“That's not true. I inhabit an uncomfortable position in society.”
“Most of us do.” The admiral slapped his back. “The trick is learning to be comfortable in it.” He raised his other hand high in the air and waved. “Here you go, boys. I got him here. Now you must do your best to keep him.”
A group of men sitting at a table in the back stood as one. They were dressed, mostly, in fine, well-tailored clothes, and they immediately made their way toward Rowan, the Duke of Clearford leading.
“What is this?” Rowan demanded.
“A surprise. An ambush,” the admiral said, slipping out the door.
“And an apology.” The Duke of Clearford stood right before him, bracketed by two men at each shoulder.
“Now,” said a blond man to Clearford's right, “will you come of your own accord, or will we be forced to escort you?” He cracked his knuckles.
Rowan was tempted to test them. A duke would never make a scene in a public house. That’s what Rowan would have thought thirty seconds ago. Also, thirty seconds ago, he would not have thought to even see a duke in a public coffee house in Cheapside. Perhaps he should see what other surprises remained to be discovered.
“Put away your fists.” Rowan pushed right through the line of men and made for the table they’d been sitting at. He pulled out the chair at the head of the table where the duke had been sitting and occupied it himself. The duke didn’t seem to care, spilling himself into another seat without hesitation.
When everyone had settled, Rowan asked, “What's good?”
“The Turkish coffee,” a man with sandy-brown hair said. Hissleeves were rolled up to his elbows and ink splattered across his knuckles.
The other men grinned at him with wide, white teeth showing.
“What's wrong with the Turkish coffee?” Rowan asked.
“Nothing,” the blond man said. “Perfectly lovely stuff.”
“Best thing on the menu,” the man with ink stains said.
Clearford wrapped his knuckles on the table. “I'm apologizing. We can't poison him. Don't get the Turkish coffee. Never had a brew more filled with grounds. You'll have grit in your teeth for weeks.”
“You are absolutely no fun,” the blond man said. “Can’t say I’m surprised.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I'm Quinton Chance, Viscount Noble. You know Clearford. The man with the scruff is Mr. Benjamin Bailey. Yes, you may tease him about the unfortunate alliteration. As well as his lack of style. And that man”—Lord Noble pointed to the man with the ink on his knuckles—“is Mr. Tristan Kingston.”
“We’re acquainted,” Rowan said.
Mr. Kingston inclined his head. “You’ve improved the Hestia significantly. I am glad to see the old girl in good hands. I do not possess a talent for hotels.”
“No need to inflate the fellow’s ego.” Noble waved at the only other unnamed man at the table. His light-yellow hair and merry countenance looked vaguely familiar. “That is Viscount Norton.”
“Do I know you?” Rowan asked.
“I stayed in your hotel for some time a few years back,” Norton said. “The wife and I enjoy taking rooms there occasionally even now. I’d prefer you call me Liam.”
“Well, Liam, what am I supposed to drink if not the Turkish coffee?”
“Fredericks’ special.” He waved a hand in the air, catching the attention of a maid across the room. The maid appeared, and Liam ordered the same drink for everyone.
“What is it I’m about to imbibe?” Rowan asked.
“A standard coffee so far as I can tell,” Mr. Bailey said. “But with no grounds at all in the brew. It’s the smoothest coffee I’ve ever had.”
“It’s made using Lord Devon’s device,” Mr. Kingston added.
“Lord Devon’s device?” Rowan twisted sideways and hooked one elbow over the back of his chair. He wasn’t falling for anything these men tried to sell him. “Is that a euphemism? Does this Lord Devon chap piss it out?”
Silence, then an explosion of laughter that stole the attention of every person in the coffeehouse.
“God, that’s good.” Lord Noble wiped a tear from his eye.
