Page 68 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

Stella scoffed softly. She knew most house painters had at one time painted portraits, but she hadn’t realized how anxious they were to practice their craft by doing decorative painting. “Do that,” she said. “Then I may have to hire you to do it at my house.” After the most recent explosion, she was sure there were a few cracks in the plaster at Agremon House.

“We should finish this room…” Francesco took a quick survey of the space. “Later today—”

“I really must leave no later than five o’clock,” she warned. “I have an engagement this evening.” She and Darius were due at the Woodhurst’s for dinner at seven o’clock.

“We will be done by five, and then we come back tomorrow to do the other room,” Raffaele said. “You pay us then.”

“Thank you.”

Rather pleased with the painters’ plan, she returned to the ground floor. About to head into her office, she paused and glanced down at the floor. Despite what had happened the afternoon before, she couldn’t see any evidence of a struggle or of blood, but when she turned toward the front of the shop, she gave a start.

A book was on the floor. From the way it was positioned, it was apparent someone had it opened and then dropped it, so the spine was face up and the pages were splayed open against the floor.

She carefully lifted it, glad the leather-bound spine wasn’t cracked, but the foiled title had her staring at it in shock.

A General and Heraldic Dictionary of the Peerage and Baronetage of the United Kingdom for MDCCCXXVI.

She glanced at the bookshelf to her left, expecting to see an empty slot. But all the books were in place.

Surely Iris would have noticed and…

Stella swallowed.

Had Iris been holding the book when the scoundrel from across the street had come to the shop?

Stella imagined the poor girl using it as a weapon, tossing it at the man in order to give herself time to attempt an escape.

Turning to face the stairs, Stella understood immediately why Iris had been so bruised. The edges of the wood stairs were quite sharp. The fabric of her skirts and petticoats had done little to soften their bite.

The bell above the door tinkled, startling her.

She whirled around to see a rather tall gentleman enter and recognized him as the owner of the bookbinding business across the street. “Mr. Perkins,” she said, closing the book and moving it to the crook of her arm. “Good morning. May I help you find a book?”

He chuckled and gave her a slight bow. “Good morning, Mrs. Agremon. I find I’m surrounded by them, so no. However…” He paused.

Remembering that the man who had assaulted Iris lived directly above Mr. Perkins’s business, Stella held her breath in anticipation of what he was about to say. “Yes?” she prompted.

“I have a tenant who seems to have disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” she repeated.

“Well, he was at the publisher’s yesterday—works as a pressman over on Ivy Street,” he said, pointing in the direction of the street that was north of St. Paul’s. “But he didn’t show up there today, so his boss came looking for him. Spittin’ mad, he was. I went up to the man’s rooms. He was not there, nor does it appear he spent the night.”

“Oh, dear.” Stella replied, trying her best to seem concerned. “Well, I haven’t seen him, but I’ve only just arrived. Do you suppose he’s… passed out drunk somewhere? Or mayhap enjoying a woman’s bed?”

The bookbinder rolled his eyes. “Truth be told, if someone said he was dead, I wouldn’t be shedding any tears. The man owes me rent going back several weeks and I doubt I’ll ever see it in any case,” he explained. “However, I couldn’t help but notice there’s a young woman who’s been here at your shop. Perhaps she might have seen him leave yesterday?”

Stella angled her head to one side. “My new assistant, yes. She works here in the late afternoons, so that I might see to paperwork in my office.” Pausing a moment, she added, “She’s my tenant as well. Lives upstairs.”

“Is she in? Perhaps we could ask her—”

“She works at the Covent Garden Market during the days, but I can certainly ask her when she returns,” she offered. “If she knows anything, I’ll send her to your office.”

“That would be capital.” He used a thumb to indicate the dray cart parked out front. “Having some more work done to this place? It’s already quite improved over what it was,” he commented, waving a hand at the rows of bookshelves lining the walls.

“I am. The third floor is in dire need of a coat of paint.” Even as she made the comment, a faint scent of smoked meats—the telltale odor of oil paints—reached her nostrils.

The Benedetto brothers were not wasting any time.