Brock Spencer, the Earl of Haversham, pulled the wooden, high-backed chair out and sat heavily. The room smelled of tobacco and sweat, even at this early hour. It was as if the scent of men had been absorbed into the very walls, like a woman’s perfume on delicate skin. The men who lounged around the room, drinking ale and eating a stale breakfast, attested to the low standards of the establishment. He’d sought shelter here the previous night to await his meeting with Lady Posey. A smile spread across his face. The woman was a spitfire, and he looked forward to bantering and bickering over the price of her stock.
“Can I get ye sumthing, sir?”
When had the lady, and he used the term loosely, materialized before him? She leaned her hip against the round table in front of him and set down a grimy mug filled with what must be ale. Didn’t she realize it was barely eight in the morning?
“I would enjoy whatever is the cook’s specialty,” Brock replied.
She jerked her thumb back toward the kitchen. “Me ma does the cook’n and she don’t specialize in anything.” With a heave of her ample bosom, she sighed. “I’ll be bringing ye a plate of cheese and bread . . .” She paused for a moment, allowing her eyes to travel up and down Brock’s lean form. “It be me favorite,” she finished with an expectant look, as if she foresaw him asking her to join him for his meal.
“That will do.” He only hoped the wheat wasn’t infested with ergot. He’d seen many a comrade overtaken by hallucinations and racked with seizures, eventually succumbing to unconsciousness and death. It wasn’t a pleasant way to perish.
“I be right back with yer meal.” She straightened from her perch on the edge of his table and turned with a flip of her midnight-black hair. Her hips moved to a rhythm only she could hear as she sauntered back toward the bar.
Brock sat back, looking around the room. He hated to wait and waste time. His years serving the King had taught him idleness led to foolishness. A newspaper sat on the unoccupied table next to him. Taking a bit of the paper, he wiped the rim of his mug. Not that it would help, but at least his lips wouldn’t slide from the glass when they came into contact with the greasy surface.
As he set the paper aside, a headline grabbed his attention. “Local Earl Dies at Dawn.” A duel had claimed another life. “Ignorant men,” he mumbled as he made to set aside the paper. Unfortunately, the name printed in the article again drew his attention. He read on:
The Earl of Davenderly was killed on Tuesday morning after a duel in Hyde Park. This writer wonders if Lady Viola Oberbrook is currently in town. Has the Murderous Maiden struck again?
The article went on to discuss the legality of dueling at dawn and the consequences if caught by the magistrate. But none of that interested him. His mind fixated on the name he cursed almost daily since his return to England. No longer did he have the distraction of war, the peril and danger of it, to keep him otherwise engaged.
Brock threw the paper to the floor in disgust. How dare the article’s author drag before society the tragedy of his past? Did they not have any courtesy for his grieving family? True, his brothers’ deaths had occurred eight years before, but the pain still rocked him to his core. Having only recently returned to polite society and his ancestral family home, he finally had to deal with the loss, compounded by the unexpected death of his father while Brock had still been away. Coming home hoping to find the open arms of his father waiting, only to learn he’d passed had devastated him. Not a single person had sent word to him. It was a blow he had not expected, opening fresh the unhealed wound of the loss of his brothers.
“We don’t be gett’n the press rags very often, so we handle ‘em gentle like.” The bar maid set his plate of cheese and bread before him and bent to retrieve the paper he’d thrown to the dirt-covered floor boards, her breasts almost tumbling from the top of her dress. “Enjoy yer meal, sir.”
There was no reason to correct her inaccurate greeting. Though he was still getting used to being addressed by his father’s title, it would only cause more attention to be focused in his direction. He lifted the hunk of stale bread to his mouth as she again sauntered away, her hips gyrating a bit more forcefully on the return trip. If she ever fancied leaving her family’s business, she would surely be appreciated as a comfort woman behind his troop of men.
Correction: They were no longer ‘his men.’ And he was no longer fighting at the front line. Part of him couldn’t help but wonder if society would prove more dangerous a life than his previous as a soldier.
He pushed the thought from his mind. He needed to get used to being back in society. He gathered his lump of moldy cheese and the remaining bread in his napkin, using his other hand to retrieve coins from his pocket. The chair scraped against the rough-worn wooden floor as he stood and made his way up to his room to gather his few belongings.