“What are you drinking?”
Ah, the price of information. Owen vowed to buy every bottle in the pub if he had to.
“Whiskey,” he said, “and lime, if you’ve got it.”
The bartender nodded and poured, adding cloudy lime juice. He slid the drink toward Owen, who set down at least double the cost in coins.
The man eyed the payment with a discerning stare before slapping a grubby hand over it and pulling it across the wooden counter toward his own side of the bar.
“I’ve seen a man dressed in finery like you.”
“Does he come here often?” Owen asked quickly.
“Nah, he’s the Prince Consort. Never come here at all.”
And the barman started to laugh. Owen nodded, tossed back the whiskey, and let the rage overtake him. With a thick haze, fury clouded his vision and his judgment.
Reaching over the bar, he grabbed the bartender by the front of his apron and hauled him up and onto the counter.
“That wasn’t very nice of you, was it?” Owen asked as the man’s eyes bulged. He flailed, trying to free himself, but he was at a distinct disadvantage, half lying atop the bar with his feet dangling above the floor.
Owen put his face close to the barman’s. “Do you have a better answer for me?”
Behind him, Owen heard the room fall silent and a few chairs scraping. He was about to get assaulted, and he was nearly angry enough to think he might relish a good beating.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he released the bartender, turned, and received a fist to his jaw. Fortunately, his assailant was malnourished and short of stature, and his punch did little in the way of damage. But he had to hand it to the little guy for trying.
Behind that one, however, were numerous larger men who didn’t care for their site of relaxation, nor the source of their alcohol, being disturbed by a nobleman.
That gave him an idea. Owen decided to lie through his teeth. He looked over his shoulder at the bartender.
“I saw you pour water into the whiskey.” Now, that was a serious accusation. On the other hand, with so few men there drinking anything but ale, Owen had to up the stakes. “And I’ll bet you’re watering the barrels of ale in the cellar. Who’s with me, lads? To the cellars!”
The cry was picked up at once. “To the cellars. To the cellars.”
The room cleared of almost all but a few grizzled souls too old to make it down the steep, narrow steps at the back of the room, and a few women who looked as if they had already drowned themselves in gin.
What a sad place,he thought. He wasn’t getting any answers there, but he would try again elsewhere. Maybe he would find some tavern a little nicer, more for the class of an average businessman or solicitor, somewhere that could possibly be frequented by gentry and poor folks alike.
With one arm on the bartender, he held his other hand out in front of his nose, palm up, waiting. With a struggle, the man opened his hand and let the coins fall. Owen withdrew some, leaving only enough for the whiskey.
Releasing him with a shove so the man slipped back behind the bar and onto his feet, Owen headed for the door, reaching it as the bartender ran after the mob to protect his wares.
Back on the street, Owen wandered along, feeling a little cheered by the whiskey and hardly noticing the slight throbbing to his jaw. This might prove to be an interesting night. He walked a block, looking for the next likely establishment.
In any case, fruitless as this seemed, he had no reason to go home. His townhouse was spacious, luxurious, and deadly silent. Not for the first time, he imagined a wife puttering around in it, dining with him, warming his bed, and generally keeping him company. In return, he would treat her like a queen. Also, not for the first time in the past week, the woman he pictured in such a role was Lady Adelia Smythe.
*
Her brother’s brandyglass clattered to the tablecloth, spilling everywhere.
“Murdered?” Thomas exclaimed as the footman in the room rushed forward to blot up the mess.
“Yes.” Adelia wished she’d thought to clear the room of servantsbeforeshe’d started the private conversation. Their footmen and maids were all so silent and skilled at being invisible, she usually forgot they were in the room, as was their intent. After all, she’d learned everything about being the perfect wallflower from her father’s own staff.
“Leave us,” Thomas told their servant, and the footman departed the room.
As soon as they were alone, he demanded, “Explain yourself.”
