Alec blew across the face of the knight he was carving to clear the tiny curls of wood and the dust. The eyes were the important part. They had to convey a secret love. And he found himself uncharacteristically nervous to start. He was not feeling inspired and he couldn’t afford to botch the job with the hours he’d already put into this piece.
The commission he was working on was for one of his most devoted and wealthy clients, Madame Givenchi. She had recently discovered a love for Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur, and she wanted a tableau with Sir Lancelot and Guinevere. Something depicting “the hopeless yearning,” she’d said.
Well, he had to finish the piece, and it had to be good. But he’d had enough hopeless yearning for a lifetime and would be glad when it was done.
He thought of the angel, apparently discarded by William. The mere idea caused a deep stab of humiliation and pain. He’d spent countless hours on her, poured his heart and soul into her making. All his love. He’d even shed tears over her, salty regret soaking into the wood. He’d given her purely out of devotion, as a memorial, a reminder of their love, something they could both cling to during the endless lonely years apart.
Yet she’d apparently meant nothing to William. He’d tossed her aside as easily as he had Alec himself.
No. No, he couldn’t bear it. He would not think of it.
He was about to start on the knight’s eyes when the bell in the shop sounded. Alec put down his smallest chisel and got up, glad to postpone the work. He pushed through the heavy velvet curtain to the shop proper.
Mr. Trent stood just inside the doorway, umbrella in hand; his conservative black frock coat with its high collar was beaded with rain. His wide-set dark eyes were just as intense and intelligent as Alec remembered. His strong features and firm mouth just as commanding. His dark, curly hair was made even more dark and curly by dampness.
Alec stopped in his tracks and swallowed. He’d have sworn he’d never see Mr. Trent again. He wasn’t the sort of man who came into Alec’s shop. He wasn’t the sort of man Alec had ever had any dealings with at all. He was vibrant and rough around the edges, with a vitality that was overwhelming in this small space, as if a tiger had entered his shop.
Fascinating in a way but deadly dangerous and rather intimidating.
Alec composed his features into their most placid expression and continued forward. “Mr. Trent. How may I be of service today?”
Trent looked around the shop, not meeting his eyes. “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop in.”
“Oh? Have you a position nearby?”
There was a printing shop in the next street. For some reason, Alec could see Mr. Trent working there. Manning the presses or perhaps even dashing about energetically in the hunt for the news.
“You might say so. You might say my position is in every part of London.” He looked Alec in the eyes challengingly, one eyebrow slightly raised. “I’m a Bow Street Runner. Have you heard of us?”
Alec blinked. “I have. Sir Henry Fielding started it. I read about it in The Gazette.”
“That’s right. Judge Henry Fielding, London’s chief magistrate.”
“So you’re a thief-taker?”
That suited Trent even better, Alec thought. He looked like he could handle himself in a brawl.
“Of sorts. I’m a thief-taker for the city. Which is quite a different thing.”
Alex didn’t know much about the intricacies of thief-taking, so he went with something blandly complimentary. “You sound like a man with a passion for his work.”
“I’m also good at it. I found you, didn’t I?” Trent’s gaze ran over Alec, head to toe, sending a shiver down Alec’s spine. There was something altogether unnerving in that gaze. What did he want? Alec had done nothing to warrant the attention of a thief-taker. And he’d offered Trent a reward before, which the man had turned down. Was he in it for bigger stakes?
“Yes, you did find me,” Alec said uneasily. “Twice, in fact. So how might I assist you today?”
Trent clasped his hands behind his back and strolled closer. It was a casual amble, deliberately so, but Alec grew uneasy, as though Trent might suddenly lunge and grab him.
“Just thought I’d stop by and check in on the lovely red-haired lady I found in the lake.”
“Lady in the lake? That’s fanciful. You said you found her in the Thames.”
Trent smiled. “A bit of fancy never went amiss. I was wondering what became of her.”
“I sold her that very same day. In fact, it might have been that very same hour. She was hardly in the window long enough to warm from the sun. A lady came in and bought her.”
Trent tilted his head curiously. “Is that right? Do you recall anything about this lady?”
“I could hardly forget her. She was quite distinctive. She wore a gown in ecru lace and was heavily veiled.”
“Veiled?”
“Mmmm. In the Spanish fashion. I could only get the vaguest idea of her face behind the veil, but she appeared young and beautiful.”
Trent’s eyes narrowed, and he studied Alec as though he might be telling tales.
“Is there a problem?” Alec asked, growing increasingly befuddled.
“I wonder. Did she speak, this veiled lady?”
Alec huffed. “Naturally. She said she saw the angel in the window. She paid my price and was out again in the space of a few minutes. Really, what is this all about?”
Trent reached into his pocket and took out something wrapped in a handkerchief. A chill of dread licked up Alec’s spine. No.
“And yet... here she is.” Trent unwrapped the cloth. The angel looked just the same. There was a moment where time seemed to skip, it was so like the first presentation.
“How on earth did you get that?” Alec asked in astonishment.
“That’s what I’d like to know. I found her in an alley behind a fish shop in Covent Garden.”
“What?”
“Swear on a stack of bibles.”
Alec’s jaw dropped open. “I... Are you quite certain?”
Trent expelled a nervous-sounding laugh. “Oh, trust me, Mr. Allston. I was there. I suppose your mysterious veiled lady might have dropped her.”
“Was the angel wrapped?”
“Only in the rags in the rubbish.”
“Because I wrapped her in brown paper and twine.”
“There was nothing like that around her,” Trent said. He hesitated. “I don’t suppose you’re having me on?”
“I was about to ask you the same.”
They stared at each other. Alec should have been worrying over the problem in his mind, yet he was distracted by Mr. Trent’s eyes. They were an unusual color, more gray than green, and he had a way of looking at Alec that felt intensely personal. His gazed fixed on him, dissected him, instead of holding the bland indifference he was used to seeing in his customers’ eyes. The man made Alec’s pulse race by his mere presence in the shop.
Alec disliked it enormously.
He most definitely did not like the tightening in his belly. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his hands, not because there was likely to be wood dust on them but for a distraction.
“So I have returned her to you yet again,” Trent said, holding out his hand.
Alec took her, careful not to touch Trent. He looked her over. She was undamaged. “I suppose I should thank you. Only I don’t know what must be done now. Perhaps I should keep her in case the lady who purchased her returns.”
“Perhaps you should send me a message when next you sell her, so I won’t be so startled when I find her again.”
There was amusement in Trent’s voice, and Alec looked up to find him smiling. The smile softened Trent’s face, and its good humor was contagious. Alec found himself smiling as well.
“No,” he said. “No, I think not.”
Trent raised an eyebrow.
Alec nodded decisively. “I changed my mind. This may sound like utter poppycock, but I believe she wants to be with you. She’s found you twice now. You must have her. After all, we can’t keep sending her back and forth like a misaddressed letter.”
Trent pursed his lips thoughtfully. “What if the veiled lady returns?”
“Then she’ll have to make do with anything else in my shop. Or I can make her a similar angel for her tree. In fact, I think I’ll start one this afternoon.”
“Not the same,” Trent said quickly. “That is—she’s unique. It’d be a pity to change that.”
“Yes, you are quite right. Not exactly the same.” He held the angel out.
Trent took it, looking her over. “I can’t pay you what she’s worth.”
“You shan’t pay me anything. She’s chosen you.”
Trent gave him a speculative look that made Alec smile.
“Don’t worry, I’m not daft. Only, as an artist, I’ve seen it before. Sometimes I’ve been inspired to make something I swore would never sell, and it doesn’t, not until the precise person walks in the door who wanted just that. That dragon for example.” Alec turned and waved a hand at it. “Who on earth would buy it? But someone will. And when he walks in that door—pretty sure it’ll be a ‘he’—his gaze will lock on it like he’s found the holy grail.”
“What an interesting trade you are in, Mr. Allston.”
“Not all pieces are like that, of course. But as for her—” Alec nodded his chin at the figurine in Trent’s hand. A leaden sadness passed through his heart. “I thought she was meant for one person. But I was wrong. Since you seem to be her true owner, I’ll tell you she’s based on a real lady. A lady I met on one dark night in the worst moment of my life. She helped me. And now, perhaps, she’s meant to help you.”
Trent cocked his head. “I’m not in need of any assistance that I’m aware of.”
“Then perhaps she simply likes your face.”
Alec shut his mouth with a snap. What had gotten into him? Being so free with a customer? And the words sounded more impudent coming out of his mouth than they had in his head.
Trent chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. That overly familiar warmth in his eyes burned a little brighter. “Well, I’m always grateful when someone likes my face. I accept her and thank you. Should you change your mind—”
“I won’t.”
“—you should know where to find me.”
Trent took a card from his pocket and handed it over. It was the simplest sort of cream-colored calling card. Mr. John Trent, 110 Southampton Row, Bloomsbury was written on it in a florid hand. Most likely the stationer’s and not Mr. Trent’s own.
“Thank you.” Alec slipped it into a pocket.
“If you learn anything about how she came to be in that alley, I’d appreciate you letting me know. I’m the sort of man who’s plagued with curiosity.”
Yes, Alec thought that was obvious.
“Of course. I’ll write at once.”
“Good day, Mr. Allston.”
Trent gave a bow that was rather too much and far too charming, and Alec was relieved when he was finally gone.