“No member is supposed to discuss what happens within these walls.” Hannah’s mouth twisted, and her already pink cheeks darkened in patent agitation.
“Blackguard! Villain! Filching cove!” Pan flew toward one of the ceiling beams and perched there as if watching for dragoons to ram down the door.
“My brother knew I would keep his confidence.” Charlotte spoke hastily to allay Hannah and Sophia’s concerns. “The truth of the matter is that covert activities have a way of reaching the ears of those eager to participate. My friends and I often talk about how we wish we could sit in a coffeehouse and have a good spate without worrying a whit about manners.”
Sophia appeared more receptive to Charlotte’s ideas than her fellow proprietress. She, however, did not seem entirely convinced either. “Do you really think a group of ladies with their wide skirts and powdered hair will wish to sit around long tables and rub elbows with shopkeepers?”
“Not at long tables—no.” Charlotte shook her head, trying to remain calm despite the hope and gloom warring inside her. “I was thinking of something a bit more comfortable and welcoming, relaxing even.”
Hannah opened her mouth, presumably to utter another protest, but Sophia waved her cousin into silence. “Please elaborate, Lady Charlotte.”
“We will install a disguised door between your current shop and the new addition,” Charlotte spoke quickly as the half-formed vision began to crystalize. Her years of organizing Society events wereserving her well despite the emotions clanging through her. “That shall be the only entrance. We fill the room with sofas and chairs, all elegantly appointed, but more comfortable than fashionable.”
“Like a parlor?” Sophia pressed.
Hannah made a moue of disgust. “We are not some lady’s drawing room.”
“This would be snugger than those formal rooms. I envision an exceedingly inviting sanctuary with cushions that make you want to sink down and stay awhile.” Charlotte barely managed to keep the tempo of her voice steady with all the excitement and panic.
“How would this not just be a meeting place for your acquaintances?” Sophia asked suspiciously. “Do you expect to attract females outside your inner circle?”
“It would not just be ladies, but a mixed group, similar to a salon.”
“How mixed?” Hannah asked, her voice not quite as sharp as before but still probing. “We do not just serve the gentry.”
“The appeal of the coffeehouse is its egalitarian exchange of ideas untrammeled by subtleties and tact.” As Charlotte spoke, her hope transformed into a fire of want. Oh, how tired she was of being nice. She did not want to politely converse with charming smiles and coquettish winks. She wanted to debate. Boldly. Fiercely. Without restraint. Without worrying what a man, especially a prospective husband, might think.
“Are you sure you are not romanticizing the idea of the penny university?” Sophia asked, using the popular nickname for coffeehouses. For a single copper, a man could gain admittance to one of the establishments where he could have his cup refilled as he nattered with gentlemen of all ranks, including leading luminaries in any variety of disciplines.
“Perhaps I am aiming for an ideal. But is that so wrong? Establishments are about appearances, are they not? We will be offeringan atmosphere that no one else does. Its concealed nature will only enhance the appeal. You could charge higher prices for coffee, even offer different recipes that add unexpected flavors. It will be a place to indulge the body and the mind—a retreat, an escape from all strictures.” Charlotte knew she sounded effusive. She couldn’t help it. She’d heard so many tales from her brother about the Black Sheep.
“You are fine with consorting with beau-takers?” Hannah pushed again, using the term for criminals who defrauded the gentry. “And illegal gin producers? How about highwaymen? Smugglers? A river pirate or two?”
“Isn’t that the point of a coffeehouse? To mingle with all?” Charlotte spoke lightly, but her heart began to thump so dramatically that she could only pray the women did not detect its thundering. The bubble of hope had swelled to almost painful proportions.
“You are actually serious about joining our venture.” Sophia’s observation was a statement, not a question, but Charlotte nodded all the same.
Sophia turned toward Hannah. “We have talked about wanting to experiment with the coffee—maybe even serve light refreshments. Lady Charlotte is right. Most of her suggestions mirror what we’ve already been planning.”
Hannah rubbed her brow, the movement causing her mobcap to rustle. Then she heaved out a breath, and Charlotte barely stopped her own sigh. In Hannah’s exhalation, Charlotte detected a relenting note. For the first time since her mother’s pronouncement, the fear inside Charlotte began to ebb a fraction.
“We do truly want to expand,” Hannah admitted, “but this is our livelihood, Charlotte—not some pretty bauble that can be replaced if dropped and shattered.”
“I will not treat the Black Sheep as such,” Charlotte promised, coming near to choking on her welling emotion.
“We will be in charge,” Sophia said sternly. “This is our domain, not yours.”
“Understood,” Charlotte said, before adding very carefully, “although I would like the ability to propose ideas.”
“It sounds as if we need an agreement drawn up—a charter, if you will.” Sophia gestured toward one of the long-scarred tables. “Take a seat. It will be a long discussion.”
Relief thundering through her, Charlotte started to arrange her skirts. Although the petticoat did fold up to allow her to sit, the chairs were not just narrow but closely placed. Eager to document the deal that could not just save but transform her, Charlotte pulled out several seats to make room. Unfortunately, her pannier still knocked one down and caused another to wobble.
To Charlotte’s surprise, the Wick cousins did not laugh at her predicament. Instead, Hannah crossed over to one of the windows and emphatically closed the shutter. “You might as well step out of that ridiculous gown. This isn’t the king’s court, and you’ll find we’re not given to ceremony here.”
Near giddy from the maelstrom of relief, Charlotte wondered if she had ever heard a better suggestion. With an alacrity that should have mortified her, she removed the offending dress and panniers and then stood in nothing but her chemise, stays, and a single petticoat. She would have expected to feel scandalous. She did not. She felt wonderfully, utterly liberated. Without a backward glance at the discarded betrothal gown, she slid onto a chair and prepared to discuss her future.
Chapter Three
