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“Good. Horatio,” the old woman adds in a lighter tone, indicating that the conversation is over. “Come!”

The footman is at her side in an instant, offering his arm with a deep bow. With a wide simpering sort of smile Lady Latimer links her arm through his, and Dora and Mr. Clements watch them go, open-mouthed.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Mr. Clements had taken the designs, assured Dora in tones both grudging and apologetic, that she would receive a portion of the money paid out by Lady Latimer.

“Perhaps,” he said as Dora was closing her sketchbook, “I was too quick to judge. Perhaps...” But he had trailed off, blinked owlishly behind his spectacles, thin cheeks dimpling pink, and Dora graciously excused herself, promising to visit the week after next. Mr. Clements’ humiliation was enough. There was no need to prolong the goldsmith’s discomfort any more than necessary—she had got what she wanted. After all, Dora thought, her elation dampening with every step she had taken along the muddy streets toward home, there were other matters with which to concern herself.

Now, Dora looks at one of the carriage clocks propped on top of a shelf, chews on the fleshy bow of her upper lip. A quarter to one.

She has not mentioned Lady Latimer’s visit to her uncle. How, she worries, is she to tell him without admitting to the fact that she has also been sneaking into the basement every night for near two weeks? That she knows about the pithos, about everything else. She has never feared her uncle, but his anger, always ripe, is a grave concern, especially now—Dora thinks of Lottie—that he has begun to channel it with his fist.

She spoke of Lady Latimer’s impending visit to Edward the previous night as she was sketching in the details of Hephaestus’ kiln and he was noting down the measurements of a red-figured lekythos. After he expressed his pleasure at her news (and she was sure, at first, she saw relief cross his face), Dora confessed to him her apprehension over Hezekiah’s reaction in hushed guarded tones.

He paused over his notes, seemed to hesitate before saying, “You can only tell the truth.”

“That I fed him gin, sneaked the key from his neck, copied it, then left him to his stupor?” Edward said nothing, appeared to lack the words. “You see my dilemma, yes? I stole! I schemed against him.”

Again, Edward hesitated. “If he confronts you, you’re perfectly in your rights to confront him.”

“And say what, Edward?”

“This would be the perfect opportunity to ask, once and for all, if his trade is lawful. Remember, Dora, there still might be a good reason behind all this.”

With a sigh Dora shook her head. The hope Edward harbored was fruitless, she knew it.

“He will lie.”

“Then ask him to open the safe and prove it.”

“He will not.” Dora licked her bottom lip. “You realize, don’t you, that once Hezekiah knows I have been down here your visits will be at an end?”

In response Edward smiled, but she saw it held little humor.

“Let us worry about that when we have to. If we have to.”

A creak now from the basement steps. Dora looks across the shop floor just as Hezekiah emerges from the wide basement doors. His face is pale, clammy, and with a measure of unquiet Dora watches him limp toward her.

“Dora, I will rest. You will not move from this spot until I tell you to.” He wipes his face with a handkerchief, runs the satin square over the fleshy expanse of neck that squeezes itself up like baked bread from his cravat. Before he puts it back into his waistcoat pocket, Dora notices its patched dampness.

“But, Uncle.” She takes a breath. “You are due a visitor.”

Hezekiah blinks at her. “A visitor.”

“Yes, a...” And then, perfectly on cue, a black carriage pulls up outside. Dora stands up straight behind the counter. Her palms begin to sweat. “Here she is now.”

“Who?” he asks, twisting round on his good leg.

They watch as the old woman is helped down by the footman from yesterday and Hezekiah’s mouth drops slightly as he notes the crest emblazoned on the carriage door. A crest that denotes, of all Hezekiah’s favorite commodities in the world, money.

“Dora.” Hezekiah’s voice has tightened, seems to stretch over his tongue like a gag. “What have you done?”

But the door is opening, the bell has jangled on its spring, and Dora has no time to answer.

“Hezekiah Blake’s Emporium for Exotic Antiquities,” Lady Latimer announces in a loud portentous voice which belies her age. The footman—Horatio, Dora remembers—shuts the door behind her. Lady Latimer is wearing a green dress of crushed silk; her full skirts skip across the floorboards and Dora winces as they disturb the dust, dirtying the crisp white petticoat hems.

“What a name of grand import! And you,” the woman says haughtily, sharp eyes resting on Hezekiah, “are Mr. Blake, I presume.”