Page 1 of A Lady’s Rules for Seaside Romance (The Harp & Thistle #3)
T here are two situations in which an unexpected, urgent letter is not only most unwelcome, but draws an additional essence of doom.
Anytime past midnight, and in the midst of guests.
The more guests present and more elevated the event, the more wrenching of the gut when the mysterious note is shoved beneath one’s nose for examination posthaste.
Fortunately, this moment was neither past midnight nor amidst guests, because the sense of doom in the moment soared so high, it went above the London fog.
It was early afternoon, before The Harp & Thistle opened. Night didn’t yet darken the windows of the famed London pub, and outside, the sun darted between gray clouds while people passed by going about their business. The employees of the pub, meanwhile, prepped and cleaned for opening.
Victor McNab scowled at the letter pressed between the extravagant footman’s white-gloved fingers.
The young footman’s face was expertly blank as he waited with utmost patience.
Victor ripped the letter out of the man’s hand and shoved it into a trouser pocket without a glance.
The footman didn’t flinch, but the corners of his mouth turned down ever so slightly.
“I will not be joining you,” Victor said in a low growl, knowing he would be expected to. “It can wait, and you may share my response with them.”
The footman swallowed and twitched as if ready to argue, which would have been utterly foolish.
Victor may have been in a plain, woolen waistcoat and trousers, his black hair and beard may have needed a good trimming to be in fashion, and his white, linen shirt could have used a pressing.
He was rough inside and out and, by all appearances and surroundings, squarely working-class.
Most thought he was. But this footman would have known the truth.
And thus would have also known how offensive that slight twitch could be perceived.
As if coming to that same conclusion, the footman briefly bowed without comment then left.
Through the window, Victor watched the glossy, black carriage depart. There was, quite literally, only one reason a footman would dare step into his pub. However, Victor didn’t have time to dwell on that reason, nor a desire to deal with it, either.
The sound of clinking glasses pulled Victor to his present task and he hitched back around the bar and over to the inventory book still laid open.
He drew a finger down the page to where he kept track of the different types of glassware.
Rocks glasses and pint glasses were their most used, but they also had a few wineglasses for the rare wine order, and a mix of others as well.
The wineglasses were mostly used by his brothers’ wives. And the Dowager Marchioness of Litchfield. Or, as Victor had known her for countless years, Anne Winthrop.
“All right, I think I got them all.” The interrupting voice nearly made Victor jump.
Victor turned to look at his employee Dev Keer.
Keer, a wisp of a man with a thin mustache, was looking down at a small pad of paper in his hand.
He sniffed and pushed his spectacles back up his nose.
“I counted eighty-two pint glasses, seventy-six rocks glasses, forty shot glasses, twelve wineglasses, twelve juice glasses, and thirteen pitchers.”
Victor nodded slowly while his employee recited his findings. “The pint glasses and rocks glasses need to be at one hundred. How did we lose seven pitchers?”
Keer shrugged after writing on his notepad, then stuck the pencil behind his ear.
“Regardless, you know where the replacements are. They must be washed first.”
Keer gave a grunt of agreement. “Who was that nob?”
Victor closed the inventory book. Though the majority of their patrons were regular Londoners, they were known to attract a few men from the nobility who occasionally preferred a less refined environment in which to imbibe.
Or to place wagers on fights, especially when his brother Dantes used to be in the ring. “What nob?”
“The man who was just here.”
“That was a footman.”
“Ah.” Keer stood there, waiting.
Victor’s jaw tightened. For many years, the pub had been run solely by Victor and his brothers, Dantes and Ollie.
It had been ten years now since the pub had been rebuilt and his brothers married.
Because of these marriages, both men had pulled back from their responsibilities at the pub.
Victor, of course, had had to hire other people to fill in the gaps.
He didn’t like having people outside the family work beside him, partly because he had to show them patience he wouldn’t normally give to his brothers, but it had been a necessity.
Especially since every year, the pub had been attracting more and more patrons.
Keer had worked for Victor almost two years now.
There were three other men who worked full-time for Victor as well, and a few other men and women who were part-time, but Keer was the one Victor trusted most. He never complained, was always on time, and rarely needed days off.
Keer learned quickly and took care as if the pub were his own.
But most of all, like Victor, he used to work on the docks, which meant the man worked his arse off and wouldn’t turn his nose up at a task, no matter how mundane or dirty.
Victor heard nothing but good things when he asked around about Keer as well.
But Keer was also not in a place to be nosy about Victor’s personal life.
“It’s none of your concern what he wants,” Victor said darkly.
Keer didn’t get the hint. “Aren’t you curious what the note says? It seemed pretty important, delivered by a man as fancy as a peacock.”
“No.”
Keer inhaled from his nose, realizing belatedly he was overstepping. “Ah. Um, before I go back in the storeroom, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”
Victor glanced around the dark-wood-paneled room.
They had two hours until opening, but the tables still needed to be wiped down one more time, and the floor needed to be mopped.
A few lightbulbs needed to be replaced, and one glass lamp shade had been shattered the night before by a drunk fisherman telling a wild story about a mermaid.
In his mind, Victor started listing the tasks that were being put off by a talkative employee.
“I’ve worked here for almost two years now,” Keer said, bobbing on the balls of his feet.
Victor’s attention snapped to the man.
“And, well, I wanted to discuss, um…” Keer fidgeted and scratched behind his ear. “Well, I would like a raise.”
“A raise.”
“Yes. I think I deserve it.”
Victor stared at the man, who then responded with an awkward chuckle.
Menacing stares were something both Victor and Dantes excelled in.
Dantes terrified anyone who looked at him, mostly because of the deep scar slashed over his entire face, but he had a wildness about him as well.
Victor, well, terrified people by simply existing.
His voice was dark, his mood was dark, his expression naturally menacing.
And he was more quiet than not. This put people off of him. Sometimes he used it to his advantage.
“Bold of you to ask for a raise before the two-year mark.” Victor crossed his arms.
Keer scratched his jaw. “Is that a no?”
Victor’s eye twitched. Patience. “I will consider it, and we will discuss it at a later date.”
Relief spread over Keer’s face and he retreated to the storeroom to replace the lost glassware.
The front door to the pub opened. The blissful silence was suddenly punctured by the shrieks of two eight-year-old boys, the loud giggle of a two-year-old girl, and the overlapping chatter and laughter of Victor’s brothers, their wives, Anne, and Anne’s daughter, Lady Mary.
The twins, Theodore and Simon, immediately scrambled up two barstools and knit their little hands together patiently.
As everyone else situated themselves—including setting down numerous boxes and bags—Victor went around the bar and stopped opposite his nephews.
His niece, Lily, was still too young to sit atop the barstools and instead settled into Dantes’s arms.
Victor placed his hands on the bartop. “What’ll it be, lads?”
“Apple juice!” The boys grinned in unison.
The twins were a funny pair. They looked exactly alike with their mother’s red hair and their father’s green eyes.
But Theodore was the picture of prim, with his hair neat and his clothing crisp.
Nothing ever seemed out of place with him.
Simon, meanwhile, was the rascal of the two.
Victor would often see flashes of Ollie in the boy when Ollie had been that age.
Rambunctious, a bit of a mess, and always doing everything possible to make people laugh.
“No apple juice.” Victor gave them a stern look. “One must ensure one drinks enough plain water each day. I can always tell when I haven’t had enough water, I feel sluggish. There is something about juice that isn’t quite as healthy as plain, old water.”
The boys looked at each other then sighed when Victor gave them glasses of water.
“You know.” Ollie came to stand behind his sons and frowned. “Most uncles at least try to be fun.”
As Victor eyed his youngest brother, he poured pretzels into a bowl—a relatively healthy snack, all things considered—and the boys perked up when he pushed it toward them. Lily screeched, “Pwetzels!” and Dantes grabbed a handful for the dark-haired girl.
Victor raised a sardonic eyebrow at Ollie, and Ollie rolled his eyes.
The children now occupied, Victor went back around to the patron side of the bar to greet everyone.
They were all talking at once, per usual, but he somehow managed to figure out they had stopped by two modistes—the House of Worth and Madame Claudette—to pick up their dresses for the upcoming summer season.