And thinking about Kit.
“Thank you.” Ellen tucked the paper into her skirt. “Thomas will enjoy reading this.”
From the glint in Ellen’s eyes, Rose suspected the two of them would enjoy it together.
She followed Ellen into the back. 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,” Chrystabel 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 although he looked no older than five-and-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,” Chrystabel said.
Rose turned to Ellen’s love. “However did you get into this trade?”
“My father was a pawnbroker, and his father 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 Whittingham’s shop with an open mind. Not to mention listened to the man’s plans. She smiled at Thomas. “Ellen was telling me you wish to move 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 to save enough to make the move. And prices are still rising—the Great Fire made London’s remaining developed land even more precious.”
“But after we’re wed…” Ellen murmured, then left it at that.
Rose knew she was thinking about her dowry. Eleven thousand pounds—surely more than enough to open the fanciest shop on the Strand. But she also knew that Kit wasn’t going to be happy turning that money over to this man.
The bell tinkled in the outer room, signaling another customer. “Pray excuse me,” Thomas said.
As he left, Chrystabel turned to examine a sword with a jewel-encrusted hilt. “Isn’t this beautiful?”
“It is, Mum.”
She hefted its shining weight, watching sapphires and emeralds twinkle in the light from the small, barred windows. “If this isn’t claimed, I’ll be tempted to buy it for your father.”
Rose couldn’t imagine he’d be too impressed—the sword wasn’t a flower or plant, after all—but she knew her mother liked for him to look nice when they went out in public. “I’m certain he’d love it, Mum.”
Chrystabel looked up from the sword. “You’ve a fine young man, Ellen.”
“Thank you. I think so. I just wish I could convince Kit.” She sighed, then took Rose’s arm. “Come out front. Thomas has so many wonderful things for you to see.”
“I want to see the books. Especially foreign ones.”
But as they stepped back into the main room, they spotted Kit through the window, striding purposefully toward the door. Ellen gripped Rose’s arm tighter. “Mercy me, I’m in trouble. I was hoping to return home before he woke.”
Even the bell sounded angry when Kit slammed into the shop. “We must leave, Ellen. I’ve had word there’s a problem at Whitehall. A fire.”
Ellen’s green-brown eyes widened. “Whitehall has burned?”
“Not the entire palace. Just the east end of the Chapel Royal where I’m building the new altar.” He swore under his breath. “Come along.”
Ellen set her jaw. “I don’t want to go to London. I’ll stay here.”
“No, you won’t.” Despite his normal tanned complexion, Kit looked paler even than Bridgewater. And he hadn’t noticed Rose. He shot a glance to Thomas instead, then glared back at his sister. “Do you think me a simpleton? If I leave you here, you’ll elope. You’re coming with me.”
“We’re going to London, too,” Mum announced, surprising Rose.
Kit looked surprised, too. “Lady Trentingham. And Lady Rose.” His startled gaze met Rose’s, disturbing her as much as ever. Something seemed to be fluttering in her stomach.
Chrystabel moved
