C.J. squinted at the tiny print. “It is inscribed with the initials C.J.W.T. and bears the phrase ‘from her loving parents, Albert and Emma.’ What is this about?” C.J. asked in an astonished whisper.
“The cross, child!” exclaimed Manwaring excitedly. “Is this the mystery?” he asked the pawnbroker.
C.J. extracted the amber cross from where it lay beneath her doublet. She matched the piece of amber to the oddly shaped bit of silver.
“What means all this?” Darlington asked, still averting his eyes from the others. Bad enough that he had been found in such a compromising posture, but had not poor Miss Welles been made to endure enough censure through his attentions to her?
“It fits—just barely,” C.J. said, attempting to insert the cross into its silver backing.
“Bertie.” Lady Dalrymple regarded her brother. “There must be an explanation.”
“As I told Cassandra, I have had the unhappy occasion to consort with a number of shylocks over the years who have crossed my palm with silver. I cannot rightly recall a transaction with Mr. Dingle, though I confess his face is one I do remember.”
“If I do not bespeak my modesty too much, I have a good memory for details. And a better one for figures,” the pawnbroker said. “Since I opened my business nearly fifty years ago, I have recorded every transaction from each client who has entered my shop. I have just given Miss Welles the piece of silver backing into which the very same amber cross she now wears was set, the entirety given to her at her birth. The marquess removed the silver backing and pawned it with me decades ago in order to satisfy a gambling debt. Truth to tell,” Dingle added, removing his conical hat and scratching an itch under his skullcap, “with my clientele . . . the buyers . . . I don’t get much call for a piece this shape. Besides, it’s too small and the value of the silver is worth bupkes. It was only good for scrap, and wouldn’t fetch much because it is not much more than an inch long, and hollowed out to make room to set the cross. But the marquess brought me a few items at the time, and so I gave him a guinea for it. His wife had just died and he had a young daughter to raise alone. My heart went out to him.”
C.J. was stunned. “But how did you remember you had it after all these years?”
“Remember I didn’t. It was her ladyship who remembered.”
“I cannot take that credit, Mr. Dingle,” replied Lady Chatterton in her lovely, silvery voice. “Several weeks ago, I had occasion to visit my solicitors, and was ushered into Mr. Oxley’s office to wait while Mr. Oxley and Mr. Morton were engaged with another client. The walls are not as thick as one might imagine, even for such accommodations in the Strand. I beg you to forgive me, Euphoria, but I chanced to overhear some of the discussion about your niece’s inheriting your brother’s title and property as well as your own wealth and personal effects. I remembered that the marquess had lost his daughter when she was a child of about three years old.” Lady Chatterton regarded Manwaring with the utmost compassion. “I have always believed in my heart that his lordship has not deserved the ignominy accorded to him for this past quarter century.”
“Ha!” snorted Lady Oliver. “He’s naught but a dissipate drunk and a degenerate. An actor!”
Lady Chatterton ignored the interruption. “His wife died giving birth to their only child. What deeper sorrow can one possibly imagine? And how hasty everyone was to condemn him for his subsequent decline. I daresay it would take nearly inhuman strength to overcome such tragedy without some loss of dignity. Lady Dalrymple’s conversation with her solicitors gave me the notion to embark upon a quest. Over the years, the marquess had occasion to confide to me his overwhelming feelings of guilt and remorse over the unfortunate loss—or should I say ‘misplacing’—of his young daughter. He agonized over having pawned the silver from the cross given to her at birth, cognizant that he had no right to do such a thing with an item not only not his own, but the sole property of his innocent babe. I thought at the very least, I might be able to locate and reacquire the bit of sterling so that Manwaring would have something to remember his daughter by. And a few weeks ago, when I learned quite by happy accident that Lady Cassandra was alive and well and living under her aunt’s protection, I thought to help reunite father and child. And what pleasure it would afford me if the marquess could then restore the pawned item to its rightful owner! Aware that his lordship had divested himself of nearly all the material particulars of his estate, I visited every pawnshop in London, and at long last I came upon Mr. Dingle’s emporium. He most obligingly showed me his ledgers. I perused every entry under Manwaring’s name and when I spied the record with regard to the bit of silver backing, I asked Mr. Dingle if he would be so good as to send a note to Lady Dalrymple in Bath, addressed to the attention of her niece.”
Manwaring removed his heavy headdress and placed it on the ground beside him. He was sweating profusely and accepted the loan of the Jew’s large white handkerchief.
“What are you saying, Lady Chatterton?” C.J. asked. Her heart pounded against the walls of her chest.
“I am saying that it appears that you have been reunited with your family after all these long years of absence.”
A stupefied C.J. glanced speechlessly from Lady Chatterton to Manwaring to Lady Dalrymple.
“The T is for Tobias, of course. And the W on the inscription was for your mother’s maiden name—Warburton,” murmured Lady Dalrymple.
“Siddons,” Manwaring said slowly, regarding C.J. in the great tragedienne’s velvet doublet. “It was
