“Thank you.” Sophia beamed.
Charlotte, however, was less than pleased with her brother’s nonsequitur. Normally, she loved how his always active mind flitted from subject to subject with abandon, but right now, she wanted nothing to divert the flow of conversation.
“Why is Mr. Stewart’s pastime so profitable?” Charlotte asked.
“He is known for producing detailed prints of the natural world,” Sophia explained. “They’ve become very popular in the homes of the middling class—a sign of an owner’s sophistication.”
“Also their wealth, given the hefty price Stewart demands. The designs are not easy to forge,” Alexander added.
“The printing house also produces important medical and naturalist texts that are used by universities,” Matthew added, his voice a quiet rumble compared to Alexander’s jovial one.
“And purchased by cits who are eager for private libraries that declare them to be learned members of society.” Sophia gave a knowing wink, clearly not impressed with superficial trappings of enlightenment.
“The books are invaluable to universities, and Mr. Stewart does not charge them an exorbitant rate,” Matthew said, his voice still low in volume but with a surprisingly unyielding edge. Charlotte studied him even more closely, her senses heightened. Clearly, Matthew was made of sterner stuff than his quiet demeanor portended.
This additional unexpected complexity fascinated her… for reasons, concerningly, that went beyond her investigation. For the second time that hour, Charlotte found herself wanting to peel back Matthew’s layers, but this time not just the corporeal ones but the metaphysical as well. He reminded her of a seemingly simple bucolic novel that in reality was rife with underlying meaning and tension.
“What my dear chum is failing to tell you is that Matthew himself is responsible for many of the drawings and much of the text.” Alexander tipped back his coffee mug after he spoke, drained it, and then plopped it down on the table. “That was delicious. I think I shall have another.”
“We now charge separately for those drinks,” Sophia reminded him.
Alexander sighed as he stood up. He patted his pocket ruefully. “My purse is exceedingly aware. Highway robbery, I tell you.”
Sophia laughed as she rose too. “You need to talk to one of our customers who is an actual highwayman. There is a distinct difference between the two.”
“It is true then—what you and Hannah have said before. You really do have highwaymen as patrons?” Charlotte asked, straightening as a thrill burst through her. This potential lead into discovering Hawley’s misdoings was blessedly not burdened with the complications of her odd reaction to Matthew.
Sophia responded with an enigmatic smile, and Charlotte sank back into the settee. She could not tell whether the coffeehouse owner was serious or jesting.
“I do not see a difference between a highwayman and you, Miss Wick,” Alexander joked. “Coffee, that glorious restorative, is my lifeblood. Threatening to deprive me of its vigor is akin to leveling a pistol at my poor, exposed chest.”
“You’re forever the dramatic one, Lord Heathford.” Sophia gave an exasperated shake of her head as she followed him in his pursuit of more coffee.
“You wound me,” Alexander teased as the two of them disappeared among the crowd, leaving Charlotte and Matthew alone once more on the settee.
While Matthew visibly stiffened at the retreat of his familiar friends, Charlotte was glad for the return of their previous intimacy. Settling back against the soft cushions, Charlotte fixed Matthew with one of her warmest, most gracious smiles.
He blinked. Twice.
It was time to start stripping away Dr. Matthew Talbot’s various layers.
Chapter Five
As Matthew mounted the front stairs to the Lovett town house, he wondered how Lady Charlotte had ever convinced him to return to her mother’s salon. Even more astonishing, he’d actually consented to leading the discussion about his first natural science publication,Ferus Cattus of Caledonia. Nervously, he clutched the thin volume in his left hand. He was perspiring so profusely it was a wonder that his sweat didn’t seep past the cover and cause the ink on the pages to bleed. His sophomoric effort had not been printed by Tavish’s publishing house and was of poor quality.
Swallowing, Matthew glanced up at the Doric columns. He felt rather like a supplicant—or perhaps more accurately the sacrificial calf—dragged before the oracles to be dissected.
His dry, scientific knowledge was not what the salon members sought. They wished to discuss the vagaries of the human spirit and mind, but he only understood the banal functions of corporeal bodies.
A tall butler with a solemn, refined face opened the door, took Matthew’s card, and intoned a polite but not overly warm greeting. The servant, with his symmetrical features and cool, almost regal bearing, matched the Palladian structure soaring above Matthew’s head. It was grandeur—simultaneously understated and overstated.
The large halls that Matthew normally entered were those ofuniversities. Although he did frequent the residences of his benefactor, Tavish didn’t believe in formality. But the atmosphere in the Lovett town house was as stiff as the horsehair-stuffed skirt of the butler’s impeccably tailored coat.
“Tell me again why I am attending my mother’s salon rather than enjoying today’s perfect curricle-racing weather?” Alexander’s wry voice broke into Matthew’s reverie.
Matthew turned to find his best friend leaning on an ornate cane as Alexander stood in one of the arched doorways lining the massive foyer.
“Damned if I know myself,” Matthew admitted with a rueful smile.
