She didn’t like what she detected in that question.Understanding.They were coming to know one another rather well. Too well.
“Where, pray tell, are we going?” He glanced around as if he’d only now taken in his surroundings.
“To a pawnbroker.”
“A pawnbroker?” Surprise and concern sounded in his voice. “Are you in need of coin?”
Exasperated, she shook her head. “I am not. Butyouare in need of other clothes, and the pawnbroker is where we shall procure them.”
In silence, they wended their way through the East End, the streets growing narrower and narrower until they began to resemble a rabbit warren. Buildings stacked close together, the sky was smaller here. Putrid smells wafted around every corner. Sir Bacon’s nose would have been tempted every other step. Raucous shouts sounded all around, impossible to distinguish between surprise, anger, or joy. Only those directly involved would know. To say it was all very different from a marquess’s world would be vast understatement.
They turned into the darkest, narrowest alley yet, crowded with passersby coming to and fro, some at a rush, others at a crawl—beggars, street urchins, buyers, sellers of all sorts. A tobacconist to the left. A gin seller to the right. Hortense pointed ahead. “That’s us.”
“The sign with the three golden balls?”
“The sign of the pawnbroker,” she confirmed, fist already pounding on the shop’s locked door. She wiped a thick coating of grime off the small window and pressed her face to the clear spot. From behind a curtain at the back of the shop emerged the proprietor, Haley, licking his fingers before wiping them on his trousers. They must have disturbed a late supper.
He recognized her and unlocked the door. “If it isn’t Maggie!” he exclaimed, the door swinging wide, a bell tinkling overhead.
“Maggie?” came Clare’s murmur in her ear.
She ignored the question and followed Haley into the narrow shop. From floor to ceiling, it was bursting with all manner of items, giving it a cramped, overstuffed feel. One wall was all bedding. Stained linens, pillows, coverlets, pads. Cutlery on one shelf, flatirons and occupational tools on the next. Mostly, however, it was personal items that populated the shop. Paste jewelry and shoes, yes, but the majority of space was occupied by clothing of every sort—men’s, women’s, and children’s. Dresses, shirts, trousers, overcoats, smalls. Boots lined the baseboards along one length of wall.
“What brings you here?” The pawnbroker grazed a quick eye over Clare. He would have calculated the worth of those fine clothes in an instant. “With such a distinguished guest.”
Hortense understood this game. This was the part when Haley sized Clare up as a nob and tried to rake him across the coals.
“Surely,” the man continued, “I am honored to have such a distinguished lord in my humble establishment. If I might enquire as to your name?” A beat passed. “Or, perhaps, title?”
She hoped the avaricious light in Haley’s eye only confirmed for Clare how right she’d been. His clothes marked him as moneyed wherever they went. It was all anyone would be able to see.
“That is none of your concern, Haley,” she said, her tone final. “He needs different togs.”
The avaricious light in Haley’s eyes grew into a full-blown expression of greed. “I can certainly provide any number of splendid vestments for such a grand gentleman. Only yesterday, a lady brought in all manner of fine toggery. You see, her husband passed a fortnight ago, but the rogue left naught but debts and a widow to pay them.” He shook his head. “A sad business.”
Hortense cleared her throat, loudly, thereby ending the story of the debt-ridden widow. Haley could go on and on. “Nothing fine,” she said. “Nothing splendid. He needs working man’s clothes.”
Haley cut Clare a sharp glance, less awe-struck than he’d been seconds ago. “Fallen on hard times, have you?”
Two sets of expectant eyes upon him—albeit for different reasons—Clare had no choice but to reply. “Something like that.”
Haley shifted to Hortense. “For purchase?”
She noticed a quizzical, slightly bemused light in Clare’s eyes. They were talking around him, which would be a thoroughly novel experience. Generally speaking, as a marquess, he was the highest-ranking individual in most rooms and was deferred to as such. But, here, in this room in the East End, he was discovering a different reality.
She caught his eye. “How much coin have you?”
“Enough.”
“Coin?” cut in Haley. “Now, we’re old friends here, ain’t we? The clothes on his back will do.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Clare began.
She held up a hand, staying his protest. “You have a bargain.”
Haley took her hand and shook it. “One for one?”
She nodded.
