“I love him, Papa. How many times have you told me of the love between you and Mama? How many things would you have given up to be with her? I shall be independent. I shall still carve wax and make jewelry. I can be independent and be with the man I love.”
“He should marry you!” her father snapped.
“He cannot. You know that as well as I.”
Her father did. They both knew the ways of the aristocracy. And yet, the pain in his eyes when he looked at her tore at her heart. “Your mother would not approve.”
That was a stab to her heart. Enough that she flinched. But she lifted her head and spoke the truth. “Then it is good that she is not here to stop me.”
“I forbid it!” he roared.
This she had anticipated. “Papa, if you deny me, I will leave today. You will never see me again, and I will carve wax for someone else.”
He reared back as if struck because she had indeed hit him where he was most vulnerable. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would, Papa. Because I am a grown woman, and it is time I left the Lyon’s Den.”
That was all she would say. So, she passed by him, her body stiff and her arms aching to hug her father. But she didn’t. She went into the workshop. She did what was needed to make the brooch. She handled the hot metals and the fire. And after an hour’s labor, her father joined her. He didn’t say a word. Disapproval radiated off of him, but he helped her fashion the piece. And they did not speak of her future again.
She missed Elliott when he came to pick up the brooch the next day. She was with her grandfather in the cage, and Elliott did not linger in the shop. Whatever words were said between him and her father remained a secret. And though it irked her that he had not stopped to say hello, she understood that a mistress’s job was to wait on the man. He did not owe her a visit, and more importantly, she heard from her father that his vote was scheduled for that afternoon.
At least she had time to say her goodbyes to her friends at the Lyon’s Den. Many cried. Most applauded her. And as one, the entire establishment waited for the moment Elliott came to claim her for her happily ever after.
He did not show that evening, though she heard from the gossip in the Den that the vote went his way. And she waited through another day.
The next morning, Amber listened to gossip from the ladies’ side about Lady Morthan’s granddaughter. Apparently, the girl had worn the brooch during her presentation to the Prince Regent, and all was well there. An excellent outcome, at least for now. Her grandson was still a thief who should never gamble.
Mr. Christopher Jupp visited the shop on the third day of waiting. They spoke quickly and quietly, and she told him the truth. She was in love with someone else and could not go against her heart. She was not meant for society, and so she would stay here and make jewelry in secret. And when their conversation was over, she passed him a list of women she thought would please him better. She had met a few who were not spiteful. Ones who might understand his artistic soul.
And she waited through another day and night.
By the fourth day, the women in the Lyon’s Den were giving her pitying looks. As many stories as there were of women who became mistresses, there were five times that number of girls being tricked by a man’s promise. Of women who languished in wait because the man they trusted had lied.
But that wouldn’t happen to her. She knew Elliott. He was simply busy. He was arranging things. He would not abandon her because he loved her. Hadn’t he said so on the night she had given him her virginity?
He loved her.
Or perhaps he had gotten what he wanted and now had disappeared when it came time to pay for what she wanted. A home of her own was expensive. Perhaps with distance, he had realized she wasn’t that special after all. Perhaps his mother had found the perfect wife for him, and he was busy courting that paragon.
Such fears ran through her mind. She dismissed them as best she could. Elliott would come for her. She only had to wait a little longer.
On the fifth day, Mrs. Dove-Lyon invited her to tea. Amber went and listened for an entire hour to stories of women who had been fooled by clever men. Amber was not alone, declared the den owner. Many a girl—Mrs. Dove-Lyon included—had come out stronger and smarter after being swindled. The woman meant well, but her words did not help Amber. Elliott would come for her. She declared it loudly and believed it with all her heart. It was only her mind that disagreed.
It didn’t help that the weather continued to be abominable. Drizzle at the beginning of the week, storms in the middle, and now more rain, such as must have been seen by Noah in his ark. Anyone who ventured outside became drenched in what felt like the displeasure of an angry god. Everyone’s mood was terrible because no one liked hunkering down in their homes. Those that ventured out were soaked to the skin and terrified of illness.
And still, Amber waited while her father paced and glowered at the sky. No customers came in such weather and no Elliott either. Until the night when the sky was pitch black, the roads were more water than mud, and someone banged hard on the den door.
Amber was bringing her grandfather tea in the cage. If she had been locked inside, she would not have heard the prodigious male sneeze that accompanied the gust of bitter wind that blew in from the open door. But she was heading back upstairs, and so she did hear it, and she heard a voice, too. A male voice, dominant and filled with irritation. “Where is Amber Gohar? Or Thisbe Gold?”
Elliott!
He was here! On a night fit for only the devil, Elliott had finally come.
“Wherever she is,” grumbled Lysander from the door. “She ain’t willing to see you.”
“Yes, I am!” she cried as she started to rush forward. But she was holding her grandfather’s tea and sloshed it as she moved. Cursing, she handed the tray to the nearest person—many had looked up at the noise, and she rushed forward. Fortunately, she didn’t have to go far. Elliott was mounting the steps three at a time, and they came face to face at the top.
“Amber,” he breathed as he brushed water out of his eyes.
