Page 15 of The Duke of Ruin
The closed faced man in the pawn shop did not blink, as he offered Liv a most extraordinary amount of money for the ring she had placed on the counter. Her lips parted to say yes, but her whirring mind stopped her before the words could leave her mouth. This was his first offer, and it was obscenely high, surly that meant that the ring was worth more to him than four hundred pounds?
"Seven hundred," she replied boldly, her eyes meeting his. He blinked, and she saw his lip curl in annoyance.
"Madam I could not possibly offer you more than four-fifty," he said, affecting an air of great sadness. Liv bit back a giggle; he was a most remarkable actor, his face portraying genuine regret, though he was overdoing it a tad.
"And I could not possibly accept any less than six-hundred, for such a treasured heirloom."
Her own acting skills were as hammy as the pawn-shop proprietor's. He arched an amused eyebrow, her sentimentality obviously making little impression on his hard nose.
"I'll tell you what, young lady," the man leaned forward on the counter, as though he were going to whisper a secret in her ear. "I'll give you five-hundred, not a penny more,andI won't ask you how you came to be in possession of this ring."
"Deal," Liv replied firmly, her cheeks flushing. Would he call the magistrate? She began to fret and fidget nervously, but she needn't have worried, for the man disappeared into a back room, and came out with a wad of pound notes, which he laboriously counted out on the counter, before handing them to her with a false sigh.
"Thank you, sir," Liv inclined her head toward the man, making to leave.
"No," he gave her a sly smile, "Thank you, young lady. I would have paid double if you'd pushed me."
He waved her away with a laugh, and while for a moment Liv felt as though she'd been cheated, when she exited the shop onto Market Street, a sense of giddy elation overtook her.
Five hundred pounds!
Never, in all her life, had Liv been in possession of such an enormous sum. It was enough to live on for years, she thought happily, skipping into a drapers and purchasing two day-dresses, a pair of sturdy boots, a fresh set of undergarments and a bag to hold them all. She was ready to begin her new life, the only trouble on the horizon being that she had no idea where to go.
As she strolled down toward Packet Quays, where Falmouth Packet ships filled the harbour, she fell into step behind two sailors. They were of the merchant navy, wearing the bleached clothes of tars, but among the crowds Liv also spotted a few gentlemen in impressive, uniforms, their gold buttons gleaming in the sun. Falmouth was one of the busiest ports in all of England, and for now she was safe, blending amongst the crowds.
"He's offered a reward of one thousand pounds for the man who finds her," one sailor was saying to the other. Liv's ears pricked with interest, for she had an idea who the unnamed man they were speaking of was.
"A thousand pound?" the other sailor exclaimed. "If I'd a thousand pounds to throw away I'd spend it on one thousand lightskirts, not one miserable wife."
His friend guffawed appreciatively, whilst Liv resisted rolling her eyes.
"No one'll find her," the first sailor said with a shrug, "She drowned as far as I can see. That's two dead wives now, by my count. Wonder if he staged the whole thing, to hide the fact that he killed this one too?"
The men descended into a deep conversation, about the peculiarities of the aristocracy, which Liv half listened to as she trailed them to the Quays. If Ruan had offered a reward for her safe return, then surely she was not safe here, she had to leave as quickly as possible.
At Packet Quays, where mailboats from every corner of the British Empire docked, there was a plethora of stagecoaches to chose from.
"Which one is leaving first?" Liv asked of the man at the office of the stagecoach company. The bald headed man looked over at a driver, who was imbibing a large tankard of ale on a wooden bench.
"'Ere Greg," the man called, and the driver looked up, his face a picture of unhappiness. "When's you leavin'?"
"In about ten minutes," the driver gave a dark scowl. "Just waiting on my passenger to finish their business."
The fearful way that he spoke of his missing passenger, made Liv think that he was ferrying a hardened criminal through the Cornish countryside. Reluctantly she bought a ticket to St. Jarvis, which was where the coach was headed, thinking that it was best to make her escape quickly, even if she had to share her carriage with a deviant.
Ten minutes later, Liv boarded the rickety, old carriage, that was to take her to her new home. She looked longingly at the other, well sprung vehicles which lined the road, but they were reserved for passengers headed to London, or Bristol; St. Jarvis seemed decidedly more low key. After a minute alone in the dark compartment, the door was opened by the driver, who ushered his wayward passenger inside. Liv steeled herself, expecting a coarse drunkard or a light-skirt, but instead she found herself looking at a young, bespectacled woman, who blinked at her owlishly from behind her glasses.
"Why, hello," the young woman said earnestly. In her hands she held a broadsheet, which had left her fingers covered in ink, and her nose was covered with similar black smudges. "The driver said I'd have a companion for the rest of the trip. I've been sitting up front with him since Truro. He was completelyfascinatedby a paper I'm writing on the moralities of the Romans, but insisted I keep you company for the rest of the journey. I've promised him I shall post him a copy of my essay when it's done."
The woman beamed, though her smile faltered a little, when the driver took off with great speed, causing her to fall backwards onto her seat. Liv bit back a grin, so this was the wayward passenger that had made Greg the driver so unhappy. He did not seem like a man who would be interested in anyone's morals, let alone those of a long dead civilisation; the woman had obviously missed her target audience.
"Jane Deveraux," she said to Liv with a smile, holding out her hand to shake, but then glanced down and gave a howl of dismay as she saw that it was black with ink.
"Oh, dear," she sighed, taking out a hankie and wiping her grubby digits, "I'm afraid I'm always doing this. Usually I wait until I'm home alone to read the papers, but the headline today was so interesting, that I just had to read it straight away."
Olive paled, she had an inkling what the main story in the Falmouth Daily Chronicles was.
"Elizabeth Sinks: New Duchess Missing," the young woman read breathlessly. She looked up at Liv, her wide eyes looking almost bug-like behind her bottle-top glasses. "How awful. Poor Everleigh, I never did believe that he killed his first wife."
