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Oliver shrugged as he adapted his usual persona. “I didn’t want to disappoint the ladies by depriving them of my attention.”
“That was most kind of you,” Follett jested.
“Wasn’t it?” Oliver replied.
Haskett spoke up from across the table. “I saw you conversing with Miss Lockhart.” He smirked. “She is quite the beauty. I can see why the Duke of Billingham wants her for himself.”
Oliver stiffened. “They aren’t married yet,” he said, hoping he kept the terseness out of his voice.
“No, they are not,” Follett remarked. “I heard the duke is marrying her even though she has no dowry.”
“They must be a love match, then,” Booth commented dryly.
Follett glanced down at the cards in his hand before saying, “Everyone knows the duke likes to collect pretty things, including wives.”
“It is a shame his wives keep dying on him, though,” Booth said.
“They probably grew bored to death,” Haskett joked. “After all, have you tried speaking to the duke? It’s exhausting.”
“Regardless, Miss Lockhart will become a duchess soon,” Follett said, “and she will deserve everything she gets for being married to the duke.”
“I couldn’t be married to someone like him,” Haskett declared. “Not for all the money in the world.”
A servant walked by with a tray of flutes filled with champagne, and Oliver reached up and grabbed one. He was growing tired of this conversation. He didn’t want to hear anything more about Emmeline and her upcoming nuptials.
“Are you with us, mate?” Booth asked.
Oliver placed his glass on the table. “I am, but I am growing tired of hearing about the duke.”
Follett nodded as his expression grew solemn. “Perhaps I have something that might interest you.”
“You don’t want to race through the streets, do you?” Oliver asked.
“No,” Follett said. “I had the most interesting conversation with a gentleman at the coffeehouse on Tabley Street.”
“Is that so?” Oliver asked, uninterested.
Follett leaned closer and shared, “We spoke in great lengths about economic and political reform.”
“I must assume that he was a Whig, as well,” Booth commented.
“I have no doubt,” Follett said, “and he invited me to a meeting with other like-minded individuals.”
Now Follet had his undivided attention. Oliver leaned in and lowered his voice. “What kind of meeting?”
“The gentleman said if I was interested in further debate on the subjects, then I should attend the meeting at the Howl Hill Pub,” Follett shared.
“The Howl Hill Pub is in the rookeries,” Haskett said. “Why do you have any desire to attend such a disreputable establishment?”
Follett appeared unconcerned as he remarked, “It could be enlightening.”
Booth reached for his glass. “I am rather wary of such a meeting,” he admitted. “I imagine it might just be a bunch of radicals spouting political nonsense.”
“Don’t you want to find out?” Follett asked as he glanced around the table.
Oliver took a sip of his drink before inquiring, “Who was this man that you spoke to?”
“His name was Guy Stewart,” Follett replied.
