Unbuttoning Miss Matilda. Lucy Ashford

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СКАЧАТЬ I don’t suppose that by any chance you’ve come to buy something, have you? Or perhaps—like young Tommy—you’re hoping to do a bit of pilfering?’

      Matty felt an angry retort springing to her lips, but she answered him coolly, ‘That’s a rather careless assumption, Mr Percival.’

      ‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I find myself growing rather cynical these days. And as it happens, I’m not Mr Percival—Mr Percival is in fact somewhat elusive, except, alas, when his rent is due. My name is Jack Rutherford. And you, young sir, are here because...?’

      He was trying to peer down at her but Matty, glad of her wide-brimmed hat and the general gloom in here, kept her distance. He assumed she was a boy. Let him. ‘I have some antique brooches I’d like valued, Mr Rutherford.’

      ‘Let me guess.’ He sighed again. ‘They’re worth a fortune, yes? They date back to Tudor times at the very least, but as a special favour you’ll let me have them for a guinea. Am I right?’

      ‘They’re not Tudor!’ Matty was stung out of her usual caution. ‘The brooches are Celtic, and—’

      ‘Now that’s original,’ he said, breaking in. ‘I’ll give you credit for that.’ He put his hands together and gestured applause. Well-shaped hands, Matty noticed. Elegant hands... Suddenly angry with herself for even noticing, she jerked her attention back to what he was saying.

      ‘But if these brooches of yours are genuine,’ he went on, ‘I’ll eat my hat. I do grow rather weary of fraudsters. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll have to turn you away, because I have a rather urgent appointment elsewhere—’

      Matty interrupted calmly, ‘You’re the one who’s a fraud.’

      He looked rather startled. ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘You’re the fraud.’ Matty strolled over to point at one of the crowded shelves. ‘You’re selling overpriced rubbish. These vases you’ve labelled as early eighteenth-century Delftware are nothing of the sort—they were most likely made last year, not in Holland but in Stoke-on-Trent.’

      She saw him looking rather bemused. ‘Stoke? Really? But how on earth do you—?’

      ‘Because I’ve had an education in antiques, which clearly you have not.’ She gestured towards another shelf. ‘Those bowls you’ve labelled as Chinese, from the Ming dynasty—they’ll have been made in a factory in east London. They’ll be two years old, not two hundred. And as for that piece of wood labelled “Egyptian Oar”—do you want to know what it really is?’ She indicated a six-foot length of wood leaning against the wall.

      ‘I’m not at all sure that I do.’

      Matty told him anyway. ‘It’s an old barge pole. It’s probably been rotting in the Thames mud for the last twenty years or so.’

      ‘What a pity.’ He looked a little sad. ‘Though I thought the Egyptian bit was rather fanciful.’

      Matty was growing exasperated. ‘I can see, Mr Rutherford, that my visit is clearly a waste of time.’ She was also realising it might be risky, too, because he suddenly appeared more interested in her than in what she was saying.

      Normally strangers didn’t give Matty a second glance—they just assumed she was a lad and that was that. But Mr Jack Rutherford was looking at her a little too closely for her comfort and frowning, too. Swiftly she turned to go. But he called out, ‘Wait! Please.’

      She swung round in spite of herself.

      He said, ‘I don’t suppose by any chance you’re looking for a job, are you?’

      She was astonished. ‘A job?’

      ‘Yes. As my assistant. You see, I only took over this place two months ago and I’ve been trying my best to label and price everything, but you’re absolutely right.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know nearly as much as I should.’

      ‘Then why on earth did you take the business on?’ She really couldn’t hide her scorn. ‘You’re clearly not making much of a success of it.’

      ‘I’m afraid it was just a stupid idea of mine. I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion that the place should be run by someone who might know rather more about antiques than I do.’

      ‘Finding someone of that description shouldn’t be difficult.’ She pointed to another table, laden with pistols and swords. ‘Though I imagine you don’t have any trouble selling these things? These mementoes from the war?’

      A shadow had crossed his face. ‘No,’ he said in a quieter voice. ‘Actually, I don’t.’

      ‘Cheating old soldiers.’ Matty smiled up at him brightly from beneath the brim of her hat. ‘My goodness, you must be really proud of yourself.’

      Something dangerous flashed through his blue eyes then and her heart skipped a beat. You fool, Matty. Deliberately antagonising a rogue like him. It was most definitely time to go.

      She looked round to where the door beckoned temptingly. But then he smiled—and it was a smile that shook her badly, because there was something so very bitter about it. ‘Proud of myself?’ he echoed. ‘Just the opposite, in fact. And as for you—you really are rather bold, you know. For such a young...fellow.’

      She felt her throat go suddenly dry at that momentary hesitation. Had he realised she was a girl?

      So what if he had? she told herself quickly. What did it matter? Though she was unsettled, because she guessed this man knew an awful lot about women one way and another. For a moment his eyes arrowed into her, surveying her from the top of her head down to her toes, but she met his blue gaze and retorted, ‘So you think me bold because I happen to tell you you’re selling items that are wrongly labelled and wrongly priced? Surely you know that already?’

      He’d come from behind his counter—to do what? Punish her for her cheek? Kidnap her? Don’t be stupid. But even so her heart hammered and her imagination whirled. Then—then he laughed. And there was something about the rich, sardonic timbre of his voice that was more dangerous than words.

      ‘Then help me,’ he stated calmly, ‘why don’t you? Get everything here priced and dated correctly and I’ll pay you a wage that’s pretty generous for a lad like you. How about it?’

      So he hadn’t guessed her secret. Relief flooded her, but she shook her head decisively. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that you should find yourself an occupation more suited to your talents.’

      ‘The trouble is, I’m not exactly sure what my talents are.’

      ‘How about smooth talking? Pulling the wool over people’s eyes?’ Oh, Matty. She silently groaned at her rashness. Stop talking so much, will you?

      He was still smiling, but his blue eyes had narrowed again and she found that her blood was pounding rather hard. She needed to get out through that door right now but there was one slight problem. This man, nearly six foot of muscle and sinew, was still blocking her way.

      Just when she was considering how best to make a run for it, she heard the sound of men’s raised voices from outside. ‘Here we are, lads,’ someone shouted. СКАЧАТЬ