She is willing to give up her love for his honor ...
He is willing to give up his honor for her love ...
Lady Beatrix Gillingham ran from her duty years ago...
Giving up her family's status and childhood dreams.
No one would suspect the barmaid is...
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London, April 1815
Beatrix Gillingham jumped when the wooden door of the tavern was thrown open, splintering as it met the brick wall with great force. Had she not locked it? After hours of endless shouting, the ringing cacophony from a mildly out of tune piano, and the silence that had followed, the explosion of sound was a shock.
Her heart raced.
From the darkness, a man stumbled in, clearly inebriated as he paused to lean against the wall. She was forced to move around one of the wooden columns by the bar to see him.
He was tall. Rather large.
Most of the tavern lamps had been extinguished, but even with barely any light, she could tell his body was toned like that of a dock worker, muscled without an ounce of fat. After a year of working at the Swinging Door Inn and Tavern, she'd learned how to size a man up, to know when he'd had too much to drink, to know which men were nothing more than bags of meat and which were made of rocks. Men of stone had the power to become something very dangerous to a woman without a male protector. A woman like Beatrix herself.
This man was a mountain, and she struggled not to show her worry.
The last few patrons of the Swinging Door— regular men she thought more or less pleasant— had departed half an hour ago. Beatrix had been left in peace since Joanna, another barmaid, was upstairs attending to the guests who had taken rooms.
John, who tended to whatever their boss Mr. Thump needed, was in the kitchen setting it to rights in preparation for business tomorrow.
Mr. Thump had retired to bed hours ago, leaving Beatrix to take care of those who still wished to give up their coins. If Thump could have it his way, the tavern would never close, but he was kind enough to allow his staff five hours of rest before they started up again the next day.
But the war with Napoleon had ended a few months ago and, for weeks now, Beatrix had been getting even less sleep than usual.
Soldiers had poured in from the ships. With Napoleon's War finished, the British army and navy were returning, and Beatrix had been glad to do her part in welcoming them back to the land they called home.
But she'd not pour another pint for the night.
Mr. Thump need not know.
"We're closed," she told the man who'd not moved from the door.
The stranger was dressed in a dark jacket that did nothing to hide his wide shoulders. His waistcoat was red and his pants were tan. He wore fashionable long black boots.
An aristocrat.
She'd served more than her fair share of them, along with business merchants and the like, since the tavern was located right on the docks. Yet even if the ton didn't come in, she'd have recognized what class the man was from. She'd belonged to it herself long ago, but no more.
