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“Right away, Mr. Bailey.”
The faint voice came from the back room, and Hannah’s attention moved to the doorway Mr. Bailey had come through earlier. She heard footsteps and a soft click.
“As ya can see, I’m assistin’ this gentleman and ’is young lady at present,” the shopkeeper told the newcomer. “But Percy’ll be ’ere shortly.”
The young man shot Hannah’s father a wary look. “I can’t be ’ere fer long.”
Mr. Bailey glared at him, and Hannah couldn’t help but wonder why he would treat a customer—no matter how disheveled his appearance—so sullenly. The young man met his look, his jaw tight. But without another word, the shopkeeper turned away from him.
“I apologize fer the interruption, sir,” Mr. Bailey said, his attention fully on Hannah’s father once more.
“Quite.”
The tone of her father’s voice told Hannah his patience was wearing thin.
The shopkeeper must have come to the same conclusion, for he clasped his hands together and assumed a pained expression. “I’ll let ya ’ave th’ brooch fer a crown,” he said. “Yer all but robbin’ me, but I can see that yer girl ’as taken a fancy t’ it. So fer ’er sake, I’ll let it go.”
“Very well.”
If her father was pleased with the outcome of his bargaining, he did not show it. But as he slid his fingers into the small pocket of his waistcoat to retrieve a coin, Hannah could not contain her smile.
“Can we give it to Mother as soon as we return home?” she asked.
“Absolutely not,” her father replied, handing the silver crown to the proprietor in exchange for the brooch. “We must wait until her birthday.”
“But that’s four days away!”
The first hint of a smile tugged at her father’s lips. “It is indeed.” He offered her the brooch. “You may hold it until we reach the house, but then I shall take it for safekeeping until Monday.”
With a sigh, Hannah took the brooch and studied the intricately worked flowers. It would be torture to keep this gift a secret for four whole days and nights, but deep down, she knew her father was right. Something this beautiful should be saved for a birthday celebration.
“Good day, Mr. Bailey,” her father said.
“Good day, sir. Miss.”
Hannah looked up in time to see the shopkeeper bow. She bobbed a brief curtsy in return. The young man’s attention was fixed on the brooch in her hand, but as Hannah made to leave, he raised his head and met her gaze. His gray eyes were as bleak as sadness itself, and like the draining of sand in an hourglass, the happiness that had so recently filled her chest sifted away.
Holding fast to the brooch, her steps faltered. “Are you . . . ?” She cleared her throat. She likely wasn’t supposed to speak to a young man without an introduction. Especially one who did not appear to have taken a bath for some time. “Are you quite all right?” she blurted.
Surprise promptly replaced the hollow look in his eyes. His fingers tightened around the object he was clutching, drawing her attention to the semicircular scar on the top of his hand. He must have noticed because he tucked his arm behind his back.
“Well enough,” he said.
“Come along, Hannah,” her father said, reaching for the door and drawing it open.
Instantly, the clatter of running feet on cobblestones filled the small shop. The young man tensed, but before he could move, Mr. Bailey stepped forward.
“Show me what ya’ve brought me, lad.”
“Another time.” The young man backed away. “I’ll come again another time.”
Outside, the pounding footsteps stopped. Hannah swung around.
A broad-shouldered man stood in the doorway, blocking the sun and their means of exit. “Right, then,” he said. “Who do we ’ave sellin’ stolen goods?”
Chapter 2
Fear—real and raw—froze Samuel’s limbs. Bailey had sold him out. The shopkeeper hadn’t been waiting for Percy to appear from the back room; he’d been waiting for his apprentice to fetch one of the Blind Beak’s men. And as Samuel’s miserable luck would have it, the one who’d shown up was the wiliest, most ruthless runner of them all.
