Rafe restrained an urge to knock the man to the ground. "A bottle of wine," he said. And then lowered his face to the level of the rotund little innkeeper. "I would greatly dislike it if my companion and I found ourselves in any sort of scuffle, innkeeper."
"My name's Joseph Hynde," the innkeeper said, falling back a step. "There's no call for a fine gentleman like yourself to worry about scuffles, not in Hynde's Black Swan."
"In that case," Rafe said agreeably enough, "I'd like a table in the back next to the wall, with a view of the stage."
"You want everything, you do," Hynde replied. "I'll have you know that the inn's been crowded for the whole day with people waiting for this very performance. They was outside my door while I washed my face this morning. And you wants a good view of the stage, do you? Well, so does everyone else!"
Rafe didn't bother to answer, just dropped two sovereigns in Hynde's waiting hand.
Hynde turned around. "This way," he said over his shoulder. "You're lucky to be here, sir. Cristobel has been the biggest attraction in Whitefriars for the last months, and this is the first time she's been outside London in over a year." Hynde cleared a way through the crowd by the simple process of cuffing anyone who happened to have a chair in his way.
A moment later Imogen was tucked behind a round table, with her back to the wall. Her companion pulled forward a chair in such a way as to shield her from the crowds. She saw now that it was an interesting room, lined with maps, mirrors, and old portraits, with the air of a chamber designed for a more elegant fate than had befallen it. There was even a dusty old harp in one corner. Everything showed its age: cracks in the mirror glinted brightly in the light from two candles recklessly screwed to its frame; one of the lanterns to their right had fallen from its hook on the wall and lay in a cluster of glass, unheeded by the innkeeper.
At first Imogen thought the crowd was entirely male. But once her eyes were accustomed to the gloom, she saw there was a sprinkling of women throughout the room. The men were not so different than those she'd known in her father's stable, if rather less sober. But the women… she'd never seen their like.
She pulled Gabriel close. "What is that woman on the stage doing?" she whispered, just as Hynde slapped a bottle of wine and two glasses onto the table.
Rafe looked over his shoulder. A chair had been placed on the stage, and an extremely well endowed woman had frozen into a pose as if she were in the act of pulling up her stockings. Her chemise was falling from her breast, and she had a gown tossed next to her, as if she were in the very act of dressing. Or—perhaps— undressing. Most of the men in the room were far more interested in their conversations or cards to pay her any mind.
"She's posturing," Rafe explained. "She's the prologue to Cristobel." He had just made an uncomfortable discovery. There was wine—and only wine—to drink. And while he could probably drink a small quantity of wine, or so he told himself, he had no inclination to try his fortitude with Hynde's rotgut. Yet surely Imogen would notice if he didn't drink. And if she did, she would instantly guess that the man behind the mustache was Rafe and not Gabe.
Rafe shuddered at that thought. It was Gabe she had been kissing so passionately, not himself. Without thinking twice, he accidentally knocked his glass off the table.
Imogen didn't even notice; she was watching the posturing woman, who was pushing her petticoats higher and higher on her thighs. "Are those beauty marks on her breast?" she asked.
Rafe glanced over his shoulder again. The woman had an admirable white breast, marked by a delicately placed beauty spot just on the inside curve. It almost made up for the fact that she was clutching a bottle of gin behind her skirts and occasionally took a swig when she wasn't frozen in place. Imogen was leaning her chin in her hand and gazing at the prostitute with rapt attention.
"They wear beauty spots to cover the effects of disease," he said. "You see that she has four on her cheek?"
"Fascinating," Imogen said, not taking her eyes from the actress.
Rafe signaled the innkeeper. "What have you for supper?"
"Calf's heart stuffed," the innkeeper said, "fried liver, pigeon pie—here, you!" He turned around and cuffed a young man behind him. "Sheathe that sword or you'll be taking your ale in the alleyway, or my name's not John Hynde. If you aren't here, you lose your chance with Cristobel, may I remind you?"
The young man sullenly returned his sword to his sheath, and Hynde didn't even pause for breath before continuing, "leg of mutton, green peas."
"We'll have pigeon pie," Rafe said, "and lemonade for my companion."
"Here!" Hyde roared, not bothering to reply, "do you think this is a flash house?" And a second later he had cracked two heads together and thrown one of the men clear across the room.
"My goodness," Imogen said, sipping her wine. "He's very strong for someone so small."
"Throwing people across the room is excellent exercise."
"Do you think that our actress may have made a friend?"
Rafe pushed his chair back so that he was shoulder to shoulder to Imogen. "Why, so she has," he said, watching as the actress hopped off the stage straight into the waiting arms of a young man who lifted her high in the air and then triumphantly out of the front door.
"Where are they—" Imogen asked, and then stopped.
"They are retiring for the night." He couldn't tell if she were blushing because of all the theatrical color on her face. "Of course," he added, "I wouldn't say such a thing to a proper lady such as Griselda."
Imogen giggled. She glanced sideways at him and then she laughed outright.
"What?" Rafe said, bending close, so that his mouth was just beside all those unnatural yellow curls of hers.
"I said nothing."
Her voice was impudent, but Rafe's attention was caught by the curve of her ear. He could just see it in the midst of a froth of yellow curls. "You're a different sort of woman than Griselda," he said into that ear, hearing the throbbing tone in his own voice with some wonder. And then he touched his tongue to that delicate pink.
She jumped.
"You taste good," he said. "Sweet and womanly, for all you have apparent ambitions to the experience of a lightskirt."
"You do sound like Rafe!" Imogen said, pulling back and frowning at him. "I have no wish to become any man's kept mistress. Do you know what that poor woman likely has to do to support herself?"
"Yes," Rafe murmured, bending toward her again.
But her eyes were flashing as only Imogen's eyes could flash. "Women all over this country are forced into unsavory practices due to a wish for their daily bread," she informed him.
There was only one way to shut her up.
Even that didn't work for a moment. She tried to say something, and thumped him on the shoulder with a slender fist. But Rafe didn't give a damn.
He hadn't kissed a woman—really kissed a woman— since before his brother died, and he started drinking, and all the pleasure in life just dried up and blew away with the whiskey. Now he could feel every tremble of her soft, sulky lower lip. It was too full to be in beautiful symmetry, and too soft to be anything other than perfect.