Chapter Eight
The Black Sheep bubbled with life. The front room was loud and noisy with men jostling for seats and shouting to be heard.
But the back room was the perfect marriage of literary salon and cheerful pub.
Chairs and divans—more comfortable than Eoin had ever seen—filled the space, along with gentlewomen in delicately embroidered gowns and female laborers wearing linsey-woolsey dresses.
Likewise, there were some men in finely tailored silk jackets and others in carefully patched clothing.
The spurts of conversation that floated in Eoin’s direction ranged from discussions about bawdy plays to the latest fashions to the war with France to news from the Colonies to an art exhibit and, finally, to visits to the Royal Menagerie.
The old Foxglen would have passionately detested this place. That Eoin knew immediately. It was more difficult to ascertain his own opinion.
But as he sat on a chair and watched Hannah bustling about, he realized that he felt something he had not experienced in a long time. Simple enjoyment. He liked sitting here, surrounded by enthusiastic folks whose conversation was bound by no restrictions.
And in the center of that brilliant chaos was Hannah.
Excitement and exertion pinkened her cheeks, and when she stopped to speak with her customers, her green eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.
Every now and then, he could catch snippets of her conversation—and no matter the topic, she always chatted away confidently.
She was an intelligent one, Miss Hannah Wick.
And he liked that about her. He liked everything about her. Perhaps too much.
She had proposed to become his mistress only as a ruse. But their relationship had begun to feel more and more real… at least to Eoin.
For a long time, he’d carried a constant ache in his chest, but he hadn’t noticed it until recently. And that was only because the yawning emptiness shrank when he was with Hannah. When she’d attempted to buoy his spirits in the carriage yesterday, he’d felt a comfort that was alien to him.
“Eoin, darling,” Hannah called out as if she’d heard his thoughts, “how are you liking the brew?”
Eoin’s heart flipped. Although he’d asked Hannah to use his given name, he hadn’t expected her to use it publicly, especially coupled with darling.
Before he could recover, she leaned over him, her breasts grazing his back as she placed another cup of coffee on the low table in front of him.
“You must try this one. It’s one of Sophia’s latest creations.
Since it contains imported spices, we generally charge extra but consider it a little love token from me. ”
Hannah was playing a role. The flirty words. Her semi-embrace. Even the gift of the delicious-smelling concoction. They were all carefully crafted lies.
But Eoin was falling for each gesture.
“I am sure it will be delicious.” His voice seemed blessedly normal, even though he didn’t. Perhaps he, too, could act. After all, hadn’t his entire life been a carefully scripted performance?
“Hannah,” she whispered into his ear, and the gentle puff of her breath against his skin triggered a cascade of sparkling sensations. He’d never felt the like before. And he wanted more. Just not in a public place with many curious eyes turned in their direction.
“If I am openly employing your first name, you should use mine as well,” Hannah quietly instructed. “We’re not just lovers but shockingly affectionate ones, remember?”
“Hannah.” He breathed out the word, and he felt deliciously rebellious. He’d always followed etiquette perfectly. Breaking the rules didn’t just feel freeing but unexpectedly intimate. Sharing something private with her among so many people made him feel like they were an actual unit.
“Much better,” Hannah praised him before she straightened. Then in a louder voice she said, “I’ll keep the coffee coming. Anything to keep my darling happily ensconced.”
As she sashayed away, Eoin sipped the piping-hot liquid. Bursts of cinnamon and nutmeg danced on his tongue while the cream tempered the bitterness. The rumors had been right. The Black Sheep had managed to make delicious brew.
When he placed the cup down, he could feel the stares.
Most were being discreet but a few eyed him openly.
A clandestine back room wasn’t a place anyone would expect to find him, and his recent rise to the title already made him an interesting specimen for gossip.
But even if Eoin understood the reason for the curiosity, it didn’t make him any more comfortable.
He’d never been on display, and he found he didn’t like it.
The Black Sheep’s patrons spoke softly enough that Eoin couldn’t hear, but he could easily read their lips. Although Eoin knew that he should adjust his gaze downward, he found his eyes riveted to conversations pertaining to him.
“What is the Duke of Foxglen doing here?”
“I wouldn’t think he’d ever deign to grace a place like this.”
“People say he is even more rigid than the old duke.”
“Did you hear Miss Wick call him darling and use his Christian name?”
“I know! It’s terribly scandalous.”
“I would have thought he’d try to send someone to the Colonies on false charges for taking such liberties.”
“He’s a cold one.”
“Born a wizened old man.”
“Yet it seems like he’s begun an affaire de coeur with Miss Wick.”
“Does he even have a coeur? I thought he was as heartless as they come.”
“Bloodless too.”
“Your Grace?” The new voice was quiet and cultured but not one that Eoin recognized. Unlike the others, it didn’t drip with prurient curiosity.
Glancing up, he found Dr. Matthew Talbot standing across from him. Eoin didn’t know much about the fellow beyond that he’d married Lady Charlotte, Hannah’s cousin, and that he was the disinherited third son of a duke.
Eoin’s grandfather hadn’t approved of the physician who’d eschewed his noble roots to practice medicine, including working as a mere ship’s surgeon. But was Dr. Talbot a radical man or just a compassionate one?
“Dr. Talbot.” Eoin rose to greet the man who had helped expose his own brother’s crimes as a masked highwayman.
“May I join you?” Dr. Talbot asked.
“Certainly.” Eoin swept his hand toward the empty chair across from him and resumed his seat.
“I am a bit early for our group meeting.” Dr. Talbot kept his voice low. “But I’ve never minded spending time at the Black Sheep, even before my wife’s involvement. I have always found it to be a place where ideas can be freely exchanged.”
Eoin studied every detail of Dr. Talbot’s facial expressions.
Was the man merely making conversation or was he testing to make sure that Eoin wasn’t a covert foe?
The physician’s eyebrows were raised, which generally meant someone was interested in the conversation.
But he was also tugging slightly at his throat, a sign that Eoin attributed to nervousness.
“Since becoming the new duke, I find it best to expose myself to all different schools of thought.” Eoin tried to put Dr. Talbot at ease.
He needed this man and his friends’ assistance, not their suspicions.
Thankfully, Eoin was well accustomed to soothing others’ heightened emotions.
“One area where I lack understanding pertains to the natural world. I’ve heard that you’re well known for your sketches of wildlife both here in England and in the New World. ”
Dr. Talbot stopped playing with his neck. His hand dropped to the table, his fingers relaxed. “Animals are one of my passions.”
Eoin asked a few more questions, and soon the man was chatting freely. Eoin felt his own muscles uncoil a fraction. It was good sitting with a companion, especially one near his own age. Even if Dr. Talbot did most of the talking, Eoin didn’t feel like a shadow on the peripheries.
Eoin found himself surprisingly fascinated by the plight of the vanishing Scottish wildcat.
He almost didn’t notice when the other patrons left or when the core members of their investigating group arrived and began drawing up chairs.
But as soon as Hannah sat down, Eoin’s senses crackled to life.
Even though he was still looking at Dr. Talbot, his body seemed attuned to Hannah’s every movement.
“Where’s the new Duke of Falcondale and his wife?” Mr. Powys asked, his lilting Welsh intonation tempering the abruptness of his question.
“They’re touring my brother’s Lake District estate for their honeymoon,” Lady Charlotte, who’d sat next to her husband, explained. “They hope to attend the next meeting.”
Eoin felt a sliver of disappointment that Alexander Lovett would not be attending. It was, after all, Lovett’s writings as Willoughby Wright that had first inspired Eoin to think differently than his grandfather. But he wasn’t here to talk to his favorite satirist.
“I called this meeting because I was wondering if anyone knows about the Horse and Hen,” Hannah announced before she briefly explained Eoin’s connection to the place.
“What if we discover that this tavern is still a cradle for reformist ideas?” Mr. Powys crossed his arms, his fingers balled into fists, as he openly studied Eoin.
His mistrust was so palpable that even someone not versed in reading the sentiments of others would clearly detect his suspicion.
“How are we to know that Foxglen won’t report that information to the king?
Perhaps this search for his mother is a ruse designed to ferret out royal opposition. ”
The playwright’s words didn’t bother Eoin. They made logical sense, and Eoin had done nothing to earn this man’s trust. Swounds, how could Mr. Powys glean Eoin’s true character when he had so much difficulty defining it himself?
“Foxglen was a crucial part of stopping the mass poisoning at Court, and he’s never breathed a word about it,” Lady Calliope pointed out.