“I see the difference. Fascinating. A place for men to congregate and socialize but without intellect-reducing spirits.”
“Precisely.”
“I would never have thought to look at it that way.”
He shrugged. “Why would you have thought about a place like this at all? Frederick’s is the only coffeehouse to allow women. Mrs. Freddy insists. Coffeehouses are not usually part of the periphery of proper young ladies.”
Lillian snorted. “Whether I’m proper or not depends on who you ask. Now that I’ve left a respectable ballroom to rub elbows with the midnight coffeehouse set, who knows what will happen to my reputation?”
“You’re safe. The black cloak. I promise I’ll do nothing to put your reputation at risk. I know how important it is to you.” Now he did. And that locked up his plans as nicely as if they’d been thrown in the tower of London.
Uncertainty flickered in her eyes like the wavering candlelight on the coffeehouse walls. “What else? What else do you see. What else am I missing?”
Devon took a deep breath and scanned the room, looking for the right ways to tell her what he saw. “All right. Do you see that man over there at the corner of the long table, holding the newspaper?”
“The older handsome man?”
“Is he handsome? I hadn't noticed.”
“Handsome men always refuse to acknowledge the presence of other handsome men out of fear of being the least handsome man in the room.” She patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, though. I think you’re the most handsome man of my acquaintance.” She tossed him a saucy smile. “Of course, I’m not yet acquainted with the older gentleman over there.”
“Well,” Devon said, his voice a little gruff, “that older, slightly less-handsome-than-me man at the corner of the table is a widower with older children. He sits there and reads every newspaper he gets his hands on. And he finds all of them. He consumes every piece of paper about the city, and then at the end of each month, he writes the most passionate columns about London life. Reading them I feel like I’m walking the streets beside him and learning from him. They usually end in love, the columns do, with some sort of image of two people staring moon-eyed at one another.”
“Lovely,” Lillian sighed.
“If you insist,” Devon said.
“You’re not a romantic?”
“Not at all.” Devon flicked invisible lint from his sleeve and straightening his jacket.
“Pity. I’d always imagined marrying a romantic man.”
He pushed away from her and looked her directly in the face. “No, you have not. If you had, you wouldn’t have almost engaged yourself to Lord Littleton.”
“I have become much more practical since you broke my—” Her mouth hung open, and then she snapped it shut.
Freddy bustled by, dropping two steaming mugs of Turkish coffee on the table before them. “Give Lord Dev hell, Miss Clarke.” He winked and swept away.
Lillian’s jaw went slack once more.
Devon tapped the underside of her chin. “Not going to fall off, is it? I rather like it where it is.”
She turned eyes full of dawning clarity on him. “Your wink. You got it fromhim.”
“Pardon? Mywink?”
“I don’t know where I thought it came from. God, I suppose. But no. It’s from Freddy of Frederick’s Coffeehouse.”
“Nonsense. Now, you were saying I had broken something?” Also nonsense. “I’ve broken nothing of yours. Except your father’s workshop. And that’s your father’s. By the way, do you think he’ll let me back inside? My invention is there.”
She laughed. “Maybe after the wedding.” She wiggled her fingers toward the bowels of the coffeehouse and its patrons. “What else do you see?”
It was a crafty change of subject, but he’d allow it. “At the other end of the table, and in the booth next to the two gentlemen sitting there, are two more gentlemen. These four fellows consider themselves the most talented philosophers in all of London. They are not. What they are is amusing, and every once in a while, they do stumble upon some gem of wisdom.”
“How do they amuse you?” Lillian asked.
“Watch and see.”
