“You have nothing to fear by joining us. I know I have a reputation for giving no quarter, but I’ll make an exception for a lass as comely as you.”
Charlotte’s heart flipped in her chest, like a button on a child’s string toy. The man had just used a phrase commonly uttered by pirates.
“Why thank you, good sir,” she said, keeping her tone bright but definitely not too inquisitive. She was afraid any undue interest might cause the handsome devil to curb his tongue. And she needed it to wag. If the Black Sheep had served alcohol, she would have plied him with all he could drink.
“Take this seat.” The rogue pulled back the chair next to him despite the fact that one of his companions currently occupied it. The other fellow nearly toppled to the ground, but he didn’t complain as he stumbled to his feet. He only tipped his hat like a subordinate might do to a superior.
Excitement became a billowing gale inside Charlotte, pushing her toward the table.
“I swear upon all me earthly treasure that true gentlemen we be and not the embodiment of Davy Jones hisself.” The handsome devil swung his cup, making a gesture as grand and sweeping as his words.
Charlotte faltered, and the pulsing thrill inside her slowed. The grinning rascal seemed more like a caricature of a swashbuckler straight from a stage performance of Charles Johnson’sThe Successful Pyrate. But even if the man was toying with her, this was an opening to meet the front-room patrons.
Despite her doubts, Charlotte continued to sit. The narrow chair did little to accommodate the extra fabric of her sack-back robe à la française, but at least the black mourning dress did not have the absurdly wide panniers of her betrothal gown. After smoothing her skirts in the most compact arrangement she could manage, Charlotte turned toward the men. With her face still covered by the veil, she used the tilt of her chin to convey welcoming warmth in lieu of her normal genteel smile.
“It is wonderful to properly meet you, gentlemen.” Charlotte made sure to infuse her voice with just the right tinge of graciousness. “I had been hoping more of the original patrons of the Black Sheep would, on occasion, join us newcomers in the back room.”
“We were not sure that you’d welcome the likes of old sea dogs such as us, but I see we have misjudged your kind charity.”
“You are sailors, then?” Charlotte asked, keeping her voice casual despite the maelstrom pounding against her chest. Unfortunately, she still could not decide if she should take the rogue seriously. Glancing around at his companions, she found their expressions wooden. The owners of the studiously blank faces were hiding something—but whether it was their comrade’s balderdash or their own criminality, Charlotte was not certain.
If they were pirates, they were relatively successful. Although their earth-toned jackets and waistcoats were made of practical wool and linen rather than fine silk or velvet, the material was still of fine quality. Charlotte spied several close-cropped haircuts, which indicated habitual wig wearing. Oddly enough, none of them wore one—almost as if they had hastily stashed them beneath the table.
There were seven fellows crowded near their bonny leader, while two other men huddled together at the far end of the long table. That pair had their faces averted and seemed in conversation solely with each other. As she studied the eight closest to her, she realized they were a suspiciously uniform lot of hale lads in their twenties. She would have expected a more motley crew of varying ages.
“Aye, we are jack-tars but not of the high seas, lass.” The original speaker winked at Charlotte. “We are free agents who seek our fortunes closer to home.”
River pirates, then. A chill slivered through Charlotte. If this man was not trifling with her, he would have direct connections to London’s seamy trade of ill-gotten goods. It would make him exactly who she was looking for… and extremely dangerous.
“Avast, Captain Hart,” the man who Charlotte had displaced cried out in an exaggerated Devonshire accent. “You always say too much around the pretty wenches.”
Charlotte had to force her eyebrows to stay in their proper place instead of arching at the man’s simultaneously wooden and overdramatic delivery. The excitement in her fizzled as she realized that the so-called pirate and his men were only bamboozling her.
“Don’t be so lily-livered, me hearty.” The “captain” slapped his friend on the shoulder. “The lass here would ne’er betray us. She is, after all, a patron of the Black Sheep. She’ll be fair-minded and not quick to judge us by the misfortunes that have driven us to the life that we lead. And she will be true to the coffeehouse’s code of silence.”
“I will indeed keep your secret, if you can just tell me one truth,” Charlotte said in her sweetest voice and then paused for dramatic effect. “Are you actually river pirates or are you just bamming me?”
“Oh no. They’re one of the fiercest crews of brigands to sail the Thames.” Hannah suddenly broke into the conversation both literally and figuratively as she reached between Captain Hart and Mr. Devonshire Accent to lay a tray of coffees on the table.
“Ach, Miss Wick, don’t be spilling our secrets.” Mr. Devonshire Accent slipped into a terribly fake Scottish brogue as he stretched out the “don’t” into a comically long “dinna” for several excruciating beats.
Charlotte crossed her arms over her stomacher, ignoring her mother’s voice in her head scolding her that ladies did not assume such vulgar, aggressive positions. She was becoming better and better at squelching those admonishments.
“Moments ago, wasn’t your intonation from the southwest English coast, not the Highlands?” Charlotte narrowed her eyes at Mr. Devon-Scots Accent.
“You’ll have to forgive Mr. Smith.” Hannah lightly bumped the shoulder of Mr. Devon-Scots Accent as she smiled broadly at Charlotte. “He’s sailed to so many ports that his inflection is as malleable as melted wax.”
“On the Thames!” Charlotte added a raised eyebrow to her crossed arms, and for once, she didn’t hear any internal chiding.
“Shiver me top sail and blow me down,” Hart said. “Do you think, lass, that we got our start here in London? We’re an experienced lot of sailors.”
“Of that, I have my doubts,” Charlotte said with more humor than censure. Although she was not willing to play the fool, she did not wish to alienate them either.
“Avast, my lady. You wound me.” Hart grasped his chest as if she’d stabbed him with a knife. Repeatedly.
Charlotte couldn’t stop herself. She rolled her eyes. Luckily, no one could see the motion behind the black gauze draped over her face.
“Truly,CaptainHart, I have been around the Wick cousins enough to know that real pirates don’t talk as if they’d just stepped from the pages of a poorly written sensational novel!” Charlotte paused before turning to Mr. Smith. “Not to mention your decidedly fickle accent.”
