If he tried placing the cheeky Simia in a handheld cage, she would only injure herself on the bars, and Matthew didn’t want that. She was safer on her perch. Banshee might like to play chase, but she’d spent almost the entirety of her life on ships, and she would not stray far. Hopefully.
“We’re almost there, Banshee,” Matthew said in a cajoling voice before he hummed the tune to a rather bawdy ditty that the monkey’s old owner used to croon. She shifted and gave a purr-like sound that she emitted when content. The poor girl needed more space and another capuchin companion now that she’d reached adulthood. Thankfully, Matthew knew just who could provide that, even in Jolly Old England.
Matthew began to wish he had just told Tavish to send a carriage around rather than meet him at the Black Sheep. But he’d thought a walk would benefit Banshee before she was trundled off to Tavish’s estate on the outskirts of London.
An annoyed chittering sounded from the cage Matthew held in his left hand. “Not you too, Cyrene. Patience.”
The weight in the covered cage shifted, and Matthew knew the small raccoon was pacing on her three good legs. He increased his own gait, ignoring the curious looks cast his way as Banshee began to bounce in time to the vulgar song. He was in bloody Covent Garden, not Hyde Park. Couldn’t a man walk in peace with a New World monkey dancing on his shoulder and a washer dog scolding him like an irate schoolmaster?
Thankfully, the wooden Black Sheep sign denoting the coffeehouse appeared in Matthew’s line of sight. Hurrying even faster, he rushed past a group of startled rakehells. Unfortunately, the sudden change in speed caused Banshee to hurl what he assumed to be Simian insults at the fops. Most of the carousing rich rascals—who seemed always predisposed to recognize taunts in any language—reddened in anger.
One young man, however, grinned broadly. He elbowed his closest companion in the ribs. “I say, Hayfield, I do believe that creature just insulted your wardrobe.”
Hayfield’s face darkened into a dangerous shade of puce. His rather voluminous wig bobbed, and Matthew could see the man’s tight-fitting Continental-style clothing stretch and bunch as his muscles tightened. “I doubt that ape has any taste.”
Matthew knew better than to correct the man that Banshee was actually a monkey, not an ape. Life with his older brother had taught him discretion. It had also taught him when to retreat. Unfortunately, Banshee was not so inclined.
She screeched out several hideous noises that definitely sounded like a stream of disparaging invectives. Hayfield’s jovial friend nearly doubled over in laughter. Between guffaws, he managed to huff out, “The so-called ape has a better sense of fashion than you, Hayfield.”
Matthew tried to scoot into the Black Sheep before the situation deteriorated further. Unfortunately, before he could reach for the door, Hayfield made a shooing motion toward Banshee. The monkey screamed and catapulted onto the wooden sign. The hinges squeaked as the capuchin swung back and forth, hollering her grievances.
By now, a rather egalitarian throng had begun to gather—from the lowest beggar boy to a couple more toffs. Hayfield clearly did not appreciate the audience. Banshee, however, did. Her cries grew even louder.
“Sir, control that creature!” Hayfield advanced on Matthew, his formerly pleasant features twisted by barely controlled anger. The man was clearly spoiling for a fight, and a nervous energy pulsated through Matthew as his own muscles tightened. Tavish had taught Matthew how to defend himself, but Matthew preferred avoiding fisticuffs.
Slowly, Matthew placed the raccoon’s cage on the ground. As he straightened, he held out both of his hands, showing his palms. “I shall endeavor to calm her, my lord. But the monkey is fairly overset.”
Hayfield’s friends burst into laughter, and the mirth quickly spread to the rest of the ragtag assembly. Hayfield’s fist bunched, and his arm began to pull back. Matthew prepared to dodge the blow.
“You manage that vermin, or I’ll manage you!” Hayfield threatened. “If not here, then on the field. Who is your second?”
“My goodness, what is all this fuss?” A woman in widow’s weeds glided through the throng to stand beside Matthew. Despite the black crepe hiding her features, he recognized her voice at once: Lady Charlotte.
A murmur rose from the crowd at the sudden appearance of an aristocratic lady—one of the few types of souls not commonlyfound wandering freely through this particular section of London. However, Lady Charlotte ignored the rumbling as she made a show of lifting her veiled face to regard Banshee. Seemingly as startled as the rest of the group by this darkly garbed newcomer, Banshee peered down at Lady Charlotte, her black eyes alight with curiosity.
Lady Charlotte glanced first at Hayfield and then at Matthew. Even with her features obscured, she exuded the perfect degree of elegant censure with a simple tilt of her chin. She was, Matthew thought with a burst of heat, an utterly amazing woman.
Obviously recognizing Lady Charlotte as a woman of quality, Hayfield’s taut body uncoiled, and a hint of chagrin washed over his face.
“That abomination was insulting me,” Hayfield said defensively.
For a moment, Lady Charlotte did not say a word, and her silence made Hayfield squirm. When she did speak, her melodic voice was calibrated to perfect neutrality. “And you responded to the supposed insult by challenging a monkey to a duel?”
The crowd roared with laughter. Hayfield looked torn between anger and amusement at his own folly. When he spoke, he sounded less assured of his rightful indignation. “I asked his owner to name his second, not the ape.”
“I am sure this sweet creature meant no harm. Isn’t that right…” Lady Charlotte paused and turned expectantly to Matthew, clearly wanting to know the monkey’s name.
“She is called Banshee,” Matthew said, wishing the capuchin had a more dignified appellation given the circumstances.
Lady Charlotte swiveled back toward the monkey. “Correct, Banshee? You did not mean to insult the nice man.”
Banshee blew Lady Charlotte a kiss—a trick her old owner had taught her to charm tavern wenches while in port. This timethe crowd laughed good-naturedly, and Banshee seemed rather pleased with herself.
“Now will you come down off that sign?” Lady Charlotte asked, first placing the wicker basket that she held on the ground and then holding out her arms. Banshee immediately dropped from her perch and wrapped her arms around Lady Charlotte’s neck. Fortunately, Banshee did not dislodge Lady Charlotte’s veil but pulled it tighter.
Looking regal despite a monkey clinging to her, Lady Charlotte turned to Hayfield again. “See, my lord, it was all a misunderstanding. Banshee, show the finely dressed gentleman that you are sorry.”
Banshee blew another kiss. A smile blossomed over even Hayfield’s face. With a light grin, he bowed low. “Apology accepted.”
