“Leaving behind a mold,” Elliott said as he looked at an entire shelf of molds for rings, pendants, and brooches.
“She designed all of those,” Mr. Gold said, pointing at the top shelf. “A true artist, my daughter. Her hands were made for this work.”
Amber shot her father a wry look, and Elliott immediately guessed her thoughts. She was wondering—if her hands were made for this work—why had he dowered her so well as to marry away from it? This kind of work wouldn’t be acceptable in a titled lady. It was considered a trade, for all that she seemed a true artist at it.
“Come, come,” Mr. Gold said as he tugged on Elliott’s sleeve. “Leave her to criticize the new boy’s sketches. We will drink and discuss matters.”
He wasn’t sure what there was to discuss, but this was Mr. Gold’s show, and so, he followed silently into the main showroom.
“We live upstairs,” Mr. Gold said. “Top floor where there is better sun. But that is not fit for company. So, we sit here near my treasure, and we drink to her health.” From his expression, it was clear he meant his daughter was his treasure, not the gemstones or jewelry contained in this place.
“I will drink to that,” Elliott said.
Mr. Gold brought out a small table and chairs and set them in the center of the showroom. Then he produced a brandy fine enough that Elliott’s brows rose in surprise.
“When I toast my daughter, we drink the best,” Mr. Gold said.
Such pride in his voice, such love in his every word and gesture. Elliott couldn’t stop a pang of envy. His own father had passed before he’d seen Elliott grown. Worse, Elliott had been at school when the man was ill and had never had a chance to say goodbye. If his father had lived, would he beam with pride like Mr. Gold did? Would he pull out the finest brandy and drink to Elliott’s future?
He would never know. But in the absence of his own father, he would make merry with Amber’s. He toasted to her health, to her future, to a husband who understood how to make her happy.
“And how would he do that?” Elliott asked, his body warm with drink and good cheer.
“I tell you,” Mr. Gold said as he leaned forward. “When we left Germany, my baby girl cried. She cried and cried because she had cousins, you see. Family we have never seen again. I tried everything to make her happy. I plied her with sweets, sang to her at night, even carried her around like a baby when she had nightmares, and she was no baby then. It was heavy to carry an eight-year-old all night.”
Elliott laughed. “I’m sure it was.”
“And do you know what her mother said to me when my arms were aching and my throat so dry from singing? She told me to leave the child alone. Amber will always find her way in her own way. She is like her mother in that. Her mother did things as she chose, and woe to any man to tell her different.” Admiration rang in his tone.
“And did Amber find her way?”
“She did. She picked up my carving knife and made a bird of wax so she could fly back home whenever she wanted.”
“Really? Do you have it?”
He snorted. “No! It was a badly done. What eight-year-old can carve a bird? But she had stopped crying, and so I let her keep carving.” He threw back the rest of his drink, then stretched out his legs with a smile. “I trust you, my lord, with my greatest treasure. Find her a husband who will let her find her own way, yes?”
Elliott fidgeted with his drink. There were plenty of disinterested husbands in the ton. Indeed, most couldn’t care less about their wives beyond the getting of an heir, but he had never thought that a recipe for a happy marriage. He glanced behind him. He could see Amber through the door as she wielded a small knife with deft fingers. He could not see what she made, but he could see the absolute concentration on her face.
“You want her to be able to keep carving for you,” he said quietly. No doubt, her designs brought in a great deal of money.
“Not for me,” the man said with a frown. “Most buyers have no imagination. A ring with diamonds around it. Bah. Boring. Even the new apprentice will do that within a year. No, her carving is for her, and her husband must let her do it.” He flicked his glance back into the room where Amber seemed completely absorbed in her work. “See? No tears.”
“But I still have ears,” Amber said loudly, though her gaze never wavered from what she made in her hands. “And I will select my husband, not Lord Byrn.”
“Of course, of course,” her father said with a fond smile. Then he spoke softly, in an undertone that only Elliott could hear. “But you will see that she selects from only the best, yes?”
“She has a level head and has seen the men in the Den. I doubt she will choose someone ruinous.”
Mr. Gold shot him with a stern look. It said without words that her father expected him to make sure that Amber chose wisely. Elliott nodded his agreement. Nothing was said aloud, but the bargain was struck.
They relaxed back in their chairs, then, and spoke of gentlemanly things. Her father had an interest in politics, and their discussion was heated at times, but no less invigorating. Mr. Gold brought a continental perspective to the matters in England, and the evening passed with exceptional good cheer. Until the man stretched and yawned.
“It is late, and my eyes are blurry. You will see my daughter returned safely to Lady Dunnamore’s? She will likely want to carve for several more hours.”
Really? It was almost midnight.
Mr. Gold shrugged when he saw Elliott look at his pocket watch. “A true artist never considers the time.” It was clear that Amber was indeed a true artist. “And in case you worry for your safety, the doors are well locked, and Amber is very good with knives.”
That was Mr. Gold’s way of reminding Elliott to behave around his daughter, and that Amber would likely stab him if he tried anything unseemly.
“I have no doubt that she could gut me, if she chose to.”
Mr. Gold flashed him a drunken grin but didn’t speak. Amber spoke instead.
“There is no need for him to stay, Papa. I will sleep upstairs tonight.”
“You will not,” Mr. Gold said sternly. “A true lady does not spend her nights here.” He made an expansive gesture at the Den and the surrounding neighborhood. “Besides, the boy sleeps with us now. There is no room for a fine lady like you.”
Amber lifted her gaze to her father, and her eyes again held the sheen of tears. “I am not a fine lady yet.”
Her father laughed. “Little Juwel, you have been a fine lady since you could put on a pretty dress and dance the Landler.” He looked to Elliott. “She learned the steps when she was six. That is when she first told me she would marry a prince.” He crossed slowly into the workroom to press a sloppy kiss to her forehead. She returned it in a much neater fashion, and then together, they inspected her carving.
It was a firebird, wings upstretched with flame at its feet. The feathers were precise, the flames exquisite, and the whole creation entirely lifelike. It took Elliott’s breath away.
“Very good,” her father said with a grunt. “What stone for the eye?”
“A ruby. Not too large—”
“But of excellent quality. Yes. I have just the stone.” He turned to a wooden case with narrow drawers, but his gestures were too large and too imprecise. Amber had to hunch over the wax to protect it.