“Nor does it have inclusions”—he, too, tapped the central stone—“but real emeralds almost always do. Just like that.”
“The pearls look real, too.” She sighed. “They told me they’d found it on one of the peddlers’ stalls at the festival. There’s one old man who comes every year—he’s known as Old Joe, but no one knows much about him. But he does have old, dirt-encrusted oddities, things he’s dug up at some of the old Iron Age or Roman sites, so it’s possible they did find it among the lumps on his stall, or one of the similar stalls. There were three.”
He waited until she looked up, caught her eyes, searched them. “Are you worried that they finally stumbled on some wreckers’ treasure?”
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s possible, I suppose, but rational thought suggests that if they didn’t find it at the festival—and other than an instinct that they weren’t precisely telling me the truth, there’s no reason to suppose they didn’t—then they might have found it buried among our grandmother’s things. There are boxes and boxes in the attics, with all sorts of bits and pieces, and they often go fossicking up there. While I would hope there was nothing of this value still up there, it’s entirely possible our grandmother misplaced this piece. She had a huge wardrobe and a jewel collection to match.”
He smiled. “Unlike you.”
She shrugged. “I’m not really one for jewelry. So little seems to suit.”
Reaching into his coat pocket, he returned, “That’s because you’re unique, and so it needs to be made specially for you.” He laid a tissue-wrapped package in her lap. “Like these.”
Madeline frowned at the package. “However did you get time to have anything made?”
“I have my ways, my contacts.”
“Hmm.” She unraveled the ribbon and unwrapped the contents—spilling an ivory fan with rose-gold filigree sticks, beautifully wrought, and what she took to be a rather strange wide bangle in two pieces into her lap.
She picked up the fan, flicked it open, marveled. “I’ve never owned anything half so beautiful.” She met his eyes. “Thank you.”
He smiled and she looked down, set aside the fan and picked up the odd bangle, trying to figure out how….
“Here—let me.”
She surrendered the two pieces, linked by some sort of mechanism. He fiddled for a moment, then turned to her, and lifted his arms above her head…. Her eyes widened. “They’re hair ornaments!”
“Indeed. Specially designed to aid in controlling your wayward locks.” Gervase slipped the two halves over and around her still-reasonably-neat knot, then wound the little screws to tighten the vise. “There.”
He sat back, studied the effect, and smiled, well pleased. He’d had the piece made in the same rose-gold filigree as the fan; the warm sheen of the gold only emphasized the rich luster of her hair, the vibrant brown shot through with copper and red. He met her eyes. “Perfect.”
She studied his eyes, then lifting one hand, framed his jaw and leaned in to press a gentle, slow kiss on his lips. “Thank you,” she murmured when she eventually drew back. She looked again at the fan, then flicked it open; they rose and started back to the house. “Everyone has given me such useful, thoughtful gifts.”
“What did Muriel give you?”
“Riding gloves without buttons.”
He laughed.
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She was defending her ability to manage buttoned gloves when they strolled back onto the terrace and into the drawing room—
“Oh! Here she is!”
“Happy birthday, Madeline, dear!”
Halting, Madeline blinked as the chorus rang in her ears.
“And many more to come, heh?”
She stared in surprise at an entire roomful of guests. She’d had a moment’s warning as they’d approached the French doors and the level of conversation—surely too great for the few guests they’d invited—had registered. But Gervase had had a firm hold on her elbow; he’d swept her over the threshold—into this.
She was instantly surrounded, immediately immersed in the business of accepting everyone’s good wishes and thanking them. Eventually she came upon Muriel, smiling smugly, in the crowd. She spread her hands in amazement. “How did this come about?”
Muriel grinned. “Your brothers decided it was high time you had a proper party for your birthday. It was their idea. The rest of us”—Muriel’s gaze rested on Gervase, still beside Madeline but currently distracted by Mr. Caterham—“just helped them make it happen.”
Madeline glanced at Gervase, remembered…“How did they manage to get me down early…?” She glanced across the room at Harry, chatting with Belinda and Annabel. “The clocks?”