Page 72 of For a Scot's Heart Only

Thomas let his hand wander intimately down her back.

“Yes. Very,veryrecently.”

The porcelain master beamed at them. “Ah, felicitations are in order.”

Introductions were made, and the conversational dam broke wide open. The porcelain master was Mr. Clabberhorn, long in the employ of Lady Denton, a woman who, according to the long-suffering Clabberhorn, lacked a head for business. A fact which made no sense: everyone with a ship knew the countess collected prime warehouses the way other ladies of her station collectedàbricet àbrac. Or handsome men to keep as her private footmen.

None of this was adding up correctly.

Hearing Lady Denton had no head for business was as astonishing as suddenly finding himself amarried man. Nevertheless, the porcelain master was in a bind and about to lose his income.

“My sympathies to you and Mrs. Clabberhorn at having to leave this fine manufactory,” he said. “Have you found new employment?”

“We’re returning to Kent. My wife has family in Maidstone where we shall open our own manufactory.” Mr. Clabberhorn was solemn. “Closing this manufactory is both a blessing and a curse, I collect.”

“The countess doesn’t mind?” the newly styled Mrs. West asked. “You and Mrs. Clabberhorn opening your own porcelain works... it seems rather sudden.”

“Goodness, no. Her ladyship is most happy to be rid of us.”

“Oh?”

The porcelain master leaned in like a conspirator. “Come, let me show you something.”

Thomas followed Miss Fletcher, who followed Mr. Clabberhorn. What a merry line. Thomas couldn’t help but think he was walking into a deeper mystery than a simple jaunt to a porcelain works. Miss Fletcher was hanging on Mr. Clabberhorn’s words as if she would nurse every last ounce of information from the hapless man.

The manufactory had gone quiet. The laborer assembling crates was presently in the alley, smoking a pipe. Mr. Clabberhorn led a winding path to a barrel of broken pottery. At the top was the bust of a woman, the clay rough and unfired.

Mr. Clabberhorn tilted the piece for their inspection. “Look at this.”

The sculpture was distinct. Cloth-draped shoulders, a crescent moon tiara, and a quiver of arrows strapped to her back. The face, however, was vaguely familiar.

“Is that... Lady Denton?” Miss Fletcher asked.

“Styled as the Roman goddess Diana,” Clabberhorn said.

Miss Fletcher tapped the nose, which had lost its tip. “I thought the nobility commissioned marble busts.”

“I thought the very same.” Mr. Clabberhorn eyed her over the rim of his spectacles. “This is a useless vanity.”

Miss Fletcher checked the barrel. “And you have quite a collection of them.”

Thomas looked over her shoulder. The barrel brimmed with unfired busts of Lady Denton fashioned as the Roman goddess, all of them flawed. Cracks, chips, some split in two. The bottom half of the barrel appeared to be the sandy remains of earlier attempts of the same artwork.

“Lady Denton insisted I devote myself to creating this particular bust. And look here...” He turned over the ruined piece, revealing a jagged hole. “This was her oddest request. She insisted I make a hollow bust with a hole in the back.”

Miss Fletcher’s gloved finger circumnavigated an opening about three inches in diameter.

“A hollow bust.”

The porcelain master snorted. “An inexplicably difficult process to sculpt a hollow piece of this magnitude—as you can see by all my failed attempts.”

“It must’ve taken a great deal of time to create these,” Thomas said.

“Indeed, four years of work is in this barrel.” Clabberhorn, his brow furrowing, laid the flawed bust to rest. “It is not false flattery when I say only the most skilled craftsman can sculpt a hollow piece of this detail and of this size.”

“How frustrating.”

Miss Fletcher was the voice of compassion. Mr. Clabberhorn smiled wearily.