Foxglen warily scanned the tavern too. “Perhaps I should come back myself. This establishment doesn’t feel safe.”
“And what would you accomplish? Having your pocket picked?” Hannah asked. “I’m more accustomed to London’s seamier side.”
Foxglen didn’t try to deny her observation. He merely leaned forward and said even more quietly, “I thought about laying some coins on the table, but I think that would only serve to encourage robbers.”
Perhaps the duke wasn’t completely naïve. He’d had the good sense to don his laborer’s attire without her asking. And he hadn’t made the beginner’s mistake of wearing expensive shoes. His footwear was appropriately worn and scuffed and nothing that a man with steady work couldn’t afford.
“Our presence is indubitably making everyone anxious,” Foxglen observed. “The chatter is increasing in volume, and not just to mask whatever is happening below. The shifting gazes sent in our direction are occurring at an even higher frequency than when we first arrived. The servers have also begun to chat among themselves, and their voices are pitched higher and higher.”
Shock flooded Hannah. “How can you notice all that but not a child reaching into your pocket for your watch?”
Foxglen shrugged. “I read people—their facial expressions, their tones, the little movements that they make. Even sighs can yield insights.”
Hannah watched him curiously. “What about me? What conclusions have you drawn about my character?”
The right side of Foxglen’s normally straight lips twitchedup a fraction. “In all honesty, I find you to be an unpredictable enigma.”
An unpredictable enigma? Hannah did not know whether to be pleased or displeased. “In what way?”
“Well, the second time that we met, you offered to become my mistress,” Eoin pointed out.
Hannah frowned. “You requested help. It was the best way for me to insert myself into your rarefied world.”
“But still unconventional and more consideration than I would have ever expected from a mere stranger.”
Guilt flickered inside Hannah. Perhaps Foxglen was having trouble deciphering her character because her motivations were too convoluted.
The left corner of Foxglen’s mouth now quirked up to join the right side in a true smile. “After flabbergasting the butler, you handled my aunts and uncles masterfully. Within one meeting, you learned more than I have in years. And then you helped me with the account books. I never know which actions are part of your scheme and which behaviors exhibit your true nature.”
“Everyone calls me blunt. My personality shouldn’t be difficult to unravel,” Hannah said as she fought a wave of uncomfortableness.
“You were bold when we first met. No one has ever looked at me so brazenly, and I rather liked your gaze upon me.” Foxglen’s reply seemed void of any artifice, and Hannah realized that, for all his staidness, he might be even more frank than she was.
Hannah’s heart thudded. She both dreaded and wanted to hear his next words. She was not disappointed.
“Perhaps my attraction to you has muddled my mind.”
“Your attraction… to me?” Hannah’s throat felt as if all moisture had been wicked from it. She’d sensed that her appreciation of Foxglen was mutual, but she hadn’t expected him to openly confess in a dissolute Covent Garden tavern. Even though she warned herself this was not the time for lust, prickles danced over her heated skin.
“This isn’t the kind of establishment where folks just pop by.” An annoyed feminine voice broke into their conversation. Hannah lifted her head to find an older woman looming over them. Silver threaded her ash brown locks, and her hard life was etched into the wrinkles and pockets carved into her face. Although she’d tried to hide the syphilis scars with black silk patches and white makeup that she could probably ill afford, she’d only drawn more attention to them. Yet it was her gray eyes—the color of granite and just as unforgiving—that most vividly testified to the harsh existence she’d led.
“You best find a drink elsewhere.” The woman jerked her chin toward the exit and turned to leave.
“It’s good, then, that we’re here for information and not for ale,” Hannah said.
The woman’s steps faltered, but she did not swivel back in their direction. “We aren’t serving that either.”
“It’s about my mother,” Foxglen said in that solemn emotionless way of his. “Perhaps you knew her. She worked here over two decades ago. I’m told that I look like her.”
The barmaid half twisted in the duke’s direction. Although she didn’t fully face him, it was clear that she was studying his features. Her gaze flicked up and then down before she paused and repeated the motion. Hannah swore that her flat gray eyes widened for just the barest of moments, but they went utterly blank again.
“Her given name was Sorcha,” Foxglen pushed just as thewoman’s expression snapped back to normal. A muscle in her cheek twitched, but otherwise she didn’t react.
“What makes you think that I’ve been hefting trays in a place like this for over twenty years?” the woman called over her shoulder as she began to sashay away.
“Then is there someone who has?” Hannah called after her, even though she realized the question was likely futile.
“You best leave.” The server kept her back to them, but the men shifted ominously in their seats. It was clear that Hannah and Foxglen’s presence was not going to be tolerated for much longer.
