“Lady Rose!” Ellen came running over. “Thomas and I were just having the most lovely conversation with your mother. And the duke bought you earrings, did he?” Her eyes danced. “Mercy me, imagine that.”
“Kit loaned me this last night,” Rose said, handing over Ellen’s cloak.
Ellen looked at her sharply. “When?”
“Later, when it grew cold.” Rose dug in her drawstring purse and pulled out a silver crown. “Mr. Whittingham gave Bridgewater too much change. He asked me to return it.”
Ellen set the cloak aside, effectively distracted from wondering how she’d come by it. “That wasn’t Thomas’s doing, but the new apprentice he’s training.” Her disapproving gaze went to the young man behind the counter. “Thomas will have a word with him for certain.”
Rose felt sorry for the boy. “I’m sure it was an honest mistake.”
“Fear not, Thomas doesn’t beat the lad. But he must learn to be more careful.” Ellen took the coin gratefully. “Please thank his grace for returning this, next time you should see him. Thomas needs every penny, because he dreams of moving the shop to London—to the Strand, no less!” She laughed as she walked over to add the crown to the till.
Noticing a fine gilt-framed mirror perched on the wall, Rose went over to admire her new earrings. She turned her head this way and that, watching the rubies catch the light. “Where is your Thomas?”
“In the back, talking with your mother. Come, I cannot wait for you to meet him.”
“Just a minute.” She sidled closer to Ellen and lowered her voice. “I’m afraid I wasn’t able to finish the first sonnet. It took longer than expected and the hour grew too late.”
“Oh.” Ellen’s eyes clouded with disappointment, then cleared. “May I read what you’ve finished so far?”
“I didn’t bring it with me,” Rose said quickly, though she had the full translation hidden in her sleeve. In truth, the work had taken no more than a quarter of an hour. The rest of the night she’d spent agonizing over whether to show it to Ellen…or to her brother.
In the end she hadn’t been able to decide, so her decision had been to put the decision off. The copy in her sleeve was for the court ladies—nothing in its text could shock them overmuch.
“How long will it take to finish?” Ellen wondered.
“It depends,” Rose said evasively. “I’ll keep working at it.”
“Very well,” Ellen said after a moment, looking confused. She turned to make her way toward the back, and Rose followed, feeling like a worm.
The shop was deceiving, because although it looked large enough on the inside, even more space was hidden behind. Here, apparently, was where Thomas kept the goods that he was holding for customers to return and claim—and he had more in that category than goods for sale. Items were piled up on shelves and stacked in trays and spilling out of trunks—a treasure trove, as Ellen had said.
“Mr. Whittingham has been telling me all about the history of pawning,” Mum said after the introductions.
Rose traced the silver embroidery on a deep green velvet surcoat. “There’s a history?”
“Most certainly.” Thomas had brown hair, blue eyes, and a strong chin that lent him a mature air, though he looked no older than twenty. “Pawnbroking can be traced back over three thousand years to ancient China, and there are also records of it in early Greek and Roman history.”
Thomas seemed intelligent, too. More learned than she’d supposed a pawnbroker would be—and certainly more learned than Kit seemed to give him credit for. “And the three gold balls?” she asked. “From where did that symbol come?”
“In times past, the Medici family in Italy were well-known moneylenders. Legend says one of the Medicis battled a giant and slew him with three sacks of rocks. The three balls became part of their family crest, and eventually, the sign of pawnbroking.”
“It’s an honorable business,” Ellen put in. “Where else can the common people find money should they need it? It’s not as though they can approach noblemen for loans. Pawning has saved many families’ homes and farms—they consider themselves lucky to have a broker to turn to.”
Rose remembered Gabriel’s opinions about preying on poor clodpolls. “Even when they cannot afford to redeem their pawned goods?”
“Sometimes they just choose not to.” Ellen lifted her chin. “It’s a business, after all. Thomas is entitled to make a living.”
“Of course he is,” Mum said.
Rose turned to Ellen’s love. “Forgive my saying so, but you seem young to have your own shop.”
“It was my father’s, and his father’s before him.”
She hadn’t thought of a pawnshop as something a man could inherit. In fact, she’d never thought about pawnbroking at all. It was unlikely she would ever require such a service. But she had to admit, standing here amongst neatly tagged jewels and guns, tools, household goods, swords, and clothing…the business wasn’t nearly as seedy as she’d assumed.
She wondered if Kit had ever really looked at Thomas’s shop with an open mind. Not to mention listened to the fellow’s ambitions. She smiled at him. “Ellen was telling me you dream of moving to London.”
“I do, as did my father before me. He saved for twenty years towards that goal. Trade in London would be much brisker—there are so many more people.”
“So many more destitute people,” Rose put in.
“We can help them,” Ellen said. “This trade isn’t about taking advantage, no matter its reputation.”
Rose hadn’t missed the we. “Why the Strand?” she asked.
Thomas waved an arm at the trays and trays of jewelry—clearly the most often pawned item. “The Strand is home to many of London’s goldsmiths. Whittingham’s could compete favorably, drawing customers—paying customers, not pawning ones—from the patrons who frequent the area. The real estate there, however, can be prohibitively expensive. My father never did manage
