Page 20 of Tempting a Lonely Lord
Single sconces hung unevenly on the dark-paneled walls, their feeble flames casting a faint, flickering light that seemed to deepen the shadows rather than dispel them. In the corners, where the light barely reached, dubious figures huddled over tankards, their voices lowered to conspiratorial whispers. The smell of stale ale, damp wood, and unwashed bodies permeated the room, an odor that clung to the nostrils like a bad memory. The floor beneath William’s boots was sticky with spilled drinks, crushed straw, and dried mud.
As he reached the bar, he looked around the room, searching for more than just the source of the muffled tension that seemed to emanate from every corner. This wasn’t just a place to drink—it was a haven for secrets, where men traded more than coin and risked far more than they could afford to lose.
“There’s a table in the back,” a buxom blonde barmaid said as she edged past him with practiced ease, carrying a tray with sloshing tankards of ale and glasses of gin through the crowd. Bridgewater wasn’t in this room, which meant he was probably already in a game somewhere in the tavern. The centuries-old building appeared to sprawl unevenly, its layout betraying the haphazard nature of rough-hewn additions tacked onto the back over the years. Narrow hallways disappeared into the shadows, suggesting a maze of dim, ramshackle extensions that had been built with little regard for form or function.
“I’ll have an ale,” William said as he leaned against the bar.
The bartender narrowed his eyes, his gaze sharp and assessing, as he turned to the barrel behind him. With practiced efficiency, he pulled the spigot, filling a dented tankard until the froth threatened to spill over. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he slid it down the scarred bar top, the vessel skimming over the worn wood before coming to a halt with a dull thud. “Ye’re new.”
William paid for his drink and took a sip. “I am supposed to meet a friend in the game room.”
“What games are ye looking to play?” the bartender asked, a hint of suspicion in his tone, as he picked up the coin William had left on the counter.
“I’m not particular,” William said with casual nonchalance, withdrawing a pound note from his pocket and handing it to the bartender. He used a practiced, rustier tone—one he often adopted when in disguise. “I’m looking for a game… Something to help me unwind from a long day.”
“Upstairs. Take the second door,” the man said, nodding at the stairwell in the corner, swiftly tucking the bill in his worn apron pocket.
Picking up his drink, William thanked the man and made his way up. The sprawling room was even drearier thandownstairs. In one corner was a spirited game of cribbage—the wall behind them bore the marks of their competition, with chalk tally marks etched in uneven lines. In the center of the room was a table for six with a card game underway. Five men were playing and there was one empty chair. William recognized the earl among the players. From observing the man’s body language, it appeared he was losing. The only person that seemed to be pleased was the man seated across from Bridgewater. Behind them, a few bystanders huddled, watching with keen interest.
Raucous laughter and energetic shouts of men placing bets drew William’s curiosity. A small group of men had gathered. Their eyes were fixed intently on two men throwing darts. The dartboard, crafted from roughly hewn wood and painted with concentric circles, dominated one wall, its surface marked by the wear of countless games. A young sailor appeared to be winning, and when a new game was announced, the young man ordered drinks for everyone.
“Mind if I join you?” William inquired, sliding into the empty seat at the card table. A few of the men nodded or grunted a welcome.
“Have my seat,” the earl said, his tone dismissive. “I’m not interested in continuing.”
“Nonsense,” the tall, broad-shouldered man seated across from him said. “You’ve only just arrived. The night is young.”
“Don’t be leaving us so soon, guvnor,” a barmaid crooned, a practiced smile curving her lips as she wove effortlessly through the crowd to Bridgewater’s side. She tossed her dark hair with exaggerated ease, brushing off the slaps and pinches from the men, her laughter as hollow as the ale-stained floor beneath her feet. She placed a drink in front of him. “Nothing but the best for you.” Her fingers trailed down Bridgewater’sarm as she placed a glass in front of him. “As you requested, milord.”
“Fine. I’ll do one more hand,” Bridgewater said, before taking a sip of the cognac and glaring at the man across from him.
“Need a refill?” the barmaid asked William, her voice more casual than it had been with Bridgewater.
“No. I’ll have what he’s having,” William said.
“The cognac is for special—” she started.
“I’ll stay for another hand if you share the stock with him,” Bridgewater interjected.
The barmaid cast a quick glance at the man seated across from Bridgewater as if awaiting his approval. At his subtle nod, she turned to fetch the drink.
William observed the exchange with carefully concealed indifference. It was clear—the tall man opposite Bridgewater was the one in control.
His sleek, dark hair gleamed under the dim light, and his eyes were so deep and impenetrable that it was impossible to distinguish pupil from iris. Though he spoke and dressed like a gentleman, his attire—fine yet understated—was not the sort one would wear to a ball or the theater. It was the clothing of a man who moved in refined circles yet operated in the shadows.
But what struck William most wasn’t his appearance—it was the air of absolute authority he exuded, the quiet arrogance of a man who held the fates of every gambler in the room at his whim.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” William began. “My name is Bernard Pegram,” he said, extending his hand to those around him, and listening carefully as each man introduced himself.
“What do you do, Mr. Pegram?” the man to his left asked.
“I’m an accountant for Streamer Ships. I came in on one of the boats that anchored this morning,” William said. He knew it would be difficult for anyone here to challenge him. Men rarely knew the owners of the ships that docked.
“Ah. You must be here to investigate a problem,” the tall, broad-shouldered man seated across from William said smoothly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.
Hoping to coax the man into revealing more about himself, William feigned agreement. “Yes, I’m afraid you’re right. Wish it weren’t so.” He looked about the room with a carefully calculated unease, as if harboring burdens too heavy to share. With a faint shake of his head, he added, almost to himself, “I’ve already said too much.” The subtle tension in his tone, paired with the faint hint of worry in his expression, planted the idea that he, too, carried secrets—a ploy designed to spark curiosity in the men watching him.
The man grinned broadly and glanced around the table, his demeanor resembling that of a predator, suggesting that he felt in control of the situation around the table—perhaps in the entire tavern. “You’ve nothing to worry about here. You’re among friends. I’m Baron Darkmoor,” he said, with an air of confidence. Seemingly aware that everyone was looking at him, he straightened his posture and puffed out his chest.
