Chapter Seven
For a man who was allegedly stoic, Foxglen was very emotive, at least around Hannah.
She could easily read the anguish in his eyes as he gazed around the narrow alleyway.
Unlike many of his class, he wasn’t judging or even pitying the destitute folks around him.
Instead, he seemed to keenly feel their desperation, perhaps because he was imagining his own family suffering in the filth and squalor.
Hannah wanted to reach out and squeeze his arm like she would one of her cousin’s. But although she’d cuddled next to Foxglen to dissuade the two prostitutes, she didn’t want to physically soothe him. She must remember that he wasn’t her ally, even if they were temporarily working together.
Unfortunately, the wretched man kept inadvertently endearing himself to Hannah.
Foxglen might look like a tough prizefighter, but he bumbled around Covent Garden with the shyness of a schoolboy.
Although the women in the windows had clearly embarrassed Foxglen, Hannah hadn’t detected rage, disgust, or even prurient interest rising from him.
More surprisingly, he hadn’t exhibited a modicum of anger when that street urchin had picked his pocket.
Foxglen had simply allowed Hannah to deal with the matter instead of hollering for the youth to be shipped off to the Colonies.
Yet the duke was determined. It showed in the way he boldly pushed open the door to the tavern—even though he didn’t know if he would find painful answers inside.
What greeted them, instead, was ominous silence.
As soon as the patrons’ eyes fell upon them, they immediately stiffened and stopped their conversations.
Even the servers froze despite their heavy-laden trays.
The entire place reeked of stale beer interspersed with the sharper scents of juniper.
Evidently, the Horse and Hen still sold the aromatic swill.
It could be that the duke’s massive build had quieted the crowd. The men were definitely sizing him up over their brimming tankards. Yet they were watching her with almost equal suspicion. A weighty wariness hung in the air and, with it, a tinge of danger.
Hannah was suddenly glad that Sophia knew of their destination. She hadn’t thought searching for a duke’s mother would be perilous, but apparently, she’d been mistaken.
“Do you wish to turn around?” Foxglen asked in a low tone that only she could hear.
“No,” Hannah told him at the same volume. This wasn’t the first hazardous situation that she’d faced.
Slowly, Hannah and Foxglen stepped into the dark, malodorous tavern. Even though it was still light out, no sun penetrated the dark, almost cave-like room lit by only a few tallow candles. Given the stench wafting from the tapers, the fatty wax had gone rancid.
As Hannah and Foxglen slunk in the direction of an empty table, every single patron glared.
The tavern maids ignored them, but the man behind the locked bar glowered the most. Although Foxglen always walked with his back painstakingly straight, he seemed to somehow make himself even more unrelentingly large.
When they reached their destination, Foxglen pulled out a chair that was as spindly as it was wobbly. He hesitated, likely trying to determine if the pathetic piece of furniture would bear his weight. With a sigh, the duke gingerly sat down. The wood creaked but thankfully didn’t break.
Hannah sat too. Slowly, the customers’ conversation resumed, but the discourse was still obviously stilted. Occasionally, hollering and shouting drifted up from between the cracks in the floorboards. Whenever it did, the occupants of the tavern slammed their drinks down or stomped their feet.
The establishment clearly wasn’t just a place to grab food and drink.
But even though it was patent that these folks were intent on hiding secrets, it was much less certain if the enigma pertained to Foxglen’s kin.
After all, more than two decades had passed since his parents had met, and this area of London was constantly experiencing deterioration, rebirth, and deterioration again.
But Foxglen’s father had been a notorious reformer—one who’d plotted with Jacobites to overthrow the current King George to place a Catholic king back on the throne.
Perhaps the Horse and Hen had been a haven for like-minded men.
It stood to reason that the tavern might still harbor budding demagogues, but that explanation didn’t feel completely right to Hannah.
A man dressed in rags shuffled in, and Hannah recognized him as one of the beggars that they’d passed in the alley.
No one seemed perturbed by his presence as he headed over to a crowded table.
The seated men shifted to make room for the older fellow, and a serving maid instantly walked over to take his coin and handed him a tall mug of ale.
“No one is coming to serve us.” Foxglen once again pitched his voice so low that only she could hear.
“Yes,” Hannah agreed as she glanced around the poorly lit room. Most of the women looked too young to have been contemporaries of Foxglen’s mother.
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 na?ve. 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 twitched up 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.”