Visibly pleased at the chaos, Pan plopped unceremoniously onto the viscount’s bare head, dangling Hawley’s hairpiece over his face. Pan leaned over to deliver his classic one-eyed stare.
“Why, you flea-bitten bag of rotting feathers!” Hawley roared as he lifted his meaty hands to snatch the parrot. Pan dropped the wig on the viscount’s foot and delivered a mighty blow to Hawley’s left palm with his beak. Hawley’s fingers curled into a punishing fist, and Matthew, his heart thrumming madly, bent his knees as he prepared to leap for the bird.
“Nobody touches the parrot!” Sophia’s voice ripped through the din with such natural authority that even Hawley instinctively followed her command.
“Nobody touches!” Pan shrieked happily as he began to strut on Hawley’s head, ruffling the lord’s short-cropped mane. The parrot marched like a little general, his chest puffed out, his gray claws kicking high into the air, his wings pulled back, and his spine straight.
“Do you know who I am?” Hawley shouted at Sophia. “I am Viscount—”
“I don’t care if you are the bloody king, himself, or the defeated Pretender. I am the proprietress of the Black Sheep and the ruler of this domain. We have no care for titles here. Only for intelligence, which you, sir, seem to be sorely lacking.”
“I will not be molested by a bird or addressed in such a manner by a—”
Every man in the coffeeshop, from cutpurse to marquess, rose in unison. Blades and pistols appeared at the ready. Hawley’s ruffian still cowering on the floor slowly rose to his feet. He joined his comrades who were nervously flanking the viscount. Unlike Hawley, who was a mass of seething rage, they appeared to recognize the perilousness of their situation. They might be brutes, but so were many of the Black Sheep’s patrons.
“It is past time for you to make your departure, Viscount.” Sophia spoke evenly, except the last word, which dripped with disdain. Matthew felt torn between pride for his friend’s cool command and fear for what trouble Hawley would heap upon her head.
“Past time!” Pan screeched as he halted his swaggering long enough to once again stick his amber eye in Hawley’s line of sight.
“I have no intention of leav—” Hawley began with an imperious tone that was marred by the parrot on his head. Before Hawley could finish, his men inched so close to him that the viscount stumbled backward toward the exit. Matthew watched the forced retreat as if outside of his own body, outside the bloody room even.
“We best leave, my lord.” One of Hawley’s oafs bit out whenHawley locked his legs and refused to budge any further. Matthew didn’t recognize the voice as one of the men who’d ambushed Tavish’s carriage.
Hawley opened his mouth, but every single customer stepped forward. Seeming to finally comprehend his own peril, Hawley glanced about him. The Black Sheep’s customers simultaneously moved forward as a unit.
Matthew should have felt like part of the crowd forcing Hawley out the door. But instead, guilt and worry bombarded him. He’d brought this monster into their midst. It should be Matthew alone facing Hawley, not his compatriots and friends. An old memory of Matthew’s father accusing him of being an unworldly harbinger of misfortune resurfaced with a biting sting. Old, familiar nausea sloshed inside Matthew’s stomach.
Before Hawley was shuffled over the threshold, he threw back his head and shouted, “You haven’t seen the last of me. You cannot bar a man of my standing from your establishment! I’ll be back on the morrow. You’ll see! You’ll all see!”
“Fare thee well!” Pan cackled before he finally flew from Hawley’s head. He landed on Sophia’s shoulder and watched Hawley’s retreating form with one amber eye.
When Hawley and his men had disappeared, Matthew turned to Sophia, his body still coiled for battle, his blood frozen. As much as he appreciated Sophia’s support, worry filled him like a swollen creek dammed up by an ice flow. “He’s a dangerous man, Sophia. You may wish to take extra precautions over the next few weeks.”
Sophia merely shrugged. “What’s one more enemy?”
Matthew forced a smile, but he could dredge up no good humor. Only coldness. “We have got a lot of those, haven’t we?”
“It just makes life more interesting,” Sophia said lightly, but Matthew knew she would take the threat seriously. Then sheturned with a broad grin and faced the patrons of the Black Sheep. “Who likes the new recipe for my brew?”
An appreciative roar rose as mugs were banged. Good-natured chatter returned, and a jovial atmosphere descended once again.
But not for Matthew. Amid the comradery and laughter, Matthew felt separate. It wasn’t just that he could experience no mirth. His brother had come here, to Matthew’s sanctuary. It wasn’t just Matthew’s internal peace that Hawley had breached but his very sense of belonging. He’d felt at home at the Black Sheep, Matthew realized. But now… he sensed his difference. His presence, his pursuit of his brother, had placed all these people in danger.
Chapter Fourteen
Precisely a day later, Charlotte marched into the Black Sheep determined to make real progress on her search into Lord Hawley’s misdeeds. Well, she didn’t so much march as she strolled. But she rather thought she did it more forcefully than gracefully, which should account for something.
Instead of heading for the secret back room, Charlotte stopped just a few feet inside the main doorway. She perused the regulars from behind her veil, trying to locate any unsavory-looking fellows. She had no time left to wait for the rougher customers to venture into the clandestine side of the Black Sheep. Today marked exactly two weeks until Hawley’s father returned from Scotland and three weeks until the impending betrothal ball.
She had a partial sketch of the daisy-chain choker in her reticule. She’d already shown it to Hannah and Sophia under the guise that she was helping a friend locate lost jewels. Both women had claimed never to have seen anything like it. Although Charlotte planned on asking her Society friends if they recognized it, she knew Lady Greenvale had already made inquiries in their circle. Charlotte needed a less respectable source, the kind rife with rumors of illicit jewels. What better place could she find than the main room of a coffeehouse run by two daughters of pirates?
Fiddlesticks. None of the assembled patrons looked like proper villains. Although, really, what was she expecting? A man with apeg leg, as if he’d emerged from the pages of a storybook? Perhaps a wild, burning beard that the infamous Blackbeard had allegedly sported? Absurd, right?
“If you’re looking for company, lass, we’re as fine as any.”
A deep, resonant voice boomed, drawing Charlotte’s attention to a classically handsome young man… with an eye patch. She tried not to blink. She swore she hadn’t noticed any patron wearing one in her recent survey of the room. Yet here a man sat with his left eye obscured by a swatch of leather and a devil of a smile on his fine face. His wicked grin only increased when he saw that he’d secured her attention.
Although Charlotte noted his pleasing features, they did not trigger a single stirring inside her heart, not even a little swish. His visible eye was a piercing blue, but it wasn’t gray. His square chin was… well… a bit too square. Lately, Charlotte had found herself drawn to a more scholarly build.
