‘Both.’
‘Then I’d go back to Gloucester and try the pawn shops. If he stole valuables, his first thought will have been to get them off his hands. I’d say try the fences, but that would require the help of someone familiar with that profession. A discreet thief-taker would be best.’
‘I’ve no idea how to go about that. I dare say I seem rather a greenhorn.’
‘A little out of your depth, perhaps.’
‘Very much so. I’m not familiar with the area, and I’m not used to travelling from home like this’ – it was technically true depending on your interpretation of those words – ‘and in all honesty, I suspect I have bitten off more than I can chew.’
‘Poor fellow,’ Charnage said, with a touch more sympathy than before. ‘Really, are you quite sure you can’t put this in the hands of the authorities? Although . . .’
‘Although?’
‘Well, an item both sentimental and valuable – does that make it easily identifiable? Because that isn’t an attractive quality to a receiver of stolen goods. A necklace might be more valuable as a collection of matched jewels on a string, but more safely saleable as individual stones. A golden item might be better melted down for the value of its metal, even if that destroys the value of its artistry.’
The Duke’s mouth had fallen open in shock. He closed it. ‘You think— No. They could not melt it down.No.’
‘I hope not, for your sake. But you might want to get on and retrieve the thing quickly.’
‘Yes. I need to.’ The Duke had the distinct sense of another brilliant idea dawning. He wasn’t sure whether he ought to trust that sense, since his previous brilliant idea was not going marvellously. Then again, the clock was ticking and he had not done well by himself, and Charnage, for all his reputation – perhapsbecauseof his reputation – clearly had ideas.
‘I need to,’ he said again, and took the plunge. ‘Would you help me?’
Chapter Three
Daizell wasn’t sure what was going on.
He’d been recognised, but this Cassian fellow hadn’t told him where from. That might only mean that he’d been pointed out at some juncture with the usual litany: George Charnage’s son; expelled from Eton; the man who failed to elope with Eliza Beaumont; dubious character; scarcely more than a Merry Andrew with his cut-out flummery; bad ton. Then he’d assumed Cassian was attempting to break his shins, in which case the joke was on him, since Daizell had approximately six pounds to his name. Still, he’d started paying attention to the slightly odd young gentleman, who wore a coat that had been made for somebody else two years ago, but whose very fine linen looked to have been fresh on in the last day or so. He was an unassuming sort physically, and modest in manner, yet he’d taken it for granted that Daizell would listen to what he had to say, and he’d been genuinely amused when Daizell had suggested he might be a tout. One could laugh at that sort of thing only if one didn’t fear the mud might stick.
Cassian. The name didn’t ring a bell, but then it was a long time since Daizell had been in good society. He might be a provincial gentleman who kept himself to himself. Either way, he was pleasant, and he didn’t seem to be a humbugger, and this was the longest conversation Daizell had had in a while, so he might as well see where it went.
‘Help,’ he repeated. ‘What sort of help?’
‘I need someone who knows how to negotiate this business.’
‘Negotiate what, precisely? Because if you mean with fences and thief-takers, I regret that is not my area of expertise.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean that!’ Cassian said hastily. ‘Not at all. I meant – well, someone who knows about this sort of thing in general, or more than I do. Pawn shops, as you said, and people who give false names, and so on.’
‘Someone familiar with the more disreputable side of life, not the world of gentlemen.’
‘Exactly!’ Cassian said, and then his face changed ludicrously. ‘Oh. Uh. I didn’t intend any insult.’
That was the worst part: he clearly hadn’t. He’d stated it as a fact because Daizell Charnage was so very obviously a man one would ask about pawn-shops.
Daizell should probably take offence, stand on his dignity, and consign Mr Cassian to the devil. Any self-respecting gentleman would. But Daizell was rather short on self-respect and indeed gentlemanliness these days, and was there really much point in taking offence at what was, after all, the truth?
Cassian looked exquisitely awkward, but he pressed on. ‘I apologise for my clumsiness, but to be honest, I find myself out of my depth. I only have a month, you see, and I’ve wasted two days of it already.’
‘What happens after the month is up?’
‘I have to go home.’
Daizell considered him. He looked to be in his mid-twenties. Mid-brown hair, middling sort of build, on the shorter end of mid-sized. Nothing noteworthy about him. Ifhe was asking about a man who looked like everybody else, people might enquire whether he’d tried a mirror.
Except for the mouth. He had a nice mouth, well-shaped in an unobtrusive way, with a gentle, almost wistful upward turn to it as though it was his habit both to smile and to hope. Daizell liked people who smiled and hoped because he did so himself. Sometimes those were the only things he could do.
But, returning to the initial point of the examination, Cassian looked mid-twenties, and hefeltwell off, so why would he ‘have’ to go home? A wife waiting? Responsibilities?
