She smiled broadly. “Good morning, Mr. Sumner.”

“Miss Keyes. Miss Yates,” Sumner replied, bowing slightly to Emma and Grace.

“What’s the news from Jacob?” Emma asked as Blackford and I moved closer and Frances moved her customer farther away.

“The clerk he thought was the traitor has a well-to-do grandfather who sent the lad to school and got him the job in the Admiralty. He explained his ready cash to Jacob without realizing the point of a conversation on families. He also mentioned a fellow clerk who’s been secretive lately and suddenly moved to nicer lodgings. Jacob’s going to follow up on him today.” Sumner delivered what was for him a lengthy speech as he gazed only at Emma.

“I hope you told Jacob to be careful,” she responded directly to him.

“Is he your sweetheart?” Sumner asked with what could have passed for laughter rattling around in the rough edges of his voice.

“No. We come from the same neighborhood. Jacob could have been my brother.”

“Sumner. A word,” the duke said, and Sumner followed him to a corner of the shop. They kept their voices lowered so that I couldn’t overhear their conversation.

Then Blackford put on his white cotton gloves and strolled to the counter. “I’ll be by at eleven to take you to Newgate Prison. Now, let’s see if you have any antiquarian volumes that interest me.”

I showed him a beautifully bound and preserved quarto of the New Testament. I knew there was no point in giving him a sales pitch. If he liked it, he’d buy it on the spot.

One of our most annoying customers, Mrs. Rutherford, pranced in the open doorway, her maid holding a parasol over her mistress’s graying curls and massively flowered hat. The lady carried her yapping lapdog in a basket. Emma moved to wait on her and I turned back to the duke.

He examined the volume closely under the electric lights, shrugged, and handed it back. “Any Shakespeare? I’m more interested in sonnets than parables.”

I had an octavo, barely held together any longer, of The Merchant of Venice published at the time of the Restoration. Carefully taking it off the shelf, I held the volume out to him.

The duke stared at it for a moment and then took it, quickly becoming absorbed in his examination. “I’ll give you thirty pounds for it,” he said, not looking up.

“Fifty. It’s very rare.”

“It’s in horrible shape.”

The book had been eaten by book worms and attacked on one edge by mold. The ink had faded. I knew what he said was true. “Not as horrible as most copies that age. They no longer exist.”

Beyond him, I saw Frances whisper to Grace, and then both of them looked intently in Emma’s direction. At the same moment, I saw the stray cat we called Charles Dickens wander in the open door. He headed straight for Emma’s skirt.

Grace began to move toward him in one direction and I crossed the shop in another. Mrs. Rutherford’s maid had put away the parasol and was now carrying the basket with the dog.

Dickens marched up to the maid and meowed loudly, which set the flat-faced dog to barking madly, her tufts of hair shaking with every move as she hopped around. The maid looked down, saw the cat, and jumped, jostling the basket.

The dog must have seen that as a sign to jump down. She landed first on the maid’s dress, then bounced over to her mistress’s skirt, and finally back to the maid’s skirt above her shoes. Once on the floor, she lunged at Dickens, barking and hopping.

Dickens held his ground, staring at the dog. The dog yapped, her flat face coming within striking distance, the fur on her ears quivering. The cat hissed. Suddenly, a brown paw swung out, claws extended. The dog howled and dashed under Mrs. Rutherford’s skirts.

The woman shrieked, holding up her skirts in a shocking display while trying to locate the dog.

The maid rescued the dog, Grace grabbed Dickens, and I rushed in to make peace with Mrs. Rutherford.

“My dog has a bloodied nose,” she exclaimed, once again holding the dog basket and petting the shivering dog.

“I’m so sorry. You’re very wise to keep her in a basket where she’s free from unfortunate incidents.” Such as being stepped on or kicked. Dogs did not belong in bookshops. Neither did cats, but Dickens was a good mouser.

“You should keep animals from coming into your shop.”

I smiled. “Then I should have to ban your dog.”

“Saucy girl.”

“I’d have to ban Saucy Girl.” I’d love to. The racket the dog made when left alone in her basket was nearly as bad as when Dickens struck.

“No. You’re being a saucy girl. The dog’s name is Jane and she’s a well-mannered house dog. You’re keeping a feral cat.”

I restrained myself from throwing her bodily into the street for her insult. Instead I said, “Dickens isn’t feral. He’s a working cat, performing a valued service for the shopkeepers on this street. If we didn’t have Dickens, we’d be overrun with vermin.”

Seeing her face turn crimson, I added, “You’ll need to have Jane return at a time when we’re certain Dickens isn’t working in the immediate area.”

“How will we know?”

“I have no idea. I’ve not figured out his work schedule yet.” I was keeping both my temper and a straight face with difficulty.

“Well, I hope you teach that cat some manners.”

“I’m sure Grace is dealing with him most severely. Now, Emma, will you see what Mrs. Rutherford requires.”

I returned to waiting on the duke, certain Grace was in the office spoiling Dickens.

Blackford looked up from the ancient volume and continued our discussion as if it hadn’t been interrupted. “That’s why you keep old books behind the brass grille, so air will flow around them. That’s why you installed electric lights, to keep gas and oil smoke from damaging them. That’s why you keep them at torso height, so there won’t be as great a temperature change as at floor or ceiling level. You have a soft spot for the written word. You can’t stand to see old books dissolve into dust.”

He smiled then and reached for his wallet. “And I should never forget you know this business as well as you know how to step into character and run an investigation. Forty.”

“No. Fifty. It is a very rare edition.”

Carefully turning it over in his hands once more, he said, “Done.”

“I’ll wrap it for you.” I took a piece of brown paper and carefully began to cocoon the volume. “I think it matters to you, too. That old things don’t turn to dust.”

“My title’s older than that book. I feel comfortable with old things.” After he paid me and took his parcel, he gave me a slight bow, glanced at Mrs. Rutherford, and then turned back to give me a wink. “Everything all right now, Miss Keyes?”

Emma dropped into a curtsy and said, “It is, Your Grace. Mrs. Rutherford, may I present the Duke of Blackford?”

Mrs. Rutherford smiled, simpered, and fussed with her hat as the duke nodded to her. Then she gave a deep curtsy, nearly dropping the dog out of its basket again. “Pleased to meet you, Your Grace.”

“Good day, Mrs. Rutherford.” Then he walked out of the bookshop, Sumner on his heels.

The duke knew the power of his title. Mrs. Rutherford fussed the rest of her visit, but she also was heard to giggle.

Blackford had been gone less than five minutes before Sir Jonah Denby arrived, swinging his cane as he walked up to me. “How is the investigation coming, Miss Fenchurch?”

I motioned him to join me in my office away from customers. Once we were in the privacy of the crowded space, I asked, “Have you been sending me threatening notes?”

His green eyes widened. “Good heavens, no. I’m on your side.”

“The Duke of Blackford is working with Whitehall, and he swears he’s never met you, much less told you what I’m doing.” I’d found a few mentions of Denby working for Her Majesty’s government. He had to be legitimate, and yet—