“No one is dying!” Nora scoffed. “Please. I’ve raced this beauty along the Thames walk—and you think the Garden will do her in?”
“Let’s not tempt fate, is all I’m saying,” Hattie said, holding her hat atop her head as she pointed to a curved lane twisting off to the left. “There.”
Without slowing, Nora steered the matched greys down the cobblestone street, darker than the roads they’d been on. “You’re sure?”
Hattie nodded. “There. Up ahead. On the right.”
A bright lantern hung high on the exterior of the building, illuminating the sign for The Singing Sparrow. Nora slowed the horses. “I didn’t know you’d spent so much time in the Garden that you had a favorite pub.”
Hattie ignored the dry commentary. “Stay here.”
“There is absolutely no chance of that.” Nora was down from the gig, straightening the topcoat she wore over her tight buckskin breeches before Hattie could reply. “Is he in there?”
“I don’t know,” Hattie said, her heart pounding as she landed on the street, grateful for her own trousers—donned to keep her from notice—and the freedom of movement they provided. “But it’s the best place for us to start.”
She was not leaving Covent Garden without finding him. Without confronting him.
“Do you think people will recognize us?” Nora asked.
“I don’t.” Though, to be honest, the last time Hattie had been in this pub, she hadn’t been interested in anyone but the man who’d brought her. Heat thrummed through her with the memory of the pleasure he’d wrought here, her body tightening with the anticipation of seeing him.
No. She wasn’t here for pleasure. She was here for punishment.
For confrontation.
Nora grinned. “Then I think those assembled within will see what we show them. Two well-appointed—but not overly wealthy—gentlemen. In search of ale.”
Hattie cut her friend a look. “We are not here to get soused, Nora.”
“I know.” Nora’s smile turned knowing. “We’re here to find your Bastard.”
“He’s not mine,” Hattie protested. “Though he is a bastard.”
The pub was teeming with people—men and women of all walks. Hattie immediately recognized a half-dozen dockworkers, three with their wives by their sides, each ruddy-cheeked and jolly and happy to not be using his hook tonight.
Using the brim of her hat to hide her face, Hattie considered the crowd assembled, many of whom were sitting, facing an empty stage, lit by two large candelabra. No sign of Whit in the audience, but she couldn’t imagine him being interested in whatever was about to happen here.
Nora turned back to her, tilting her chin toward the far end of the room. “Is that Sesily Talbot?”
Hattie followed the direction to the dark-haired, dark-eyed woman at the bar, clad in a daringly cut, lush amethyst gown designed for anything but escaping notice. “Turns out there are toffs in here!” Nora said happily, approaching Sesily, who leaned over the mahogany bar, smiling broadly at the American who had been in the tavern when Whit and Hattie had been. It took Hattie a moment to recognize him, however, as his friendly face was gone—replaced by a dark, irritated scowl.
Nora sidled up to Sesily, who turned immediately, a flash of frustration in her eyes at the arrival, there and immediately gone when she recognized Nora. “Look at you!” Sesily said happily, her gaze sliding past Nora to Hattie, eyes widening just a touch as she took in the duo’s attire. “And you!”
Nora leaned in. “We’re in disguise.”
“Of course you are!” Sesily laughed delightedly, as though the whole thing were a lark. Sesily was the last of the scandalous Talbot sisters, the one who remained unmarried and, it seemed, perfectly happy in her spinsterhood. “You look magnificent!” Her gaze traced over Hattie’s coat and trousers. “You especially, Hattie. Though no one with a brain in their head would think you a man.”
That much was true. Hattie had bound her breasts before coming out tonight, but there was only so much to be done when one’s breasts were Hattie’s. She gave a little shrug in Sesily’s direction. “I only require people not notice me at all.”
Sesily pursed her lips. “Whyever not?”
“Of course, it’s impossible for you to imagine not being noticed.” The words came on a scowl from the American, who was spending an inordinate amount of time cleaning the bartop near them.
Sesily turned a brilliant smile on him. “You’ve given me more than enough of the experience, Caleb. After all, you make a point never to notice me.”
A muscle flexed in the man’s jaw and he turned to Hattie and Nora. “Something to drink, gentlemen?” Recognition flared in his gaze. “Welcome back.”
There was nothing scandalous in the words—but the memory they evoked had Hattie’s gaze sliding to the closed door to the storage room in the distance. Her mouth went dry, and an ale appeared in front of her. “Thank you,” she said, lifting the drink. “Hello again.”
“You know each other?” Sesily asked.
“Hattie’s been here before,” Nora interjected, distracted by the crowd. “Is there to be a show tonight?”
“There is!” Sesily said, happily. “The Sparrow is performing.”
Nora swiveled to look at her. “The actual Sparrow? Really? I thought she was touring Europe.”
Sesily smiled. “She’s returned to London.”
Nora’s gaze lit with excitement. “Do you know her?”
“Indeed I do.” She waved away the otherwise fascinating information, turning bright eyes to Hattie. “Why are you in disguise?”
“No reason,” Hattie said.
“Hattie’s on the hunt,” Nora replied simultaneously.
Hattie rolled her eyes as Sesily’s lips dropped into a little O. “Delicious. For whom?”
Hattie feigned innocence. “Who says it’s a whom?”
Sesily cut her a look. “It’s always a whom.”
Fair enough. Nora distracted Sesily with another question, and as the two women chatted, Hattie turned to the American, still lingering on the other side of the bar. “It’s a whom.”
Understanding flashed in his kind eyes, followed by something like pity. He nodded. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t. I haven’t seen him since you . . . were here.”
She was grateful for the dim light in the tavern hiding her blush. She refused to be deterred. “I have to find him.” Failure was not a possibility tonight. She was through letting him run riot through her life. “It’s imperative.”
Caleb Calhoun scanned the crowd behind her. She followed his gaze, tracking over the men she’d recognized when she entered. “Too many strong arms here for him to be at the docks.” She smiled when the American looked impressed. “I’m not a fool.”
“Searching out a Bastard in the Garden would suggest otherwise,” he said, but his eyes searched hers, nevertheless, for what . . . honor? She nearly laughed at the thought that someone might be concerned that Hattie was the dishonorable person in her battle with the Bareknuckle Bastards. Whatever he looked for, he found. “It’s Wednesday night. He’s probably at the fights.”