The Impostor Prince. Tanya Crosby Anne

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СКАЧАТЬ goods offered here were cast in shadow, along with the faces of their owners. Either the occupants were ashamed of their circumstances or they were thieves peddling ill-gotten wares.

      The clerk was occupied with someone in the last stall. That door had been closed, or Claire would have chosen it instead. The occupant of the darkest little closet was weeping softly. Fortunately, the clerk on duty seemed the most compassionate of the three—Claire recognized his voice—and he spoke to the girl gently.

      “What name shall I write?”

      The girl paused. Claire imagined she swallowed before answering. The first time Claire had ventured in here, she’d been unable to find her voice.

      “Sarah…Sarah Jones.”

      Claire didn’t recognize the name. But then, she hadn’t used her true name, either.

      Once released into the shop’s inventory, Claire’s possessions would be lost forever. Even if she could manage to raise the funds, she wouldn’t raise them in time to redeem her belongings, of that much she was quite certain.

      “Your own property?” the clerk interrogated.

      It was an obligatory question, but Claire doubted it was a true concern for the shop owner. She’d noted the shady sorts who frequented the shop, and not once had a clerk requested proof of ownership from Claire. For all the clerk knew, Claire might have stolen the items from an employer.

      The girl’s reply was soft. “Yes, of course.”

      “Three shillings,” the clerk offered.

      Claire wondered what the girl was selling.

      The girl gasped, clearly affronted. “But, sir! This is fine—”

      “Three and six,” the clerk snapped, and Claire recognized the finality in his tone.

      “Please…take a look at the stitching,” the girl argued. “The gown was purchased from one of London’s finest—”

      “My patrons won’t pay more,” the clerk interrupted, unimpressed. “Three and six—take it or leave it.”

      Silence.

      He wouldn’t offer more. Claire had sold the man enough by now to recognize when negotiations were over. He would stand silently, his face an emotionless mask, waiting for the decision to be made.

      “Very well,” the girl relented, sounding defeated. “Three and six.”

      As though he had expected her decision, Claire heard the clerk count out the coins at once. The compartment door opened and closed and the girl’s footfalls hurried away. Claire waited patiently, knowing her position in this gloomy place. Here, the shopkeeper ruled and the genteel were no more respected than the downtrodden.

      Fortunately, she didn’t have long to wait. The clerk appeared at once, his graying hair hanging over thick, dirty glasses. He brushed his greasy bangs aside and gave her a nod, recognizing her. And well he should; he owned nearly half her possessions by now. With a heavy heart, Claire lifted the latch of the box, then the lid, revealing the precious contents.

      “Splendid!” he exclaimed, dispensing with formalities. He gave her an assessing glance. “And you’re quite certain you wish to part with it?”

      Claire shrugged.

      She wasn’t certain about anything except that she was in a terrible pinch.

      He seemed to think about it a moment, and then offered, “Eight guineas.”

      Claire’s gaze snapped upward. “Eight guineas!” she repeated, aghast.

      Whatever pleasure the clerk had expressed at seeing her offering now vanished behind his mask.

      Claire arched a brow, knowing better than to bait him, but she couldn’t help herself. She had at least a shred of pride left. “Surely you mean eight guineas just for the box, sirrah!” The box alone was worth far more, as the lid was inlaid with ivory.

      The man smiled, amused, though he shouldn’t have been. Claire was hardly in the frame of mind to be entertaining.

      “Nah. I’m overstocked on silverware as it is—be rid of the lot. Eight guineas it is.”

      Claire tried to reason with him. “But these are pure silver!” she explained, laying a hand protectively over her grandmother’s heirlooms.

      His mask didn’t crack.

      Claire used the clerk’s own bargaining tactic against him. She remained silent, waiting for him to speak, realizing that the first to open his mouth would be the one to lose.

      It didn’t work quite as well as she’d hoped.

      “Bah!” the clerk exclaimed. “Silver isn’t worth as much as it once was. Nine guineas is my final offer.”

      Claire narrowed her eyes at him. “Nine guineas wouldn’t buy me a hat and a blessed pair of shoes!” she informed him tautly, slamming down the lid. A lady didn’t use vulgarities, she knew, but she couldn’t help herself. “No thank you, sir!” she said with as much aplomb as she could muster and, with some effort, lifted the box from the counter, fully prepared to lug it the entire distance home. For that insulting price, she’d take the silver to her grave! Nine guineas wouldn’t put a dent in the remaining one hundred-fifty thousand pounds she owed for Ben’s ransom.

      “Be seein’ you,” the clerk said a little smugly.

      Claire was so furious she didn’t even bid him farewell. Seething, she marched through the common shop and right out the door, tears of frustration pricking at her lids.

      What was she supposed to do now?

      She was down to her last possessions and still she hadn’t raised nearly enough money to cover Ben’s debts. To some, two hundred thousand pounds might not seem like much, but she had scarce more than fifty thousand now after selling nearly everything she owned. The remaining one hundred and fifty thousand pounds seemed quite impossible.

      Lord, but it was a dreary day—as dreary as her mood.

      Cursing the mist, Claire started home, preoccupied with her thoughts. As she reached the corner of Drury Lane, sensing a presence at her back, she turned to find a stranger about twenty paces behind her, his focus settled unmistakably upon her box. Looking sinister in his dark overcoat and wide-rimmed hat, he strode with terrifying purpose toward her. Alarmed, Claire quickened her pace.

      Could he be one of Ben’s captors, following her to make certain she complied with their demands?

      More likely, it was just some petty thief.

      She tried to remember whether she had spied the man in the pawnbroker’s shop, but there had been no else one inside she could recall except the weeping girl and the clerk.

      Had the man followed her to the shop and waited outside while she took her business inside?

      No, Claire didn’t think so. She hadn’t noticed him before now, and as suspicious as she was becoming, she doubted she would have missed him.

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