something else. “You mean, her work making fake jewels.”
The Scotsman glared at him. “I mean, her workdesigning beautiful jewelry, and attempting with every new creation to surpass the last.”
Victor flashed on a memory of Isa bent over a table in the jeweler’s shop in Amsterdam, her eyes alight as she manipulated tiny diamonds into an intricate brooch. Through the years he’d imbued that enraptured look with a certain greed, part of his way of explaining to himself how she could have chosen a set of royal jewels over him.
But had there really been any greed in her face? Or had that just been his rewriting of the past? “Isn’t it odd for a woman to be satisfied with work alone?”
“Not when the woman is extraordinarily talented, no. Have you seen an example of her work?”
Even now, Victor remembered how lovely the imitation royal parure had been, so perfect that until the palace had forced the jeweler to make a closer examination of it, the man had missed that it was a fake. “Yes, I have.”
That seemed to take Gordon off guard. “Oh? When?”
“Last night at the theater,” Victor said swiftly. “Mrs. Franke told us that she had designed the necklace worn by the opera singer.”
Gordon’s face cleared. “Ah, yes. A beautiful piece.”
“The tiara Mrs. Franke wore was her own work, too, I presume.”
“It was.” Gordon stared
As Gordon led Victor into the back, which did indeed prove to be a sort of workshop, he murmured, “Mary Grace is my brother’s granddaughter. She comes to the shop to get away from her plague of a mother, who’s always going on about her making a splash in good society.”
They passed through a labyrinth of locked cabinets and worktables, skirted a large furnace, and finally entered a cozy little room containing a leather-topped mahogany partner’s desk with brass fittings, two Windsor chairs on either side of the desk, a large cabinet, and a small fireplace.
Gordon closed the door, then gestured to one of the chairs. As Victor took a seat, the man went to stoke up the fire. From behind, Gordon resembled a priest with a tonsure, his gray curls surrounding a circlet of shiny bald pate.
“So,” the old fellow said, “you want to know about Mrs. Franke.”
“I understand that she and the baron have a . . . more than friendly relationship.”
“Humph.” Gordon sat in the chair opposite the desk from Victor. “You’ve been talking to his lordship’s mother.”
“What makes you think that?” As Tristan was fond of saying, Answer a question with a question if you don’t want to answer with the truth.
“Her ladyship is obsessed with getting the poor man out of Mrs. Franke’s so-called clutches. Don’t knowwhy. Mrs. Franke is a fine lass. The young baron would be lucky to have her.”
“But would she be lucky to have him ?” Victor countered, before he caught himself.
“Why should you care?”
Victor suppressed a curse, aware of the old man’s gaze on him. Steady now, you dolt. Stop letting your emotions rule your head. “I don’t. But I confess I was wondering what she could possibly see in the man. Aside from the obvious.”
“The obvious?” Gordon asked.
“His title. His fortune. His connections.”
“Ah.” Gordon’s gaze chilled, though when he spoke again, his tone was mild. “How well do you know Mrs. Franke?”
“I just met her yesterday.” That was certainly true. “Mrs. Franke” hadn’t existed for him until then.
“Then I should correct the impression of her that Lady Lochlaw has obviously given you. Mrs. Franke doesn’t care about title, fortune, or connections.”
Was every man who knew Isa completely smitten? Why did they all see her as such a saint, when she most certainly was not?
“Then what does she care about?” Victor snapped.
“Her—” Gordon paused. “Her work.”
Victor had a sneaking suspicion that the man had started to say something else. “You mean, her work making fake jewels.”
The Scotsman glared at him. “I mean, her workdesigning beautiful jewelry, and attempting with every new creation to surpass the last.”
Victor flashed on a memory of Isa bent over a table in the jeweler’s shop in Amsterdam, her eyes alight as she manipulated tiny diamonds into an intricate brooch. Through the years he’d imbued that enraptured look with a certain greed, part of his way of explaining to himself how she could have chosen a set of royal jewels over him.
But had there really been any greed in her face? Or had that just been his rewriting of the past? “Isn’t it odd for a woman to be satisfied with work alone?”
“Not when the woman is extraordinarily talented, no. Have you seen an example of her work?”
Even now, Victor remembered how lovely the imitation royal parure had been, so perfect that until the palace had forced the jeweler to make a closer examination of it, the man had missed that it was a fake. “Yes, I have.”
That seemed to take Gordon off guard. “Oh? When?”
“Last night at the theater,” Victor said swiftly. “Mrs. Franke told us that she had designed the necklace worn by the opera singer.”
Gordon’s face cleared. “Ah, yes. A beautiful piece.”
“The tiara Mrs. Franke wore was her own work, too, I presume.”
“It was.” Gordon stared
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