“I meant that I am a scholar by nature and habit. What you witnessed last night was an aberration. I would not want you to assume that I was some sort of dashing romantic hero.”
Charlotte tapped lightly against his chest, her face flushed with excitement. She had never appeared more beautiful to him. “I find you exceedingly dashing and romantic.”
Oh, how Matthew wanted to bask in her words, but he could not. For both their sakes, but mostly hers. He would not lie to her. He gently grabbed her fingers and tried to make his gaze as serious as possible. “I assure you that I am not. My outward sheen of adventure will wear off, and you may find me and my quiet life very dull indeed. I am not one for balls or operas or even literary salons or musicales—even if I would be invited to attend. Most evenings when I am in London, you will find me reading dusty tomes or attending scientific lectures.”
Hurt and insult flashed in Charlotte’s emerald green eyes. “Do you really find me so shallow that you believe I would not enjoy comfortable nights by the fireside just reading, or so dim-witted that I would not understand lectures of a more learned bent?”
“Not at all!” Matthew gasped out, eager to make it clear that he was not intending to belittle her. “You are wonderfully intelligentand beyond thoughtful. Those are two traits that have always drawn me to you.”
The insult in her green irises dimmed but did not entirely retreat. Desperate, Matthew encircled his hand with hers. “What I mean is—”
Before he could finish, the carriage drew to a stop. Matthew frantically tried to think of the right thing to say before they would need to disembark, but he was never good with words of the heart. As he scrambled to explain his messy emotions, Charlotte withdrew her fingers from his.
“We best put ourselves to right before we open the door—or Alexander does,” she said quickly as she began straightening her bodice. “Knowing my brother, he could burst in any moment. Subtlety is not his strong point.”
“Uhhh, no it is not,” Matthew said, rather insipidly.
His chest seemed full to bursting with sentiments he wanted to share, but he was at an entire loss on how to express them. He wanted the best for Charlotte, even if it cost him everything.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Five days later and less than a week until the Duke of Lansberry’s return, Charlotte walked into the back room of the Black Sheep. The first meeting to bring down Lord Hawley was about to begin. Hannah and Sophia had closed the coffeehouse to all other patrons, and Charlotte had in her pocket Miss Georgina Harrington’s response to their inquiries about the choker’s pendant. She just needed to convince Calliope, Mr. Powys, and Mr. Belle to join their group of conspirators.
Charlotte discovered she was the last to arrive, and she glanced surreptitiously at Matthew. She hadn’t seen him since their carriage ride back to London. He held himself even more stiffly than usual. Although his skin was not beet red, it had a slight pink flush. A responding heat flooded her.
“What happened to your arm?” Calliope’s shocked voice interrupted Charlotte’s study of Matthew. Her best friend clamored from a cushioned pink divan where she’d been sitting next to Alexander and across from Matthew and Mr. Stewart. “Does your injury have anything to do with why Alexander had me inform your mother that you spent a night last week at Estbrook House when you clearly did not?”
“Let’s all organize before Charlotte answers that particular inquiry.” Sophia took charge. “Mr. Powys and Mr. Belle, would you join us?”
Calliope’s honey-brown eyes widened. Charlotte could tell that her friend wished to ask more questions, but she remained silent until everyone had gathered in a loose circle of hastily arranged chairs and sofas.
To Charlotte’s surprise, she was selected to explain the situation to the newcomers. This was different from when she spoke at the salon. She wasn’t hosting; she was leading.
“So it is an intrigue!” Calliope exclaimed when Charlotte finished. Always an animated woman with golden features, Calliope positively glowed at the idea of an adventure.
Mr. Powys emitted a rather rude snort. Sitting across from the shimmering Calliope, he appeared her exact opposite with his black hair and deep blue eyes. Despite leaning back in his chair, he appeared just as engaged in the conversation as Calliope, yet he approached it with a cool, deadly seriousness.
“This is your friend’s life, not a sentimental romance that you’re penning.” Mr. Powys’s Welsh accent remained as lilting as ever, but it still could slice like a newly sharpened sword.
Calliope, however, merely raised a burnished eyebrow. “Does this mean you actually read my plays before summarily rejecting them from being performed at your precious theater? Afraid to add lighter fare to your offerings of misery, doom, or sinful bawdy?”
Charlotte looked quickly between Calliope and Mr. Powys. Her friend mainly wrote epic, romantic poems, but she did dabble in the occasional play. Charlotte hadn’t known that she’d tried to have one of her works performed at Mr. Powys’s playhouse… or that he had refused. Calliope’s writings were very popular, and any dramatizations of her stories always drew a healthy crowd. Yet they were dreamy, passionate affairs compared to the ribald yet scathing comedies or dark dramas that Mr. Powys generally championed.
“I have heard too much sugar may cause gout, so I do my best to avoid anything too sweet,” Mr. Powys answered.
“Whilst vinegar may preserve you, it would be a pity to lead a sour, pickled existence, even if it tends to be a long one,” Calliope shot right back.
“Have you two met previously?” Hannah broke into the verbal sparring, her own voice curt. She was clearly annoyed at the secondary conversation.
“Just briefly at the Black Sheep a week ago,” Calliope answered.
“But we have corresponded,” Mr. Powys added, “although Lady Calliope tends to contact the other owners of the Dionysia.”
“Only because you do not respond to my letters,” Calliope said breezily.
“Will you two be able to set aside your squabbles—at least until we have secured proof of Viscount Hawley’s villainy?” Hannah demanded.
“My cousin is right,” Charlotte said softly. Then, she added with more force, “We cannot afford any fighting among ourselves.”
