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Chapter Twenty-Three

Late in Lark’s third evening in the Fashion Emporium’s upper room, Ezra sat on the edge of the table drinking porter. “You can’t stay here indefinitely.”

“I won’t.” Lark took a swig of his porter and went back to his copying. “I’ll leave as soon as I finish making a copy of these proofs.”

“Remind me. Why do you need a copy?”

“To retain evidence of what the text should say.”

“Will you blackmail this writer, the Traveling Viscountess?”

“Not blackmail her. Persuade her to do the right thing by her partner.”

“And why do you care about that? You’re not in love, are you?”

For a few minutes the room was quiet except for the scratching of Lark’s pencil, sounding loud in his ears. He had used up four pencils, dozens of sheets of paper, and quantities of ink, and he wasn’t finished. As long as he kept his head down and the pencil moving, he felt nothing. In love was an odd phrase when there was no being in only being shut out.

Around him, the anonymous room had kept a steady vigil, throwing light on his efforts in the morning, collecting heat at midday, and cooling in the evening. The room, which could be any upper room anywhere in London, was unmarked by personal effects, arrangements of books or clothes, favorite chairs or prints. Beyond it, London was a muted rumble, broken by the regular pealing of bells marking time. He had been able to do the most at night when the Emporium below him went quiet for a few hours, and he left the room only when Ezra proudly showed him the Emporium’s modern toilet facilities. Another time he would return and show Ezra some proper appreciation for his family’s forward-thinking innovations.

“You know,” Ezra said, “I could have our printer do up a proof of those corrections. He’s fast. It would take him a day, at most two.”

Lark stopped copying. He hadn’t thought of that. The Emporium had its own printer who prepared a pamphlet of fashion advice each season to hand to customers. “Would you?”

Ezra shrugged. “You haven’t tried the Cossack pants yet.”

Lark glanced at the trousers hanging from the wardrobe. The striped fabric reminded him forcibly of Mrs. Stryde. “They’re a disaster.”

“You could wear them to show your gratitude for my help. Having our printer do a set of proofs will be much quicker than what you’re doing. He could make a copy for you while you stroll along Bond Street.”

Lark shuddered. He didn’t care to become a walking advertisement for the appalling trousers. But the suggestion gave him a different idea of how to repay Ezra for his help. “What if,” he said, “the printer puts one of your ads in the book?”

Ezra’s eyes gleamed. He jumped down from the desk. “Oh say, I like that. How do you think this book will do?”

“Well enough.” Lark lay his pencil down and took another long pull on his drink. A printed proof with Viv’s corrections would be a strong weapon to use against Lady Melforth and Dodsley, should either of them refuse to cooperate. He eyed the Cossack trousers again, brown with a vertical green stripe, full and gathered at the waist, tapering to the ankle straps that passed under the wearer’s feet. If a Bond Street stroll in the absurd trousers was the price of a copy of the book, he could do it.

*

In the end Lark did the Bond Street stroll for two days. He felt strangely invisible in the garish trousers and coat with its close-fitting waist and flaring skirts. He was a hollow man, neither Edward Larkin, the would-be gentleman, nor Lark, the pickpocket.

Ezra was as good as his word. While Lark strolled, the Emporium’s printer did up a proof using Viv’s corrections. The copy closely resembled the original in style and layout with Viv’s name on the title page, and her words restored, plus there was an ad for the Isaacson Brothers Fashion Emporium.

Early on the following day, Lark paid a visit to Dodsley & Sons. Then, with the proof copies in hand, he went to Wenlocke. He could not risk returning to his rooms, so he was conscious of his drooping tie and stale linen as he waited in the duke’s study. When Wenlocke entered, Lark asked, “You got my message?”

Wenlocke’s face wore a drily amused expression. “Don’t worry. Not taken up. Your note did not inspire total confidence.”

Lark drew in a breath. “There was no time to elaborate.”

“But there is now. Sit. Tell me. You look as if you are in need of refreshment, and coffee.” The wry glance passed over Lark’s rumpled attire.

Lark shook his head. “My business is urgent, and I have a favor to ask.”

Wenlocke shrugged. “Or, don’t sit, and don’t tell me?”

“I need you to keep something safe for me.” Lark placed the original proofs with Viv’s penciled corrections on Wenlocke’s desk.

Wenlocke crossed to the desk and glanced at the brown package, his gaze narrowing. “How did you come by this?”

Lark straightened and met the sharp, clear-eyed gaze fixed on him. “In the way I’ve come by many things over the years.”