Deep, jolly laughter boomed through the room, and everyone jerked toward the sound. When Charlotte caught sight of the fellow who had been shielding his face when she’d first observed the table’s occupants, she gasped. The man was none other than the infamous actor and playwright, Alun Powys. All the young women fantasized about him behind their fans. According to the gossips, several wealthy widows had done more than just dream.
The ribald comedies that Mr. Powys penned skewered everyone from the king to the lord chamberlain. According to rumors, he’d begun his life in the sewers and maintained extensive ties with that world. His singular male beauty had propelled him into popularity, but his sharp, biting wit had kept him there.
Charlotte had watched him perform countless times. His unpowdered raven hair always gleamed like polished jet, while his violet-blue eyes seared every heart in the theater, including hers. But even her vantage point in her parent’s expensive, well-positioned box had not truly allowed her to take a full accounting of the man’s physical beauty. His unusual irises twinkled with life and charm; an intriguing, thin white scar bisected his left eyebrow; his sinful lips seemed designed by Aphrodite herself; and even the dark, unfashionable stubble shadowing his face blessed him with a roguish charm. But just like with Hart, Charlotte felt no thrill.
Because he wasn’t Matthew Talbot.
Had quiet, previously unassuming, scholarly Matthew ruined her for all other men?
If so, Charlotte had no idea how she felt about that. Given she was practically engaged to Matthew’s villainous brother, she could not consider it. Not now, at least.
“You may as well give up the ghost,” Mr. Powys said to Hart and his friends, his voice effortlessly filling the room. “The lass is cleverer than all eight of you combined.”
“I am right, then?” Charlotte asked triumphantly. “These men are not pirates?”
Mr. Powys snorted. “Hardly. Billy Hart is a clerk at a counting house, and Bob Smith is a scrivener for a rather hapless solicitor. The closest either of them have come to adventure is crossing a busy thoroughfare at midday.”
“That is a mighty uncharitable description, Powys,” Mr. Smith complained in an accent that most assuredly had sprung from a London upbringing.
“Smith fancies himself an actor,” Mr. Powys told Charlotte sotto voce, “as does Hart, but you’ll not catch either of them treading the boards at any real theater. They ‘put’ on plays for their friends, which is probably why Hart had the eye patch in his pocket.”
“Must you give all our secrets away?” Mr. Hart grumbled as he removed the piece of leather to reveal an uninjured blue eye.
“You clearly weren’t fooling the lady. If you think performances like that will persuade me to cast you in one of my upcoming productions, you are sorely mistaken,” Mr. Powys said.
“You’re sharper than I’d given you credit for,” Hannah told Charlotte, her tone surprisingly respectful.
Shocked, Charlotte glanced at her cousin, who shot her a smile that was tinged with real warmth. A spark of joy lit in Charlotte’s heart. Even though Hannah couldn’t see through Charlotte’s veil, she grinned back. For the first time, Charlotte felt the tug of true kinship between them.
“I knew actual buccaneers wouldn’t act so obvious, spouting offabout treasure and saying things like ‘give no quarter!’” Charlotte said.
“Very true. River pirates tend to fade into the woodwork, like Jenks, here.” Powys waved his hand in the direction of the fellow he’d been conversing with earlier. The gesture was somehow both theatrical and natural. On or offstage, the actor’s timing was impeccable.
“Fuck you, Powys.” The nondescript man in poorly tailored clothes said as he accompanied his words with an equally obscene gesture. Then he slouched back down and returned to sipping his coffee, clearly not wanting to engage in the farce surrounding him.
Charlotte wasn’t sure if Jenks was an actual brigand, or just a better actor than Smith and Hart, but she found it didn’t matter. Alun Powys was a powerful man with connections to every stratum of London society except highborn ladies like her. He didn’t just know secrets but how to ferret them out.
“Don’t be so melancholy, Jenks,” Mr. Powys said heartily. “After listening to Hart and Smith’s balderdash for so long, the lady deserves a proper introduction to a real river pirate. She hardly has the look of a thieftaker. Besides, the paltry bounty on your head isn’t worth the time to drum up the dragoons.”
Jenks made another profane motion with one hand as he kept drinking coffee with the other. Mr. Powys only laughed louder, the mirth making his already arresting irises an even deeper purple-blue.
“My lady, would you wish to adjourn to the back room where we can have a more proper discussion among your friends?” Mr. Powys said. “I promise to regale you with true stories of derring-do.”
“I would like that very much,” Charlotte said, somehow managing to make her voice sound merely polite, rather than triumphant.
Together, Charlotte and Mr. Powys walked toward the back room. Just as she was about to move through the doorway, sheheard more patrons enter the front of the shop. Glancing over her shoulder, she nearly stumbled when she caught sight of Hawley himself sauntering inside with three rough-looking companions. Both fear and victory slammed into Charlotte. Here was the very prize himself strolling into the Black Sheep with a sneer on his handsome visage. But if he recognized her, not only Charlotte’s plans, but she, herself, would be doomed.
Quickly, she glanced at the ruffians accompanying him, memorizing the sweep of their noses, the curl of their mouths, and each and every identifying scar. As she did so, she vaguely heard the scrape of chair after chair being pushed back. The sudden stillness that had fallen over the room caused her to glance away from Hawley and his cohorts.
Every patron of the Black Sheep had stood. More than one man had his hand on his knife or sword. Before Charlotte could observe more, Mr. Powys positioned himself between her and the room. Hurriedly, he shepherded her through the passageway and shut the door behind them without ceremony.
Neither of them spoke as they walked through the hallway to the inner sanctum. Charlotte quietly debated how to bring up what she had just witnessed. She did not want to appear too eager for information, especially if Mr. Powys was friendly with Viscount Hawley. Still, anyone would be intrigued by the scene they had just witnessed. And she needed to make sure that Hawley would not burst into the back room. Although judging by the reaction of the other Black Sheep patrons, it appeared that he was not even welcome to enter the front of the establishment.
Before Charlotte could devise the perfectly worded question, she and Mr. Powys reached the inner sanctuary. With an appreciative grunt, he scanned the sumptuous space that she and her cousins had created. Men and women lounged in the comfortable furniture as they sipped coffee, the conversation buzzing.
“Clearly, I’ve been remiss in assuming the new venue would be as boring as a drawing room tea party,” Mr. Powys said in his rather musical accent.
Charlotte longed to immediately ask him if he recognized any of the men with Hawley, but she could not just blurt out the question. Instead, she lifted her veil, careful not to remove it entirely in case the viscount did come sallying in. “The cousins Wick have done a marvelous job making this space as inviting as possible. It is a shame not all of the regular patrons have taken advantage of its comforts.”
