This foul tangle of streets was known on paper as the Fleet, but popularly referred to as the Fleece in recognition of what its inhabitants did to the innocents who ventured in like so many sheep. Gaming hells, pawnshops, and money lenders all jostled elbows, while more nefarious activities took place in underground cellars: drugs smuggled in from the fallen Goblin Empire; elven girls bought and sold; illegal magical practices, from hexes to necromancy.
Amazing that such a place existed around the skirts of All Saints’. Trey had friends in the Home Office who would have cheerfully watched this whole district burn—and tossed a log or two on the blaze themselves.
How in the world had Arabella Trent got herself mixed up with this place? And what on earth had she given up besides a sapphire ring? She was lucky she hadn’t ended up on a barge down the Teme, into the Channel, and headed for the continent.
The object of his speculation showed no sign that any such misgivings had crossed her mind. But then, this was the girl who rescued stray kittens.
“Still no movement.” Arabella’s gaze was fixed on the shop across the street. It was tucked under its roof, as if hiding from too close an examination. The window glass was smudged and dirty; a mess of grimy objects was on display behind it. The door was thick wood, with one window set, like a malevolent eye, in the middle.
The sign had stayed stubbornly turned to Closed for upwards of half an hour. What was the matter with the pawnbroker? Didn’t he have customers to overcharge and underpay?
The longer Trey stayed here, the higher his chances of turning into an ice block. “I’m going to take a look.”
Arabella glided beside him as he crossed the cobbled street to the shop. The place looked even worse close up. One of the items in the window turned out to be a stuffed crocodile head, sadly falling apart.
“Of all the shady places in this district,” he commented, “and you had to pick the shadiest pawnshop of them all. What were you thinking?”
Arabella locked gazes with the crocodile and gave a delicate shudder. “No one else would do business with me,” she said simply.
“And well they shouldn’t. Anyone can see you’re underage, and completely green.”
“Well,” Arabella addressed the crocodile, “I thought this establishment was at least a bit respectable, since I saw Lord Atwater coming out of it.”
Trey couldn’t stop himself from throwing an incredulous look at her. “What?”
“Lord Atwater,” explained Arabella, “is a Member of Parliament and a friend of Lady Holmstead’s.”
“I know who he is.” Lord Atwater had also been a cabinet minister. He still showed a keen interest in the Internal Affairs division, which oversaw the Phantasm Bureau, of the Foreign Office.
He was also a friend of Trey’s supervisor.
“Atwater has plenty of blunt of his own. Why would he visit a seedy pawnshop in the Fleece? Are you sure about this, Arabella?”
“It was he,” she said, with serene confidence. “You see, I talked to him about Lady Holmstead’s orphanage at Viola’s—that, is Lady Stanhope’s—breakfast two weeks ago.”
Trey couldn’t keep his lips from twitching at the thought of the famously well-mannered MP being talked at by the redoubtable Miss Trent. “How much did you get out of him?”
“Two hundred pounds.” Arabella looked as self-satisfied as a cat.
Trey let out a low whistle of admiration. She flashed him a bright smile, all dimples on charming display. The sight disturbed him more than he would have liked.
No flirting with impressionable debutantes. Back to business, Trey. He rapped on the door.
“Wait!” Arabella lifted her hand. Her gloves matched her cheery dress. “Shouldn’t we decide what you’re going to tell him? You should say that you’re looking for a birthday gift for your sister! And she likes sapphires and you were thinking of jewelry—”
“No one will believe I’m scouring pawnshops for an expensive gift,” said Trey solemnly. “Unless I mean to steal it.”
Arabella examined him. “Your aspect is rather villainous this morning,” she agreed. “You should strive to look more pleasant.”
“Never. Otherwise, I might find myself expected to help any number of chits standing appealingly by the street. One is more than enough for me.” Having heard no answer, Trey knocked again, louder this time.
“But what will you say to get him to give you back my ring?”
“Only that I have come to reclaim your property. I have the token and he should’ve known better than to do business with you in the first place. And if that doesn’t work, I shall glare at him in my scariest way.” Trey tried the door handle. To his surprise, the door opened with a half-hearted tinkle from a lonely bell.
Arabella gave a merry laugh. “I should dearly love to see it. Perhaps I can breathe down his neck till he relents. That sort of thing always unnerves people in books.”
“I shouldn’t encourage you to haunt people, but I’ll make an exception this time.” Trey peered into an interior so gloomy, it looked like the place sunlight went to die.
It was also spectacularly cluttered, rather like the drawing room of an émigré goblin family. Trey edged into the chamber, Arabella drifting in behind him. In spite of his caution, he bumped into a table with slender gilt legs. The china on it rattled alarmingly and a cloud of dust flew up. Trey sneezed.
“Bless you,” said Arabella. She was already halfway across the room, examining a display cabinet entirely full of cross china cats.
Trey turned his head and found himself staring at a bedraggled stuffed owl with glass eyes. “I know how you feel,” he told it. “I’m the same way in the mornings.” The owl didn’t respond.
Arabella leaned over a scarred wooden counter, her eyes narrowed in frowning concentration as she attempted to ring the
