Chapter Seventeen
“Ye ready forthis?” Alexander asked, rubbing his hands together as they approached Theodore’s pub. It was housed in a blockade of side-by-side dwellings. White plaster covered the facade. A black iron sign swung creakily in the breeze.
The Toad’s Well.
Interesting name, Gunn thought as he pushed open the door and walked inside his friends close on his heels. For a moment, he just stood in the entry, assessing the pub. The space was small. A bar with three stools was straight in front of him, on the opposite wall. Five tables filled the floor space. Dark wooden tables, with matching wooden chairs.
They looked uncomfortable and for some reason, Gunn found that appealing. It was bad enough Theodore funded all of this with Gunn’s coin. It would be even worse if it was more comfortable than the Thistle & Pig.
“Gentlemen. Have a seat where ye please. What can I get ye?”
Gunn looked around, but didn’t see Theodore in sight. The barkeep wasn’t anyone he recognized either. But he had a hunch.
“We’ll take your best whisky.” The man went to turn away and Gunn called him back. “No’ the one on your shelf o’er there.” He nodded toward the bar. “The best one ye have. Ye probably house it in the back, I’d say.”
The man’s eyes lit up and he bowed. “Indeed, sir. Let me fetch your request.”
“What are ye doing?” Alexander asked as he watched the man disappear through the door to the back.”
“I would lay money down to say that their best whisky is the one that has been disappearing from my own bar.”
“Ah.” Malcolm sighed. “Good assumption. I’d say ye are more than likely correct.”
The door swung open, and Gunn sneered. His hunch had been correct. But even better was a pale-faced Theodore who was bringing out the bottle.
“G-g-gunn,” he stuttered. Then he noticed the others. “Your graces. My lords.” He bowed nervously.
Alexander pulled out the chair beside him, patting the seat. “Theodore. Come. Sit and have a drink with us.”
Theodore shook his head. “Och, I dinna think that’s such a good idea. I’ve work—”
“Sit down,” Nicholas boomed. For someone who was normally so quiet, he could be deathly terrifying.
Theodore dropped into the chair, all color drained from his face. He shakily set the bottle of whisky—Gunn’s whisky—on the table.
His barkeep exited, and his brows furrowed when he saw Theodore. He puffed his chest out and approached the table. “Is there a problem?”
Gunn stood, a fierce look on his face, and the man’s shoulders rounded. “Ye can leave. We’ve got business with Theodore that doesna concern ye.”
“Boss?” He looked at Theodore who looked like he was about to faint.
Clearing his throat, he jutted his chin out. “All is well. I’m closing early.”
The man looked suspiciously at the men sitting at the table, his eyes darting from them to Theodore, and back again. Then back to Gunn.
With clenched fists, Gunn took a step forward, and it spurred the barkeep into action. He scooted out the door, flipping the open sign over as he left.
“Now that we’re alone,” Gunn drawled, sitting down. He picked up the bottle of whisky. ’Tis a fine bottle of whisky. Where’er did ye procure it from I wonder.”
“I-I can explain.”
“Can ye now?” Gunn leaned on the table, eyes narrowed. “All this time, ye led me to believe that there was something wrong with my business, when it was all your doing.”
Theodore put his hands up, shaking his head. “Nay. Nay, that is no’ true. Business dried up. No one was coming anymore.”
Gunn slammed his fist on the table, causing the bottle to jump, along with Theodore. “Because ye spread word about town that my pub and inn were rat-infested and I was watering down the liquor.”
Theodore went to say something, but slammed his mouth shut when he saw the menacing look on Gunn’s face.
