“Uh… trees,” Matthew managed to choke out. “Green. Very green. And leafy.”
Lady Calliope’s eyes widened a bit, but she did not smirk. Instead, she said brightly, “Seas of green, my eye doth spy. The rustling tops, a verdant wave below the sky.”
Matthew jerked his chin sharply. “Aye.”
Charlotte’s arm wrapped around his, and immediately the simple gesture injected him with a semblance of calm. She smiled at him and then turned to her friend. “You must read one of Matthew’s books. His descriptions are very detailed, and his drawings are simply divine.”
“Lady Charlotte!” A rich, resonant male voice flowed through the back room of the Black Sheep.
Every occupant turned to watch the entrance of the infamous Alun Powys. Even Matthew, who rarely had the opportunity to attend the theater, had watched the famous actor perform. Although born to a Welsh mother in the London stews, the man had become a social force in the more libertine spheres of Society. Matthew and Mr. Powys had been members of the same coffeehouse for years, but Matthew had never spoken to the man, even when they’d shared the same long table. How the deuce had Charlotte become acquainted with him? As far as Matthew knew, Mr. Powys had never ventured into the back room of the Black Sheep until now.
“Mr. Powys!” Charlotte cried out happily, as if greeting a dear companion. Matthew tried hard to mask his surprise. He should not be shocked. Charlotte possessed the wonderful ability to build strong friendships even when starting with the barest of foundations.
“I have kept my promise to return to the new room.” Mr. Powys delivered one of his dashing grins that made all the ladies at thetheater swoon as he joined their group. “I have not only come back, but I have brought along my good friend, Mr. George Belle.”
Matthew hurriedly glanced at the tall, lean man walking behind Powys. Given George’s assistance in Tavish’s secret operations, it was no surprise that he’d come to the Black Sheep today. But until now, he’d always stuck to the front room. Normally, Matthew would be happy to see his comrade, but his presence only made Matthew feel even more deuced uncomfortable after Alexander’s probing questions.
“You’re most likely acquainted with Belle’s Livery,” Powys was saying to Charlotte.
“Why, yes!” Charlotte said. “Belle’s offers the fastest hackneys in the city and the most nicely appointed.”
“Well-sprung and sprightly—even in London traffic.” George grinned broadly. Matthew knew the Black Londoner had designed the light, maneuverable carriages himself just as he personally selected each horse. In a mere decade, he’d grown his business from a single vehicle that he alone had driven to a veritable fleet of equipage and drivers. According to rumor, he held a significant portion of the hackney licenses for the city.
“The swiftness of your carriages has saved me from the embarrassment of a late arrival more than once,” Alexander said as he greeted George warmly. “I am very much in your debt.”
“Continue to sing the praises of my livery, and it will be paid in full,” George answered cheerfully.
After the group finished the introductions, all of them sat down. Despite George Belle and Alun Powys being self-made men, they had no difficulties chatting with the noble-born Lady Charlotte, Lady Calliope, and Alexander. Mr. Powys was even so bold as to exchange increasingly barbed quips with Lady Calliope over the merits of ribald political comedies, which were Mr. Powys’sstandard fare, versus the romantic plays that Lady Calliope occasionally penned.
Yet Matthew sat there. Quiet. Part of it. But not part of it. While Charlotte was the glowing center of it all. She was the reason Calliope was here and even Mr. Powys. How could anyone think that Matthew belonged in the same sphere as she did?
Chapter Sixteen
Aday later, Charlotte’s veil hid the triumphant Cheshire cat smile stretching across her face as she spied two of the hulking men she’d seen with Lord Hawley two days prior. The brutes were leaving the Black Sheep as she was walking to the entrance after being dropped off by the Estbrook coachman. Even more promising, she could not spot the viscount’s fashionable form anywhere in the vicinity.
Charlotte slipped into an alley and peered around the corner to watch the two men. They swaggered leisurely along the street, one of them whistling a tune she didn’t recognize. Her mouth quirked up as she guessed that Banshee might recognize the ditty, especially since it was likely a dirty one.
As the two came closer, Charlotte retreated into the shadows. She waited until their footsteps receded, and then she popped her head out again. She was just in time to see the men disappear down another street.
She paused, debating whether to follow. Mr. Powys had called these men dangerous, and she was not fool enough to think she could trifle with them. She would be venturing further from the tightly woven fabric of society into its frayed edges, where she could easily get twisted in the stray unwieldy strands. Her heart fluttered with almost painful quickness, but outwardly she remained serene.
Making up her mind, Charlotte scurried out of the alley, her furtive movements earning her more than one curious glance. She realized what a fool she was being. By trying to be stealthy, she was actually standing out. She straightened and almost dashed back to the Black Sheep. But something in her rebelled. The Duke of Lansberry was returning in ten days, and Charlotte needed more than an incomplete drawing of a necklace to stop the betrothal.
Her veil obscured her features even if her widow’s weeds otherwise attracted attention. She’d already learned one lesson in subterfuge. She could manage.
Resolutely, she strolled forward. When she turned down the same thoroughfare that the two reprobates had taken, she could spy their hulking forms ahead. Staying a good distance behind, she trailed them. At the slightest twitch of their bodies in her direction, she immediately tried to obscure herself behind either a heap of refuse piled in front of an abandoned building, the entrance to a narrow passage, a cart stopped to make a delivery, or anything else that looked capable of hiding her and her voluminous skirts.
As the men drew her deeper and deeper into Covent Garden, an uneasy feeling washed over Charlotte. She was beginning to sense that she was not so much chasing the ruffians as they were luring her. Just before she scurried up the stoop of a locked business, she noticed the two exchange a sneering look, their massive shoulders heaving with laughter.
Trying to steady her breathing, Charlotte pressed her back against the closed door. She could not pursue these men any deeper into the bowels of London. She’d been foolhardy to come even this far.
Peeking down the crooked passage lined with ramshackle coffeehouses and drinking establishments, Charlotte let the two brutes vanish around a sharp jog in the road. Sighing, she turnedin the opposite direction. No longer caring to be stealthy, she picked up her skirts and ran. Men stared, but she did not care.
She had only made two turns when she became acutely aware she was being followed. Laughter, cruel and mean, drifted toward her. It seemed to wrap around her heart, threatening to hold her in place.
Frantic, Charlotte scanned her derelict surroundings. The rundown buildings and sour smells matched the wane cast to people’s weathered faces. No one would come to her rescue. They were all too steeped in their own misery. The sad-looking coffeeshops wouldn’t offer any better shelter.
“The chit knows we’re after her, Eddie.” The rough voice was meant to carry to Charlotte’s ears, and she realized with increasing terror that she’d heard it before… during the ambush on the way back to London from Ravenshall.
