Pandora(56)

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

‘Y-e-s. Yes!’ he says again, recovering.

Not for many years has Blake’s Emporium entertained customers of such calibre as this.

‘How may I help you, madam?’ Hezekiah’s voice is all a-simper, that flavoursome fakery Dora abhors. ‘I have just had the most delightful Chelsea shepherd come in.’ He glances at Horatio, appears to mark the soft rosebud mouth, the almost-feminine build trussed up so beautifully in the fine livery that in hue matches perfectly his mistress’ gown. ‘He looks very much like your companion here. Very, ah, elegant. A perfect addition to your collection.’

But Lady Latimer raises a gloved hand, pierces Hezekiah with a fierce look.

‘How dare you, sir. Do you imply my choice of companion is a frivolity? That I collect him like one of your trinkets here to display for mere pomp?’

Dora looks to Horatio. His beautiful features are unmarked by insult or amusement. He bows his head, as if in assent. Hezekiah clamps his mouth. Lady Latimer tosses her chin; the ostrich feather on her hat quivers.

‘I am not interested in shepherds. I am interested in your Greek supply.’ Lady Latimer looks to Dora. ‘Good afternoon, my dear,’ she says in a softer tone, and Hezekiah stares at his niece so keenly Dora is afraid her skin will blister.

‘Good afternoon, madam.’ Dora forces a smile, but it stretches her cheeks painfully. ‘Uncle, this is Lady Latimer. We met yesterday at the shop of Mr Clements, the jeweller. You remember him, don’t you? A friend of Mother’s? He has acquired one of my jewellery designs. Lady Latimer has purchased it.’

Despite the apprehension fluttering in her chest, the elation she felt yesterday bubbles up inside her again, a balm now to her fraying nerves.

‘I see,’ Hezekiah replies, his answer measured. He looks at Dora for one more long, penetrating second before turning his attention back to the old woman. ‘And what can I do for you, ah, Lady Latimer?’

‘Your Greek supply, as I said. You have a vase.’

Hezekiah stiffens. ‘A vase?’

‘Yes, Mr Blake, a vase. A large one.’

Lady Latimer is all mock patience. Dora watches her uncle intently. She dreads, but equally wishes, to see how he will react to this, what he will say. Dora presses her fingers hard into the countertop, feels the sharp grain of unpolished wood pressing into the soft pads of her fingertips.

Hezekiah tries for a laugh that comes out as barely a sound at all. ‘I have no Greek vases in my possession.’

Lady Latimer is shaking her head. ‘But you do. This young lady said so.’

Her uncle stares. Then, very slowly, his gaze moves from Lady Latimer to Dora again. Dora swallows.

‘Did she now?’ He watches her, casting for a reaction like a fisherman at sea, but somehow Dora maintains her composure, holds her breath: outwardly her waters are perfectly still.

‘She did indeed,’ Lady Latimer returns stoutly, ‘and I shall not be disappointed, Mr Blake, for I am not accustomed to being denied.’ The woman takes a step forward and underneath her tread the dusty floorboards creak. ‘On Saturday evening I shall be holding my annual winter soirée. It is one of the highlights of London’s season, you understand. Each year it is themed, and this year I have chosen the Mysterious Exotic, but I have had a devil of a time finding a centrepiece for my display.’ The lady nods to Dora. ‘Your niece has quite come to my rescue. She says the design of the necklace I have purchased was inspired by a large vase. I want it.’ Hezekiah opens his mouth to respond, but what Lady Latimer says next cuts him off: ‘I shall pay you a great deal of money, of course.’

Hezekiah hesitates, scratches his scar. His niece’s insubordination, it seems, has been temporarily sidelined. Dora can see his brain turning the idea over, sees how he contemplates figures, banknotes, coins, all the things he could buy with them. But then, as if discovering the secret behind a conjuror’s trick, his face clears.

‘You’re right. I do own a Grecian vase. But I’m afraid what I meant, your ladyship, is that it is not for sale.’ Hezekiah clears his throat. ‘I will however loan it to you, by all means.’

Dora’s heart sinks. She hears the deceit in his voice, sees the dark light that appears in his eyes whenever his tongue offers up a lie. If Hezekiah has not jumped at the chance of a quick sale, it must be because he does not deem it the appropriate kind. And so, Dora was right – Edward’s hope has been misguided all along.

‘A loan.’ The old woman purses her lips; the skin around her mouth puckers like dried fruit. ‘Very well,’ Lady Latimer sniffs, ‘since I only require it for the evening I shall accept. I will offer you one hundred pounds.’

Dora’s eyes widen. It is a great amount, for only one night’s rental. And yet, still, Hezekiah does not jump at it.

‘For that much, madam, I would not loan it for an hour.’

Lady Latimer stops in the process of pulling off one of her gloves.

‘I beg your pardon?’

The footman glances surreptitiously at Dora. Dora looks away.

Hezekiah draws himself up as best he can on his healthy leg.

‘You must understand, my lady, that this vase is very old indeed. It is extremely precious, very delicate. The cost of transporting it alone would be …’ He trails off, clucks his tongue in salesman brogue. ‘Well, madam, it will be costly. Good hands, trustworthy men must be had in for the job. As for the vase itself, what if during your entertainments it is damaged? I already have a buyer lined up – what, then, would I say to them? No, indeed. One hundred pounds is not near enough.’