It was as if the entire room was holding its breath.
Agatha’s smile widened. “Say, an extra shilling a month? And two shillings to you, Mr. Downes. For the overall excellence of your work, and that of the entire shop.”
Mr. Downes’ stiffness vanished, relief pouring off him like smoke. “Thank you, Mrs. Griffin,” he breathed.
Agatha nodded, took Penelope’s arm, and strode out into the winter world again. Just before the door snicked shut behind her, she heard the unmistakable sound of voices raised in excitement.
So what if she was buying their loyalty and goodwill? What else were employersfor? And the quicker Lady Summerville’s money left her hands, the better Agatha felt about not giving it back.
Her lover’s frown, however, grew and grew as they walked by the snow-decked houses of Melliton. “What’s wrong?” Agatha asked.
Penelope Flood, bless her, didn’t beat around the bush. “Where do you suppose Lady Summerville got all that money?”
Agatha blinked. “What do you mean?”
“That was a great deal of cash to spend for those handbills,” Penelope said, waving at one as they passed.
Agatha’s hands itched to tear it down from the post—but there were too many windows around them, staring like pupil-less eyes.
Penelope waved at the vicarage, new windows misted over from the warmth within and frost without. “Mr. Oliver’s new glass couldn’t have come cheaply, either—not as quickly as they were replaced. And that’s not even counting the bounties offered for information on—” her lips twisted painfully “—sedition, blasphemy, or obscenity.”
“It does sound like a lot, when you list it out,” Agatha muttered.
Penelope nodded sharply. “So where is shegettingit all? Everyone knows Viscount Summerville’s never had two pennies to rub together.”
Agatha tucked Penelope closer against her side as they passed from the village and into the wood. “We know where the money comes from,” she said. “She sold all of Isabella’s statues.”
Penelope’s mouth gaped, then snapped almost audibly shut. “You’re right,” she said weakly—then cursed loudly enough to startle a raven into flight from a nearby tree. Both women flung their hands over their heads as snow flurries and icy droplets rained down on them both.
Penelope cursed again, low and bitter this time. “Howdareshe,” she hissed. “How dare she put Isabella’s work to such a use, when she knows Isabella herself would never have supported such—cruelty.” She was shaking, her hands clenching shut and then flying open again, so bloody furious that Agatha was surprised the snow around her feet didn’t melt and sublimate into steam.
“She’s sold off nearly all of them, you said,” Agatha murmured. She put a hand on Penelope’s elbow, soothing. “The funds will run out, too, soon enough.”
Penelope’s mouth went flat. “Unless she’s also sold the Napoleon snuffbox.”
Agatha gaped.
Penelope’s gaze was bleak and cold as the woods. “Her statues were not small, but the snuffbox was even more valuable. It had rings of diamonds, and the highest quality enamel, and a portrait of the emperor himself.” She kicked at a particularly grimy chink of ice. “She could fund the Mendacity Society for a decade with that kind of money.”
“Damn,” Agatha breathed.
Penelope wheeled to face her. “Do you still recall the name of that barrister you met? The one who told you where to find the dryad statue?”
“I can do better than that,” Agatha promised. “I’ve already written to a few London art brokers about the Napoleon. They’re sure to know who’s been arranging those sales—it’s a small, gossipy world and they’ll be thrilled to be able to share what they know.”
“Thank you,” Penelope said. One corner of her lip tilted upward.
They walked on, but after three steps Agatha felt her heart sink as something else occurred to her: Joanna Molesey would be bloodyfuriousif Lady Summerville had sold that snuffbox. And a furious Joanna was a dangerous Joanna.
Bad enough that the Wasp’s popularity had caught the attention of the law in London. It wasn’t fair, Agatha knew—but that had been little comfort when she’d been facing down soldiers in her own storefront.
Agatha had paid the price for Joanna Molesey’s anger last time.
Who in Melliton would suffer, if she decided to sting again?
It was bound to happen: the Christmas holidays came to a close. Agatha and her family returned to London; Penelope yearned to claim a farewell kiss, but had to be content to squeeze her beloved’s hand as she and the young folk climbed up into the stage.
After the coach had trundled off through the slush, Penelope trudged back to Fern Hall, where Harry and John flirted cozily as they sprawled on the hearth like two great mastiffs. Penelope sat in the armchair, tucked her legs beneath her, and began counting the hours until Agatha’s next letter.
