Jane and Byron were in the lower level of the tavern now. They had tried to speak with other members of the staff but no one was there except Betsy.
“Everyone remembers you, milord,” said Betsy, who seemed less than impressed with him. “You came in, ordered a round of drinks for everyone, and then didn’t pay or tip the lot of us.”
“Oh, didn’t I? I’m sorry about that.” Byron reached into his jacket pocket and got out his coin purse. He gave her a sixpence.
She looked at it and shook her head.
“More?” Byron handed her a shilling.
Betsy left her hand out.
“All right,” said Jane. “He’s a scoundrel. We’ve established this.”
“Is it true he’s the one who wrote that poem?” said Betsy. “I don’t really read, or leastwise, not poetry, not so much. Icanread, and write, and all of that. Mostly. I get the spellings of things confused, I suppose. Anyway, I have heard about that poem. Mr. Jewels? At the Gibbons household? He said he had got his hands on a copy and was going to be reading from it.”
“Oh, truly?” said Byron. “I’ve never heard it read aloud. What a thing! I must be there, I think. When is this happening? Where?”
“Oh, well, it has already happened, I think,” said Betsy. “I did not go, but I heard others who did, and they all thought it was a very nice poem, I think, though I could not say—”
“Could we not bring our focus away from Lord Byron’s dreadful poetry and back to the matter at hand?” said Jane.
“Dreadful?” said Byron. “You know, I have been nothing but complimentary about your novel, madam, and that is saying something, for everyone knows novels are a bit of frippery, but you have been nothing but insulting when it comes to—”
“First of all,” said Jane, “if I had ever written a novel, and I am not admitting that I have, for I should not speak of such a thing, I certainly should never have lowered myself to publish it. And second of all, you haven’t even read my novel.”
“The one you didn’t write,” said Byron.
She sighed. “Betsy, if you please, can you tell me why there might be a ladder going up to the window of Miss Seward’s bedchamber?”
“What?” said Betsy. “Absolutely not. That seems very odd.”
“Doesn’t it, though?” said Jane.
“About me,” said Byron.
Jane scoffed.
“No, did you see me with Miss Seward last night? How did I end up in her bedchamber?”
“That is rather strange, sir,” said Betsy. “Because, you see, the last I saw of you, you were entirely soused, and Mr. Hardy threw you out into the street and cut you off from anymore to drink.”
“Mr. Hardy?” said Jane sharply.
“Oh, no, he wasn’t here. It’s usually Mr. Hardy that handles such things, you see,” said Betsy. “Last night, it would havebeen Todd, however. He would have done it. Erm, that’s Todd Buckley. Mr. Buckley. He works under Mr. Hardy.”
Jane eyed her. “You’re certain of this?”
“Quite,” said Betsy.
“It’s not possible that Mr. Hardywashere and he’s instructed you to say otherwise?” said Jane.
“No,” said Betsy, looking quite surprised at that suggestion.
Jane waved it away. “Right, then. Never mind that.”
“I was thrown out?” said Byron. “Well, how did I get in here and fall asleep, then?”
“Oh, yes,” said Jane. “You specifically told me that you remember wandering about the place and being unable to figure out how to get out.”
