Tanya Crosby - The Impostor Prince

Home.

That’s where the answers to Ian’s questions lay waiting to be discovered. Somehow he knew it. Still, he stared down at the hooded stranger, undecided.

“He is alive?” the driver asked.

“Alive as you and me.”

“Then let us go quickly!” the driver persisted. “No good can come of this now!”

“Over there!” he heard Rusty Broun shout in the distance.

His men gave a frenzied battle cry, and he knew they’d been discovered.

“Go!” Ian ordered the man, bounding into the carriage.

At once, the driver whipped the horses into motion.

He didn’t even give a backward glance as they sped away. There would be no turning back.

Instinctively, Ian knew the answers to Glen Abbey’s troubles lay at the end of their destination.

One week later

T he door to the pawnbroker’s stood slightly ajar, beckoning the wary. A swinging wooden sign read: Money Advanced On Jewels, Wearing Apparel And Every Description Of Property.

The large display window held but a meager sampling of the wares offered within. Today’s teasers included a distinguished-looking portrait of someone’s grandfather with a pipe dangling from his lips, a few prayer books, a mismatched set of spoons displayed fan-style and a multitude of brooches.

Claire Wentworth stood outside the little shop, clutching the heavy wooden box that contained her grandmother’s fine silverware. Hesitating before going inside, she stared into the display window, examining an old brooch. The brooch, too, had belonged to her grandmother, along with one of the prayer books stacked atop a pyramid-style display. Claire hadn’t been able to redeem them, and now the items sat awaiting a new owner.

It couldn’t be helped.

Her brother was all she had left in this world. No amount of money or possessions could compensate for his death. The silverware could be replaced, she decided. Whatever memories they inspired were hers to keep, despite their loss.

But there was only one Ben.

Resolved, she took a deep breath and pushed open the whitewashed door, stepping into the now all-too-familiar shop. As the sign promised, inside were all manner of wares: furnishings, tapestries, snuffboxes, jewelry, blankets, an assortment of dusty hats, clothing and just about anything else one might imagine, including a heavy old sword that must have been wielded by somebody’s noble ancestor in some ancient battle. Its hilt was worn to the wood and the blade bore the scars of many blows—someone’s history sold for the price of a week’s rent. The thought of it sickened Claire, but such was life and there was no use bemoaning her circumstances.

No prayer or rueful wish could change the facts: Their father’s death had left them in debt. Ben had intended to honor those debts, but he’d chosen to do so by gambling away the remainder of the estate and he’d ended up in far worse trouble than debtor’s prison.

Now, it was up to Claire to rectify the situation.

Making her way toward the privacy closets, she passed through the common shop, choosing the compartment second to the end. (The last one was, apparently, occupied because the door was closed.) Once inside, she bolted the door, feeling safer even though she knew that was an illusion. With a sigh, she heaved the silverware box onto the counter to await the clerk.

At least four gas lamps lit the dust-filled shop, but none of their dusky light reached the privacy closets, which were open only to the counter. The 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.