After a thorough scanof the narrow, bustling street, Harry handed Tessa down from the carriage. She wore a white muslin, the tightly fitted bodice emphasizing her slender torso, the full skirts swishing elegantly around her silk shoes. With her pretty face framed by a flower-trimmed bonnet, she reminded him of a porcelain shepherdess he’d once seen in a shop.
Thinking about her confession about the bullying she’d endured made him want to punch something. How dare anyone try to trample her spirit? Even though he couldn’t be by her side at the masquerade, he’d see to it that she was protected from those insipid chits.
His Tessa was no wallflower. And no one would put her in the corner.
His hand closed fiercely around hers before letting go.
She smiled up at him, warming him with her special light. “Here we are.”
Their destination was a shop crammed jowl to jowl with other businesses. It was distinguished by an enormous sign hanging over the window, which announced in gold gilt that this was “Doolittle’s Emporium of Wonders.”
Emporium of wonders, his arse. The plethora of random goods visible through the glass revealed what this place was: a pawn shop. Harry’s only question was whether Tessa’s friend Alfred received his inventory in an honest manner…or if he was an out-and-out fence.
Harry instructed the groom to keep watch outside with a weapon at the ready.
“There’s no need to worry,” Tessa said. “Today is Wednesday.”
He didn’t follow. “What is special about Wednesdays?”
“Alfie’s wife on Wednesdays is an excellent shot.”
Opening the door for her, he said, “His wife…on Wednesdays? I don’t understand.”
“Alfred has a different lady for each day of the week,” she explained.
He frowned. “Your friend is a bigamist?”
“Alfred’s no bigamist,” she reassured him. “He’s not legally married to any of them.”
Inside, the shop was a maze of shelves, all of them crammed with merchandise, everything from teapots to garments to exotic oddities. The effect was bizarre. Next to a chipped crystal vase sat a stuffed monkey with a lace cap on its head. A curious potpourri of tobacco, lemons, and wet dog pervaded Harry’s nostrils.
They arrived at the shop’s counter. A buxom blonde in her forties stood behind it. She was haggling with a short, havey-cavey sort of fellow wearing a battered hat and threadbare coat. Silk handkerchiefs were piled on the counter between them; immersed in their negotiations, the pair took no notice of Tessa and Harry.
“A crown, and that’s my best offer,” the blonde said.
“That wouldn’t pay for one o’ these billys, let alone all six.” The man snatched one of the handkerchiefs, held it up. “The silk’s first-rate. See ’ow this billy gleams in the sun?”
“It’s ’otter than the sun, too.” Despite her disheveled locks and rather skimpy dress, the woman’s shrewd expression suggested that she didn’t suffer fools readily.
“I didn’t pinch these,” the would-be supplier protested. “They be family ’eirlooms, passed down to me by my dear ma, God rest ’er soul.”
The blonde’s gaze slitted. “Thought your name was Jenkins.”
“Right-o, dove.” He winked at her, leaned an elbow on the counter. “Call me Big Bobby Jenkins, they do, and it ain’t on account o’ my height.”
“If your last name is Jenkins, then why would your ma ’ave the initials,”—she stabbed a finger down on the embroidered crest of the handkerchief—“L. M.?”
“Gor, is that what it says? Ne’er learned my letters.” Big Bobby’s smile held not one whit of repentance. “All right, dove, ten shillings for the lot. Billys like these sell for six shillings a piece in those posh shops on Pall Mall.”
“Thoseain’t stolen goods.” She rolled her eyes. “Christening these’ll take time and talent with a needle, so a crown’s all you’ll get from me.”
“Eight shillings.”
“A crown, you cly-faking bastard, and not a shilling more.”
Sighing, the man said, “You’ve a ’ard ’eart, dove.”
“Next time, bring me goods that ain’t marked, and I’ll be softer than a lord’s arse.” The proprietress tossed a coin over the counter, and Big Bobby good-naturedly caught it.
