Since her clothing hardly marked her as the sort of wealthy client with whom Laytham normally dealt, she had to convey that it was a matter of urgency and importance, involving one of the hundred-year-old pamphlets he so prized. The ploy worked. Hero was immediately shown into an office where Laytham conducted his more mundane business. He was an older man, his middle grown thick, with a shock of white hair and the air of a scholar about him. At the sight of his solemn demeanor, Hero felt her resolve weakening and took a deep breath. “And what is so important, pray tell, Mr…?” Laytham looked askance at her obvious youth and ill-fitting clothes. “Sidney Marchant,” Hero answered automatically. “Thank you for seeing me, sir.” By all appearances, Mr Laytham was just what he professed to be, a gentleman, a collector and a purveyor of books, and yet Raven was rarely wrong in his assessment of people. And despite Laytham’s studied air of annoyance as he looked down his nose at her, Hero thought she detected a bead of sweat upon his brow.
