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Follett smirked. “Are you sure you weren’t thinking about your lovely wife?”
“Why would you ask that?”
Pointing towards his face, Follett said, “Because you were smiling.”
“I was not.”
Haskett spoke up across from him. “You were. It was an obnoxious smile that greatly annoyed me.”
“Why was that?”
“Because you looked smitten,” Haskett remarked. “I had a sudden urge to punch you just to wipe that smile off your face.”
Oliver shifted in his seat. “I assure you that I am not smitten.”
“No?” Haskett asked. “It certainly appears that way.”
Frowning, Oliver inquired, “Why am I friends with you again?”
Haskett grinned. “I assume it is because I am the only one who can tolerate you.”
Turning his attention back towards the window, he saw the buildings were huddled closer together and appeared blackened. Men loitered on the narrow streets, and he saw an older woman hunched over with a threadbare blanket covering her shoulders, begging in a corner.
“Have you ever been to the rookeries before?” Follett asked.
“Rarely,” Oliver lied. “They are much too dangerous for my tastes.” He was grateful for the overcoat pistol hidden in the back of his trousers and the muff pistol in his right boot.
The coach came to a creaking stop outside of a nondescript building that was in dire need of a paint job. The roof in some spots had caved in on itself. A crude sign above the door read, “Howl Hill Pub”.
“We are here,” Follett acknowledged as the footman opened the door.
As Oliver stepped down onto the muddy road, he saw that his friends were staring up at the building with uncertainty on their faces.
“Is something wrong?” Oliver asked.
Haskett frowned. “This is not how I envisioned the Howl Hill Pub to look.”
“What did you expect?” Oliver questioned. “We are in the rookeries.”
“We’d better hurry inside,” Follett said, glancing over his shoulder. “I fear that we are not safe standing here.”
Oliver walked up the three steps that led to the pub and opened the door. “After you,” he encouraged.
He followed his friends into the dimly lit hall and his alert eyes scanned the crowded room. Long tables ran the length of the room and serving wenches walked around with tankards in their hands.
A blonde woman with a scandalously low neckline came up to greet them. “Can I get ye blokes something to drink?”
Oliver spoke up. “We are here for the meeting.”
The woman gestured towards a door along the back wall. “Just go through that door,” she said before turning to another customer.
“Come on,” Oliver encouraged with a wave of his hand. “You heard the lady.”
His friends followed him as he swiftly navigated the hall and arrived at the back door. He opened it and stepped into the square room. Four round tables filled the small space, and he counted ten men sitting around the tables.
The room grew silent as the door behind them closed, and a stocky man from the front of the room came to greet them. The brown jacket and matching trousers did little to hide the man’s muscular frame.
“Follett,” he greeted with his arms out. “I am so glad that you came.”
