Read Online Den of Thieves by Julia Golding - Free Book Online

or two were gentler with their refusals, making a pretence at glancing over my work, even offering a word or two of advice, but it still ended up at the same point with me outside, shut out from the world of books within.
    I had started with the larger premises, the shops owned by names I recognized. By late afternoon, I had started to explore the little stores in the sidestreets, producers of radical pamphlets and scandal sheets. After my twentieth rejection, I was on the point of giving up.
    â€˜Just one more,’ I promised myself.
    Chance had brought me outside a dingy shop in a passageway off St Paul’s Churchyard, belonging to one Mr Tweadle,
purveyor of fine literature to the respectable classes
, according to the sign on the door. I wasn’t convinced by this, nor by the creepy-looking customer who sloped out as I entered, but then again, beggars can’t be choosers.
    The shop was dark by contrast to the sunny street and it took my eyes several moments toadjust. It appeared deserted: rows of dusty books lined the walls as though untouched for many years.
    â€˜Yes, miss?’ A thin man with a limp cravat and lank white hair popped up from behind the counter, making me start.
    â€˜Um, sorry to bother you, Mr . . .?’ I began.
    â€˜Tweadle, miss,
the
Mr Tweadle.’ He rubbed his hands together and smiled at me without showing his teeth.
    â€˜Mr Tweadle, I have some stories that I wondered if you might be interested in publishing.’ I pushed them over the counter towards him, anticipating his ‘no’ before it came. He pawed at the manuscripts with his broken nails but said nothing, looking at me curiously from under his sparse white eyebrows.
    â€˜They’re not the usual thing one expects from the female pen, I know, but they have been read and enjoyed by some of this country’s noblest families. I have a character reference here.’
    I placed my final card on the table: a letter from Mr Sheridan vouching for my years of faithful service at Drury Lane.
    Mr Tweadle flicked at the letter with a paper-knife. ‘Sheridan,’ he read out. ‘You know him?’
    What was this? A chink of light? Some interest at last?
    â€˜Yes, sir. He was my patron – until a few days ago.’
    Mr Tweadle’s eyes were running over the first page of my story. An eyebrow shot up.
    â€˜
You
wrote this?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’ I wasn’t sure how to take that question: was he shocked, surprised, disgusted? I looked down at my shoes.
    He picked up the letter again. ‘This says you served as a maid-of-all-work backstage. It says nothing about writing.’
    â€˜I know. But I did write them, I swear.’
    â€˜Hmm.’ Mr Tweadle was now tapping his teeth with the paperknife. ‘Out of work, are you?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Not got a place to stay by the looks of you.’
    I blushed. Was it that obvious?
    â€˜No, sir.’
    â€˜Any family to speak of?’
    â€˜No, sir.’
    â€˜Who’s looking after you then.’
    â€˜Me, sir.’
    â€˜Hmm.’
    There was a pause in which I heard the bells of St Paul’s toll the hour with funereal solemnity.
    â€˜I don’t think these will do,’ Mr Tweadle pronounced at last.
    â€˜Oh, of course.’ I reached out to take them but he snatched them from me.
    â€˜But I’ll give the matter more consideration. There may be something I could use.’
    I was reluctant to be parted from my manuscripts: they were all I had now. ‘But I must –’
    He cut me off. ‘I do however need a maid. The last one left at short notice and things have been rather neglected since then with just me and my assistant to manage on our own.’
    â€˜You want me to be your maid?’
    â€˜Of course. I’m hardly going to ask you to serve at the counter while I cook the supper, am I?’ He gave me a strangely humourless smile.
    â€˜I see.’ My mind