Benedict sits as well, letting his gaze sweep the tavern but not letting his eye contact linger too long. He wraps his hand around his jug of ale, looking at both Idelle (in thanks) and at Featherstone.

"Which would explain why Max is making the rounds with London's elite and not Mr. Featherstone."

The corner of his mouth quirks up and he takes a sip of the ale, and the taste is awful. Not at all like what Benedict is used to, but he knows he'll get used to it after a few more tastes. He hopes.