Lillian threaded her hands together and rested her chin atop them, her gaze firmly focused across the room.
Devon settled his eyes on the same sight.
One of the philosophers stabbed his index finger at the tabletop. “The notion of the sublime is stuff and nonsense! Burke just can’t make up his mind.”
“Burke is smart enough,” another said, “to recognize that humans are capable of feeling conflicting emotions at once. You, unfortunately, are not.”
Lillian gasped.
Devon chuckled. “That’s a conversation that will end in a fight before the night is through.” He grumbled the last bit. He wanted to join them and have his say, perhaps join the fight when it broke out, too, but he must behave. Instead, he shook his head, downed his coffee, and stood, wagging his finger at Lillian. “Stay right there. No mischief. I'm going to tell Mrs. Freddy to keep an eye on them.”
Lillian leaned into the high back of the booth. “My guess is she’s already well aware, and you’re just off to order more coffee.”
He grinned, turned on a bounce, and all but strutted across the room. He knew he looked unbearably cocky. Well, he felt unbearably cocky. Lillian was enjoying herself. She seemed to understand why he loved it here, and she seemed to respect his desire to be a more permanent part of the establishment.
How would he make that happen now? Perhaps he could go and talk to Arthur and find out the best investments to, well, invest in. Gambling was too much of a risk, and doing so carefully went too slowly. Working at the docks, as he’d done before, paid steady but not enough. Not nearly enough. But investments offered another way to get the money. As long as it was a quick turnaround. Was it a quick turnaround? He’d never tried before. Arthur would know.
He slapped his palm on the bar and winked at Frederick.
Who winked right back. “Lovely girl you got there. She fits right in here.” He looked back down at the glass he was drying. “Two months, Lord Devon. Two months.”
“I’ll have it, Freddy. Don’t you worry.”
“I’m not. I’ve got another offer.”
Fear pinged in Devon’s belly, but he ordered another coffee, peeked at Lillian, and banished it. If he picked the right investment, two months was all he’d need. He hoped.
CHAPTER12
Lillian watched Devon walk away and decided to enjoy it. He had the kind of masculine backside that was impossible to ignore.Oh, it waslovely. Rounded and muscular. And he had a little bounce in his step tonight.
The coffeehouse fit him like a well-tailored suit, enhancing all his best qualities. He ordered another drink at the bar and then sat at the long table with the man he called Kingsford. They spoke deeply for several minutes, and then Devon slapped him on the back and stood. He walked a few steps down the table to the group of philosophers. He spoke for several more minutes with them.
Then things turned… loud.
Devon slammed his palms on the table and pushed to a stand, crossing his arms over his chest when he’d reached his full height. It reminded her of the Christmas party, when he’d argued so passionately for coffee over tea. He used his entire body to speak, threw every single marvelous muscle into it. She’d thought his passionate defense at the house party silly, though the physical expression of his convictions admirable. Now that she knew the passion was not so silly, she admired it even more.
Devon caught her eye from across the room, and all the fervor melted from it. He left the conversation without another word and found his way surely and quickly to her side.
“There’s likely to be a fight,” he said, his voice rising high on a wave of excitement.
“Does this often happen?” she asked. “Should we leave?”
“It happens more often than one would think, this not being a pub. Hopefully it will remain calm.” He sat beside her on the bench.
The remaining passive philosopher, who’d been quietly sipping his drink, smacked the last drop, placed his cup carefully on the table, then stood so abruptly, his chair clattered to the ground. “You are wrong, sir! The ultimate outcome of an experiment like the pantisocracy would be complete perfection. Utopia.”
Another philosopher stepped close to the first, his red face nearly vibrating. “Utopia, my hairy arse.”
“Your sister has a hairy arse,” the first said calmly, raising a hand toward Mrs. Freddy, presumably to order another drink. Unless… was she the sister in question?
Hardly mattered because the second philosopher threw the first punch.
Then the rest of them joined in. A scuttle of screeching chairs and grunts and confusion echoed around the room.
“Oi!” Mrs. Freddy shouted. “Stop that now!”
Mr. Freddy shook his head and continued washing a glass.
