Page 9 of For The Love Of A Widow

“Barkeep!” the gravelly voice of a patron called, waving his hand to gain the notice of the man behind the bar. “When does the mail coach arrive?”

Lettie halted, turning toward the voice—a very familiar deep tone, though she hadn’t heard it in many years. The rest of the conversation between the patron and barkeep was lost to her as she assessed the back of the man who’d spoken.

A group of men pushed by her and took the table she’d been heading toward.

No matter. She turned back to the gentleman at the bar. His back faced her, but his identity could not be hidden. Lettie knew the man too well, even after all these years.

A tendril of nostalgia coursed through her as the memories flooded her, pushing away her recent loss and filling her with a sense of youthful innocence.

Lettie longed to close her eyes and allow his voice to wash over her, a voice that had always been comforting…a feeling of home and security infused her.

Jet-black hair hung over the back of his collar. The length had been improper during her debut Season, and fashion had not likely changed since. His shoulders were tight, and his chin lifted with the arrogance of a man who knew his position all too well—so different from the young man she’d known, or thought she’d known. His tall frame sat heavily on the bar stool.

If he turned, would his midnight eyes—as black as his hair—be as bottomless as they’d been the final day she’d spoken with him, breaking the harsh news that she would marry another?

Lettie longed to run, depart The George before the man turned to find her staring.

But something deep within kept her rooted to the spot just inside the taproom, fearful that if she moved even an inch, her past misdeed would come crashing down upon her.

CHAPTER 3

Daniel swallowed the last of his ale before sliding his empty tankard away from him. The lukewarm, amber liquid traveled quickly down his throat and warmed his stomach—much like an old friend that one hadn’t seen in many years. Damn, it felt good to have a bit of liquor in him after so many months of abstaining from drink. Every night after returning to his empty house, he wondered why he’d made the decision to refrain from alcohol, restrain his gambling, and dedicate less time to pleasures of the flesh. His friends had all but disappeared, little by little, when Daniel refused to participate in the merriment he’d enjoyed his entire life.

It only took a few moments of thought to remember why he’d been determined to cast aside his rakehell ways and become the man his father had raised him to be.

Blast it all but refraining from liquor brought back all the pain.

It was that hurt which enabled Daniel to focus on things more important than himself—and his pleasures.

Namely, his future. He’d even reconnected with his father’s best friend, Lord Percival. It was why Daniel was sitting in The George’s taproom, enjoying his first ale since that fretful morning at Lord Gable’s townhouse.

He waved at the man again as he served another round of patrons, pointedly ignoring Daniel’s question. “Barkeep. When does the mail coach arrive?” he asked more forcefully.

It was the only way he’d complete the task given to him by Percival. The earl had stated a package would be arriving at The George at three o’clock sharp and had said he would be eternally grateful if Daniel could collect it and bring it to Carrolton Hall. The townhouse was the Percival abode when the family was in London, which they had been more and more of late as the aging couple became less willing to make the journey to and from their country estate.

It was the least Daniel could do for the man who’d never turned him away, even after he convinced the earl calling off his betrothal to his daughter was a sound idea.

“Mail coach doesn’t stop at The George, m’lord.” The barkeep didn’t pause as he wiped away a puddle of ale from the bartop and then stuffed his rag in his back pocket before removing several empty plates from a nearby table.

Daniel should have known things would not go as planned, they rarely did. “I am awaiting a package.” Blast him for not inquiring further as to what the actual package contained.

“Stagecoach from Dover arrived not long ago,” the man answered over his shoulder as he bent to clean another emptied table to prepare it for new customers. “Think it is still in the courtyard. You can check with Straton, the driver, to see if he brought anything other than passengers.”

With a gruff, “Thank you,” Daniel stood from his stool and stretched. He’d arrived far earlier than needed and had been perched on the tiny seat for far too long. His back was tense, and his legs were cramped, and the time had given his mind more than ample opportunity to dwell on things better left bottled up and stuffed deep inside, forgotten.

The taproom had filled with patrons at some point—Daniel hadn’t noticed—and it was necessary to weave his way through the crowd toward the door, sidestepping several travelers too weary to move to allow him to pass. Daniel kept his stare on the light filtering in through the open door. The stench of dirt and grime drifted off every person as he finally made his way out into the courtyard, and to a breath not filled with stale ale or human stench—as fresh and unmarred as the air could be in London with hordes of people crowding into every available space anyway. Nevertheless, the air, untainted by stale liquor and the smell of unwashed bodies, happily filled his lungs.

The driver, Straton, leaned against the empty coach, scribbling in a logbook.

“Sir.” Daniel stepped before the man. “Do you, by chance, have a package for Lord Percival?”

“I not be carry’n anythin’ but people, m’lord.” Straton didn’t so much as glance up from his writing. “People and luggage be all I carry. No room for nothin’ else.”

“Are you certain?” Daniel made to look at the log in Straton’s hands. “Mayhap you can check your paperwork.”

“Are ye deaf? I not be transport’n anythin’ but people and their baggage.” He snapped the logbook shut and trained a cold stare on Daniel. “Now, if’n ye don’t mind, I only have an hour’s time afore I be off again. I need ta find meself a hot meal an’ a pint.”

Percival had sent Daniel on a fool’s errand, a waste of his time. However, Daniel had naught else to do. The earl could have as easily sent a servant to collect the package and not requested Daniel handle the matter personally.