Chapter One
“’Tis indeed the very dragon that can help ye find yer kinfolk, milady!
He be nae ordinary type o’ dragon, that he nae.
” The hobgoblin dragged a line through the forest on the map with a gnarled forefinger.
“But ye best be asking for an escort from Ogress Barlayhurl. These woods have a hungry way about them, that they do.”
—The Dragon and the Blue Star by Analise Crewe
Several years later . . .
Analise Crewe had proven a damnably difficult young lady to find.
When his man of business had arrived at the finishing school, the headmistress had informed him that Miss Crewe, unable to pay her tuition, had left the school by night with one small valise, observed only by a guard, telling no one her destination.
She’d simply vanished. A young lady all alone in the world. Where had she gone? Every day that passed made Dex imagine worse and worse fates. He and his agents searched high and low—every distant relation of Crewe’s, every possible connection with one of Analise’s schoolmates—to no avail.
If only he’d regained consciousness earlier, he might have found her safe and sound at the finishing school. He would never stop trying to find her.
He’d done everything in his power: interviewed her schoolmates, placed advertisements with her portrait in all the newspapers, visited every boarding house for ladies in London.
He’d left word at every pawnshop in London about the emerald jewelry she’d been wearing in the miniature portrait, offering to purchase it at three times the price in exchange for information about the seller.
It was this latter line of inquiry that had finally yielded fruit.
Just this morning he’d received notice from a pawnbroker that he might have a match on the emerald necklace.
It was the best lead Dex had encountered yet.
He wasn’t going to entrust it to an agent.
The pawnshop was cramped and grubby and smelled of mildewed old clothing and acrid metal polish. “Are you Mr. Henry Arkwright?”
“Who’s askin’?” The man behind the counter had a face that was permanently flushed a violent purple and deeply wizened, looking for all the world like a prune brought to life by a magician with a questionable sense of humor.
“The Duke of Warburton. You answered my notice about a particular emerald jewelry set.”
“Oh, well now, a duke, is it?” He pantomimed a facetious bow, his florid face wrinkled and winking. “We don’t usually entertain the Fancy in these parts lest it’s for the bawdy house down the way.”
Dex’s throat closed and he had to fight to draw breath. If Miss Crewe had fallen into such dire straits that she’d been forced to sell her body he’d never forgive himself. Never.
“Do you have the jewelry?”
“That depends. Do you have my forty quid?”
“I’ll make it fifty if you show it to me in the next two minutes.”
That lit a fire under the man. He jumped up from his stool with an unexpected vigor and unlocked a glass case behind the counter.
“Been keeping them safe, yer lordship. Wouldn’t let no one buy them.
Sure and it’s the pieces you’re searching for—the clasp of the necklace is engraved with the initials A.C.
, like your notice said would be there.”
The necklace was composed of delicate strands of gold chain interspersed with bands of emeralds, the matching earrings featuring emerald drops hung by the same intricate gold chain.
They looked like the ones Analise had worn in the miniature portrait, but he must be certain he wasn’t being swindled.
He borrowed Arkwright’s loupe and studied the engraving.
If it had been done recently, the patina would be brighter, but everything had the dull finish of age.
The scrolling initials stood for Albertine Crewe, Analise’s French mother.
Dex gave the loupe back to Arkwright. “Who sold these to you?”
“Well now, that might be difficult to remember . . . I’m an old man and my memory isn’t what it used to be . . . Perhaps if you upped your reward to—”
Losing patience, Dex grabbed him by the collar, twisting until the man clutched at his neck with both hands. “Does this refresh your memory?”
“No need for . . . violence,” Arkwright grumbled, scrabbling at Dex’s fingers.
Dex released his hold. “Well? The seller. I want every detail you remember.”
“It was a girl. About eighteen years old, I’d say.
A redheaded wee slip of a thing. Had a very fast and confusing way of talking.
Gave me her whole life history, she did.
Her father was a cavalryman went missing in the war and on and on about how she was going to find him and this was her mother’s jewelry and she’d be back to retrieve them just as soon as she sold some sort of novel she was writing. ”
Finally! It must be Miss Crewe. “How long ago was this?”
“The ear drops came in weeks ago. The necklace only two days past. You’re lucky I saw your advertisement before I sold them.”
“Did she say where she was living?”
Arkwright closed his lips mutinously and stared pointedly at Dex’s coat pocket. “You promised thrice the price of the jewelry.”
Dex laid the required amount of banknotes on the counter, pocketing the jewelry.
“Miss Flanagan’s boarding house—down Old Nichols Street and turn right on . . .”
Dex was out the door before he’d finished the sentence.
Ana Crewe was surrounded by tempting books yet marooned on an uncomfortable oak chair with nothing to read. Every time she made even the slightest twitch, the officious clerk occupying the desk outside of Mr. Norwood’s office fixed her with such a glare that she instantly froze.
She longed to run to the shelves lining the room and caress the spines of the illustrious novels published by Norwood & Pennington. The reception chamber smelled of woody ink, earthy leather, and her most cherished ambition: becoming a published author.
Her former employer, Lady Muriel Claridge, had sent Ana’s manuscript to her publisher.
Lady Claridge had been the author of a successful series of domestic romances set in the fictitious village of Clovercote.
Ladies across Britain had written her letters almost weekly, gushing about how much they loved her novels, begging her to write a book featuring their favorite side character, or asking questions about contentious plot points.
Ana recognized the blue velvet bags embroidered with the gold publishing house insignia occupying one of the bookshelves.
Lady Claridge had received one of those elegant bags by special delivery upon the publication of each new novel.
Inside the bag was a personal note from Mr. Norwood, her editor, a bottle of port wine, and a small gift—usually gold jewelry.
Ana dreamed of the day when she would receive one of those velvet bags.
The attached note on thick cream-colored stationery written with flourishing blue ink would read: Dear Miss Crewe, we at Norwood & Pennington are delighted by the unprecedented success of The Dragon and the Blue Star.
We await your new manuscript with eagerness. Yours devotedly, Theobald Norwood.
Mr. Norwood had kept Ana’s manuscript for nearly a year with no word as to its suitability for publication.
She’d inquired at the publishing house every day since she arrived in London two months ago.
Finally, she’d been granted an audience.
She’d waited forever for this meeting. What was a few more hours?
An eternity when her entire future was at stake.
This meeting could change the entire course of her life, or it could leave her friendless and alone in London, with no means of paying her rent.
The door to Mr. Norwood’s office opened slightly, and the clerk leapt to his feet.
Ana perched on the edge of the chair. Finally she’d be face-to-face with the great man himself.
“Mr. Norwood will see you now, Miss Crewe,” the clerk intoned, holding the door wider.
Ana fairly flew into the office, ignoring the pins and needles in her legs. “Mr. Norwood, it’s an honor to meet you, sir!” He was smaller than she’d pictured him to be, balding, with a sour expression as though he’d been sucking on a lemon before she arrived.
He studied her for a moment. “You are Miss Analise Crewe?”
“Yes sir.”
“When Lady Claridge sent me your manuscript, she wrote that you were her trusted companion and amanuensis. I assumed you would be older. What is your age?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
He folded his hands on his desk. “I read the first few chapters of your novel this morning, Miss Crewe.”
“You only read it this morning?”
“Do you see this towering pile of manuscripts, my girl? We receive hundreds of inquiries every month. Yours only rose to the top because of Lady Claridge’s personal recommendation.
I assumed your work would be similar in style and substance to your mentor’s elegant and gentlewomanly tales, yet what did I find?
Faery queens, talking dragons, princesses setting off on ludicrous quests. Pah!”
She wrapped her fingers tightly together in front of her in an unwitting attitude of prayer, willing herself to ignore a growing sense of dread. “Lady Claridge read my novel and said that it was quite different and delightful.”
“Different, yes. Delightful? She must have been blinded by affection.”
The breath left her chest in a rush, leaving her momentarily silent. Disbelief was giving way to dismal recognition of a new, unpleasant reality. She raised her face, focusing her eyes on his. “You didn’t like it?”
“The writing had a measure of charm, I will grant you, yet the novel doesn’t fit into any of the categories of literature that we publish, particularly the genres well suited to a woman’s sensibilities.
It’s not a children’s morality tale, nor is it a comedy of manners, nor even a volume of poetry, such as is fitting for the refined reader of today. ”
“The Brothers Grimm had great success with their fairy tales only recently.”