Free A Worthy Wife by Bárbara Metzger

two gold balls hanging outside his ramshackle, rundown shop. The other had fallen to the ground, some time in the last century. “It’s a deuced pawn shop!” Kenyon complained as Ned went to the horses’ heads.
    “But not a fence, guv’nor. I wouldn’t bring ’er ladyship to no criminal ken, don’t you know. All the folks what bring their merchandise to No More has swallowed a spider, legitimate. Most are swells, too.”
    Aurora needed a translation.
    “Your protégé seems to believe that all the goods herein come from the homes of the upper classes, those who find themselves temporarily financially embarrassed.”
    She nodded, taking his arm as they walked through the narrow door and hoping he would stop fretting about leaving his cattle in Ned’s hands. “Debtors. I should think that selling off their heirlooms is preferable to going to Fleet Prison. At least their creditors might be paid.”
    Kenyon wasn’t listening. “Great gods, is that a Tintoretto?” He had his quizzing glass out, examining the dark canvas in its heavy gold frame.
    While he and Mr. Morris enthused over the painting’s provenance, then moved on to examine what might be a Turner in better light, an unknown Madonna of the Italianate School, and a vase that No More wouldn’t swear to being Ming, but looked to be a perfect match to one at Warriner House, Aurora wandered around, ignored.
    The shelves were crowded and dusty, the glass cases of jewelry so dirty she had a hard time viewing the contents, and the light so bad that she mistook a sleeping cat for a marble sculpture. Mr. No More Morris might be a collector, but he was no housekeeper.
    Not knowing Lady Anstruther-Jones, of course, Aurora had no idea of the woman’s taste, but couldn’t find anything that she thought might be a suitable gift. The diamonds resembled crystal chandeliers, the pearls were the size of birds’ eggs, and the emeralds looked like they belonged on Cleopatra’s breastplate. No woman of refinement would wear such gaudy pieces, except to a masquerade.
    Perhaps a well-traveled, elderly lady would like an antique book. Aurora picked one off a pile on the floor, only to have the gold-leafed cover come off in her hands. She sneezed, from the dust or the cat, and her husband looked up, as if suddenly remembering her existence. “One of these will be perfect for the viscountess. Why don’t you pick out a necklace for yourself while Morris shows me what he has in the back room?”
    There was more of the stuff? Aurora sighed, then dutifully regarded the jewelry again. She’d rather have the cat. On top of one of the cases, though, she spotted a gold filigree butterfly on a wooden base. Lifting it, she saw that a key on the bottom made the butterfly sway and turn to a tinkling little tune. Aunt Thisbe would adore it. Aurora held onto the music box, thinking to show Ned, so he could return for it once she had an allowance of her own and could afford to buy gifts for her aunt and uncle.
    Kenyon and the proprietor returned to the shop’s front room, both carrying stacks of paintings and portfolios. When Mr. Morris went back for the rest, and string to tie them with, the earl grinned at Aurora. “Can you believe I found a Leonardo sketch? I’m sure it’s his, with the mirror writing. It’s a lovely piece on its own, even if it does turn out to be by one of his students. And the price was too good to pass up. What a find this place is! I’ll have to apologize to Needles, and make sure he doesn’t tell anyone else about it. Did you find something you like?”
    “Just this, for my—”
    She held up the music box, but a collection of snuff boxes caught his eye. He had to squint to see them in the poor light. “Fine, fine, whatever you like, my dear.”
    Just then a shelf full of clocks started to toll the hour. Some chimed, some gonged, one had a little bird that warbled, and another was in the shape of a ship that rocked. They did not all finish at the same