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was
everyone bloody lecturing him. It was one last hurrah, because
apparently, everyone expected him to suddenly do a complete about
face in his life.
    * * * *
    Four hours of waiting outside the smoky
tavern, before Haven went in. It was noisy, crowded, with thick
smoke hovering like a cloud overhead. Patrons were drinking, and
gambling. Half dozen women in kerchiefs, and wool shawls hunched
over pints in the shadows. The serving women ranged from fifteen to
sixty, and were dressed in wool skirts and low tucked blouses, with
over-corsets that were laced up under their barely covered bosom,
and wearing caps. Aprons over the skirts on some were dingy, and
much washed. The wenches were as coarse in speech when replying, as
the men who yelled out to them.
    Familiar with the Blue Goose Tavern, Haven
nonetheless kept her hood up as she entered the main room, turned
right through the arch and headed toward a great hearth at the
end.
    “What’ll it be?” One of the serving girls
asked passing her.
    The brandy from earlier still burned and she
was trying to shake off light-headedness. “Bread, cheese, some milk
if you have it.”
    “Aye.” The woman met her gaze with a bit of
mockery.
    Haven ignored it. At the fire, she took off
her wet coat to let it dry, laying it over a bench she later
propped her booted foot on, after seating herself in a straight
chair. She idly watched the flames, aware of others in the room,
but most notably conscious of the Marquis—who was across the way in
a corner, his low laugh and murmured words mingling with that of a
female.
    Once the woman brought her plate and cup, she
consumed the food and milk then set the items on the bench. There
were times Deme would not stop drinking until dawn, and she was
hoping this was not one.
    She had words with her father, thanks to her
exchange with the Marquis. She regretted them. She hardly knew what
was wrong with her anymore. Lives were changing, certainly. She
always knew they would. Her father told her about his Grace wishing
Deme to take over Wimberly, and that pretty much pushed her make
her own decisions. Even if Lisette did not care for Marston, there
would eventually be someone. There were none of them children any
longer.
    Turning her head toward the corner, she
caught a flash of green eyes before Deme rather loudly drawled, “I
see my watchdog has arrived, Giselle. I fear our tryst is to be cut
short.”
    “Greta, yer Lordship. She appears to be a
sporting one to me. Seen her before.”
    There was rustling. Haven caught sight of
Deme’s hand rubbing the woman’s wool stocking’d limb. Her full
stomach tensed. She could tell he was whispering in the blond
woman’s ear. A giggle issued from the wench before she lurched to
her feet, apparently trying to coax him above.
    Turning her gaze back to the fire with a curl
of her lips, Haven reminded herself it was a scene she had
witnessed before. The outcome depended upon how well he could walk,
and to be sure, it was less risky for him to be tumbling tavern
wenches than some of the women he had in London. Titled ladies,
widows, they adored Deme, and he appeared game for them most of the
time. Their guardians were not so affectionate towards the
rake.
    Intending to ignore him, she paid no heed to
the scuffle and sound of his boots, or closer giggles from the
woman. (Let him go up and tumble her, the quicker he did, the
sooner they could leave.)
    She was surprised then, when he unsteadily
drew up a chair and draped his arm around the back of hers, leaning
over and down so that his face nearly touched hers. “You have lousy
timing, Mulhern.”
    Drawing a bit back, yet looking at those
sooty lashed eyes, Haven smelled the whiskey on his breath. “You’ve
been here four hours. What is another? I was merely coming in to
dry and warm myself. If you want her, by all means…”
    He blinked slowly, obviously intoxicated, but
those pure green eyes remained on hers. “Want her…” His smile was
mocking.