He looked like a Mr. Bellingham. His smile was charming and one of his eyes skewed just a little moretoward his nose than it ought, which lent him an air of conspiratorial delight.
She liked to think she would have tended him as gently last night, but she could not be certain.
Nevertheless, somehow she found she could not regret her choice.
After gingerly swiping himself with some water and the rags, Hawkes had gotten into the rest of his clothes, slowly and painfully, because being dressed made him feel more like himself. He had cause to be pleased they were all a little loose, this time, because it made the whole wretched process easier. There wasn’t a mirror in the room, which was both a shame and probably a mercy.
He dragged the back of his hand across his whiskery jaw, ruefully. He probably looked like bloody hell. His vanity twinged. He’d been so known for his elegance.
And then came inevitable rustles, murmurs, the shuffling of feet.
All of which heralded the anticipated knock sounding at the door.
He tossed back half a tin cup of the remaining water in the pitcher and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. One needed to not be parched in order to charm.
“The door is unlocked,” he called.
It opened to reveal what appeared to be a small, handsome mob. He smelled coffee. A maid was among them, and she was holding a tray laden with what looked like scones, and he gave thanks that his stomach didn’t make an audible noise.
“Please, don’t stand on ceremony,” Hawkes said pleasantly. “I am at home to guests. Do come in.”
And they did, smiling cautiously.
And then he understood at once and yet too late that the legacy of prison was such that he had lost his comfort with facing a crowd of people, all pointed at him. And him in a corner.
Several to hold him, several to beat him a little: that had been the rhythm of things there.
He’d never known when it would happen.
And his mind knew better. Even now, it was diligently rationalizing away the problem.
His body, his faithful servant, simply did not. The memory was stored, and it did what it always did when it sensed danger, and everything in him flexed and primed to defend and his breath was short.
He took a surreptitious breath, and reasoned his pulse to slow.
And then, gradually, like a bit of feather on a breeze, Mrs. Gallagher detached from the crowd and drifted over to have a look out the window as if admiring the view, before wordlessly and decorously sitting down in the chair next to the window, nearer to him than to everyone else.
She’d sensed his unease. He was nearly certain of it.
At this realization his tension evolved into a different kind of tension. He did not think he’d ever before had a protector. It was an extraordinarily gracious thing to do.
But she didn’t look at him. She’d at least spared him that.
How had she known?
The rest of the crowd eased into the room, too, perhaps encouraged by her casualness and smiling comfort with him, and spread out a bit, until it all looked more like a salon and less like an ambush.
The maid, a fair-haired girl in a cap with eyes thesize of guineas settled the tray down on the little desk. Heavenly.
He assessed the rest of them swiftly. A golden-haired woman and a brown-haired woman, both lovely—those would be Mrs. Hardy and Mrs. Durand. They looked like the sort of ladies who would employ beautiful penmanship to compose and then stuff gently unyielding messages in the pocket of a man’s coat. Two of the men appeared to be the sort who commanded respect because they were accustomed to it—military, former or current, if Hawkes had to guess. Their aspects were simply distinctly different from those of hothouse-bred London gentlemen. They hovered rather protectively near the women. The one with the black hair and unusual green eyes was likely the infamous Bolt. And if it was—well, no one knew better than Hawkes how quickly life could change. Incarcerations, reincarnations—none of it was out of the realm of the possible.
The man with a gaze like flint must be the famous (to some) Captain Hardy.
A third, shorter, very sturdy man who resembled an egg on legs and sported a tuft of dark hair on top wore a fine, plain suit that fitted him splendidly. He exuded a general air of bonhomie and satisfaction with life.
For his part, Hawkes was certain he was wearing his most benignly welcoming expression. He knew how itfelton his face; he could don it like a mask, when circumstances made it difficult to do it sincerely. It was no different in his line of work than a soldier’s uniform.
A few seconds elapsed during which nobody seemed to know precisely what to say. A diplomat at heart, he decided to take matters in hand.