Page 33 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

“You would do it for free?” he questioned. “Why?”

“I rather imagine the satisfaction of providing that kind of a service would be enough compensation.”

He made a sound not unlike a grunt. “I wasn’t being completely serious when I mentioned the shingle,” he hedged.

“Oh, but I like it. Very much. Do you suppose Mr. Thompson could make the metal support for it?”

“Before you’ve had a chance to determine if your first matchmaking effort is even successful?” he questioned.

“It will be, darling,” she insisted. “Why, I can already imagine the two of them together, arm in arm.”

His shoulders sagging in defeat, Darius nodded. “I’ll ask him how much it will cost me on the morrow.”

Satisfied with their accomplishments that evening, Stella settled her head onto his shoulder. “I’m going to make mad, passionate love to you tonight,” she vowed. She tilted her chin up to kiss him on the cheek.

“I expect nothing less,” he teased. “Dinner first, though. It sounds as if I’ll need my strength.”

Stella tittered softly as the coach bounced over the cobbles on its way to Mayfair.

Chapter Fifteen

Meeting a Woman for the First Time

The following day, at half past one o’clock

Angus stepped down from the hackney, wincing as he gave the driver the one shilling fare. He had been diligent about saving money of late, and the shilling meant he wouldn’t be making a contribution to his housing account that week.

He was determined to find a better place to live than the two-room bachelor quarters in which he had resided for the past few years. The two-story house on Elm Street in Clerkenwell had become a bachelor lodging-house when the man who occupied the upstairs rooms began subletting his space. Now the formerly respectable house meant for lower-middle-class men had become noisy with voices and the thumping of feet heard at all hours of the day and night, and the odors of food cooking and spoiling, and unwashed chamber pots and bodies filled the hall and stairwell. Assured he wouldn’t be doing more than moving a few boxes of books for Mrs. Agremon, Angus had elected to wear the clothes he usually wore to church—his Sunday best—and take a hackney directly from the church to Agremon House. While he usually drove his ancient phaeton to work, he didn’t own a horse—horse ownership was far too expensive for a man of his means—but he was able to hire one for his daily trips to work. The stable was closed on Sundays, however.

“Your timing is perfect,” Darius said, answering Angus’s knock on the front door of Agremon House.

Angus had expected Jenkins, the butler, to answer, but he remembered most of the servants didn’t work on Sundays. “Glad to hear it, sir.”

“The coach is parked out back by the mews,” Darius added, leading them through the hall and the corridor to the workshop.

Angus stopped short at the sight of a full-sized marble sculpture of Venus in the hall. The mostly nude statue bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. Agremon and had been placed in a niche between two closed doors. “Is that Greek?” he asked in awe.

Darius followed his line of sight and chuckled. “Well, it’s a reproduction of a Greek original,” he replied. “I used to sculpt and thought to see what Venus might look like with both her arms and her nose,” he added, smirking.

“It looks like it should be in a museum,” Angus murmured, examining the surface more closely. No tool marks were apparent, the marble smooth and veined with gray-and-black streaks.

“Thank you, I think,” Darius replied, chuckling. “Come. I’ve already loaded a couple of boxes of books Mrs. Agremon packed last night. We’ll take those to the shop. She’s waiting for us to join her in the coach.”

Angus frowned as he followed his employer through the workshop and into the back garden. “Pardon me, sir, but it doesn’t sound as if there will be very much to do.”

“Ah,” Darius responded, pausing to close the door to the workshop. “The majority of what we’ll be moving are some boxes of books for Mrs. Agremon’s new assistant. Miss O’Conner is taking up residence in the floors above the Antiquarian Quill,” he explained. “Boxes of books and some personal items. She doesn’t have much, but with her brother’s recent death, Stella insisted Miss O’Connor accept lodgings in exchange for her employment at the bookshop.”

Angus couldn’t help the scoff that erupted from his throat. If there were rooms available above the bookshop, why hadn’t he been considered? “So this employee will have lodgings in addition to pay?” He couldn’t help the sound of envy in his voice. A streak of jealousy had him feeling cross with the girl, and he hadn’t even met her.

Darius gave a start, pausing before they passed through the gate to the coach. A small dray cart had been attached at the back, two crates of books already loaded into it. “Oh, she won’t be earning any blunt working at the bookshop,” he clarified, his quizzical expression suggesting he had noticed his employee’s aversion to the arrangement.

Angus’s sense of annoyance abated somewhat. “Then how is she making her living?” he asked, feeling confused. A thought the girl might intend to use the room above the bookshop to entertain men for the purpose of prostitution once again had him feeling cross.

“Oh, Miss O’Connor has a regular position during the day. She’s a flower girl at Covent Garden Market,” Darius explained. “Works for the Joneses.”

Furrowing a brow, Angus scoffed softly. “The same people for whom we built the greenhouse for your trees? In Chiswick?”

“The very same. In fact, she’ll probably be selling some of the redwood saplings at the market within the next year,” Darius claimed. “Grown in the very greenhouse you helped to build.”