Chapter Thirteen

T hatcher sat at the worn wooden counter of the Meadowlark Tavern, nursing his drink as he stewed over the turmoil in his heart. The rustic establishment was a haven for those seeking solace in spirits, its atmosphere a blend of camaraderie and anonymity. The lanterns cast dancing shadows across the worn tables and the cracked leather seats.

West, the American bartender with a penchant for mixing strong concoctions, leaned against the bar, a sympathetic ear to the troubles of the patrons. He had become something of a confidant to Thatcher, who found himself there wrestling with his internal conflicts.

With a heavy sigh, Thatcher grumbled, “She’s infuriating. Absolutely bloody infuriating.” He swirled the amber liquid in his snifter, clinking the ice cubes softly.

West, big and burly, shot him a knowing look. “Ah, a lady, eh? That’s who’s got you all twisted up inside?”

Thatcher nodded, his scowl deepening. “Exactly. She’s got this uncanny ability to get under my skin, challenge everything I do, and yet…” He paused, searching for the right words. “And yet I can’t deny the attraction. It’s like she’s a walking contradiction, like she counters everything I am and do, and it’s driving me mad.”

West chuckled, pouring himself a shot of bourbon. “Love and attraction have a way of making a man’s life more interesting, my friend.”

Thatcher scoffed. “Love? Don’t be absurd. It’s nothing of the sort. It’s just…” He struggled to articulate his feelings. “It’s just that she’s talented, smart, and she won’t let anyone tell her otherwise. It’s maddening.”

West raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like someone’s hooked good.”

Thatcher scowled even deeper, if that were possible. “Hooked? Hardly. This isn’t a romantic novel, man. It’s real life, and I’ve got enough on my plate without adding the complications of a woman like Lady Lottie.”

The bartender chuckled again, taking a sip of his drink. “Well, you’ve got a choice, I reckon. You can keep stewing in here, or you can face those feelings head-on.”

Thatcher grunted in response, finishing his drink in one swift gulp. “I’ll take another. And make it a strong one.”

As West began to prepare another drink, he shook his head. “Love or not, it seems you’re in for a tumultuous ride, if Lady Lottie Castlebury’s at the center of it all.”

“Well I know it,” Thatcher groused.

“Look,” West began, his voice carrying a tone of somber reflection, “once upon a time, there was a man who thought he’d found the love of his life.” He poured himself another glass of bourbon, his expression distant.

Thatcher raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the sudden change in West’s demeanor. “Go on.”

The bartender’s eyes seemed to focus on a distant memory as he continued, “This man had met a woman who was everything he’d ever dreamed of—beautiful, vivacious, and full of life. She had a way of making every day feel like an adventure. They were inseparable.”

Thatcher listened intently, the weight of his own troubles momentarily pushed aside by West’s tale.

“But as they say, all good things must come to an end,” West continued, his voice tinged with sadness. “You see, this woman had a secret, a dark one that she kept hidden. She was a gambler, addicted to the thrill of risking it all. And, well, the man loved her enough to trust her, even when he shouldn’t have.”

Thatcher frowned, sensing the impending tragedy of the story.

“One day,” West continued, “she asked him for a large sum of money to settle a debt. She swore it was the last time, and, being madly in love, he gave her every penny he had saved.”

Thatcher winced, recognizing the all-too-familiar theme of betrayal and heartbreak.

West raised his glass, as if to toast to lost love. “And you know what happened? She took the money and disappeared, leaving him with nothing but shattered dreams and a broken heart.”

Thatcher’s heart ached for the bartender. “I’m sorry, mate,” he said softly.

West smiled, but it was a bittersweet smile that held the weight of years of regret. “Don’t be. It’s a lesson learned the hard way. The heart has a way of healing, even when it’s broken.”

Thatcher thought of Lottie and the tangled mess of emotions she stirred within him. Perhaps there was a lesson to be learned from West’s story—to be cautious with matters of the heart, even when faced with undeniable attraction. As he sipped his drink and contemplated his own feelings, Thatcher couldn’t help but wonder if Lottie would be the one to heal or break his heart.

Thatcher leaned in closer across the bar top, his eyes clouded with introspection. “West, have you ever done something you felt guilty about later? Something that nags at you, day in and day out?”

West nodded slowly. “We’ve all got our demons. Guilt can be a powerful force, eating away at you if you let it.”

Thatcher sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I’ve taken something that doesn’t rightfully belong to me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m in the wrong.”

“Regret’s a heavy burden to carry. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

Thatcher looked at his glass, lost in thought. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

He nursed his ale as he mulled over the events of the day, thoughts of Lottie lingering in his mind, her presence like a melody that refused to fade away.

Lost in his reverie, he barely noticed when a hand clapped him on the shoulder.

“Thatcher, old chap, fancy a game of cards?” came a familiar, good-natured voice from behind him.

Startled, Thatcher turned to see Edward Waverly grinning at him, an amused look in his eye. He hesitated for a moment, torn between the comfort of his solitude and the prospect of some much-needed distraction. But then he caught sight of the eager gleam in the actor’s eye, and he found himself nodding in agreement. “Why not?” he replied with a wry smile, pushing aside his half-empty glass. “Lead the way.”

With a boisterous laugh, Edward led Thatcher through the crowded tavern to a back table where a group of their fellow actors had gathered for a friendly game of cards. The air was thick with the smell of tobacco and ale, the lively chatter of patrons a buzzing backdrop to the clinking of glasses and the shuffle of cards.

“Good of you to join us.”

“Goodrich!”

“Pull up a chair. David’s dealing.”

“Let’s see how you do with numbers instead of words, playwright.”

Thatcher settled into his seat at the table, the familiar sound of laughter washing over him like a comforting wave. It had been too long since he’d indulged in such simple pleasures, too long since he’d allowed himself to be swept up in the easy banter of friends. “Deal me in.”

As the game progressed, he lost track of time, his worries and cares fading into the background as he focused on the cards before him. The tension of the day melted away, replaced by a sense of ease that he had sorely missed. And as he glanced around the table at his fellow actors, their faces lit up with smiles and laughter, Thatcher couldn’t help but feel a sense of gratitude for the moment.

As the cards were shuffled and hands were dealt, the conversation turned to more lighthearted topics, and Thatcher’s mind wandered as his friends began to gossip about their women.

“I tell you, boys, my missus has been on my case about painting the blasted kitchen for weeks now,” one of the actors exclaimed with a hearty laugh. “I swear, if I have to hear one more word about the color of the bloody walls, I’ll—”

His words were cut off by a chorus of laughter from the table, the men nodding in understanding as they commiserated with his plight.

“My wife wants another babe.”

“Mine says I need to earn more and drink less.”

“That’s nothing. My wife threatened to move her sister in with us—and she has eight children!”

“If it weren’t for the gift between their legs, we’d not put up with them, eh?”

Thatcher tried to join in by forcing a chuckle, but his mind kept drifting back to Lottie. He couldn’t help but picture her sitting beside him, her own laughter ringing sweetly in his ears.

Try as he might to push the thoughts aside, Lottie remained ever-present, her image haunting him like a persistent, beautiful ghost.

As the night wore on and the ale flowed freely, Thatcher found himself longing for the quiet solitude of his own company. With a muttered excuse, he rose from the table, bidding his friends a hasty farewell. “Until the morrow, good men.”

With that, he left the Meadowlark Tavern behind, a cloud of thoughts swirling in his head, his pace unsteady as he navigated Covent Garden. His thoughts weighed heavily on him, making every step feel burdensome. He knew he needed some fresh air, some space to clear his mind. The night air was cool, carrying with it the scents of roasted chestnuts, ale, and damp cobblestones.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he hardly noticed the dark figures that had been following him.

Suddenly, they closed in, their footsteps falling in menacing unison. Thatcher turned to face them, his heart pounding in his chest. They were a group of rough-looking men, their faces obscured by shadows and the brims of their hats pulled low. “What do you want?” he demanded, his voice trembling with fear and anger.

One of the men stepped forward, a sinister grin stretching across his face. “We heard you’ve been working on a little project for the king, playwright,” he sneered. “We want to know what that’s all about. Because we don’t like what you had to say in the last one. Not one bit.”

“You made some of us look rather bad, chum.”

“Aye, described us in bleak terms, chap.”

“We don’t take well to such slights. I’m afraid you’ll have to pay a hefty price.”

What slight? Who had he described in bleak terms?

The answer came swift and hard. Noblemen. He’d taken a hard swipe at noblemen.

Thatcher felt a sinking sensation in his gut. He had no idea who these men were, but their intentions couldn’t be good. He considered making a run for it, but they had him surrounded, and the alley was narrow and dark. Before he could react, they descended upon him like a pack of wolves, fists flying and boots striking. The blows rained down on him from all sides, and he could do nothing but try to protect his head and torso as best he could.

Minutes stretched into an eternity as the merciless assault continued. Thatcher’s vision blurred, and he felt blood trickling from a split lip and a throbbing pain in his ribs. He could barely hear their taunts and jeers through the ringing in his ears. Just when he thought he couldn’t take any more, the attack abruptly stopped.

“We said we wouldn’t kill him, lads. We promised to leave the playwright alive for him. Let’s go break some windows.” The men, satisfied with their brutality, stepped back, leaving Thatcher battered and gasping for breath on the cold cobblestones.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he managed to pull himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily. Blood dripped from his battered face as he staggered in the direction of the nearest refuge he could think of—Aaron Longfellow’s boxing gym.

*

The gym was a cavernous brick and stone space filled with the rhythmic sounds of fists striking leather bags and the heavy thud of boxing gloves connecting with flesh. At the center of it all, in the ring, stood Aaron, the giant man with fiery auburn hair.

Thatcher stumbled through the gym’s entrance, his vision hazy, and his legs barely carrying him. He managed to gasp out, “Longfellow, please… Take me home.”

The boxer, seeing the sorry state of Thatcher, immediately rushed to his side. “What bloody happened to you, eh?” He slung Thatcher’s arm around his shoulder and guided him toward the gym’s exit. The other boxers paused in their training to watch, some offering silent nods of acknowledgment.

As they left the gym, Thatcher’s world began to spin, and he could feel consciousness slipping away. With Aaron’s support, he clung to the faint glimmer of awareness he had left, determined to make it home.

But determination only got one so far.

As the cold night air washed over him, Thatcher’s strength gave out, and he passed out in Aaron’s arms.

With Thatcher’s weight heavy on the boxer’s shoulders, Aaron trudged through the deserted streets of London, the rhythmic thud of their footsteps echoing in the silence of the night. The air was thick with tension and worry as they approached Thatcher’s townhouse, its once-imposing fa?ade looming in the darkness.

With a mighty grunt, Aaron guided Thatcher up the steps to the front door, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pounded on the solid wood with his free hand. “Simms! Open up, damn it!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the stillness of the night.

As the door swung open, Simms’s eyes widened in shock at the sight before him. “What in blazes happened?” he exclaimed, his voice tinged with worry as he rushed forward to assist Aaron in carrying Thatcher inside.

“There’s no time for questions now,” Aaron replied tersely, his voice strained with effort as they carefully navigated their way through the dimly lit foyer. “We need to get him cleaned up and tended to, and quickly.”

The men maneuvered Thatcher into the nearest sitting room, laying him gently on the plush, frayed sofa as they worked to assess the extent of his injuries. As he gradually regained full consciousness, the world around him slowly came back into focus. The soft lamplight illuminated the familiar surroundings of his sitting room, casting a warm glow over the worried faces of Aaron and Simms as they hovered over him.

With a groan, Thatcher attempted to sit up, his head pounding with each movement. He dropped back down.

Simms wasted no time in pressing him for answers. “What in heaven’s name happened, sir?” his valet demanded, fixing Thatcher with a stern gaze.

Thatcher winced at the sharpness of Simms’s tone, the memories of the night’s events blurry. He struggled to find the words to explain, his thoughts still muddled from the effects of the alcohol and the blow to his head. “I…I’m not entirely sure,” he admitted, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. “I remember…the tavern, and then…everything went black.”

The boxer exchanged a worried glance with the valet. It was clear that something serious had occurred.

“Well, whatever happened, sir, we’ll get to the bottom of it,” Simms declared with determination. “But for now, you need to rest and regain your strength. We’ll take care of everything else.”

With gentle hands, Simms and Aaron helped Thatcher settle back onto the sofa, arranging pillows and blankets around him to ensure his comfort. As exhaustion threatened to pull him back into the darkness of unconsciousness, he suddenly remembered something with a flash of agonizing pain in his head. “I remember…” he began, his voice strained with effort as he struggled to piece together the fragments now flying through his memory. “I was leaving the tavern when…someone attacked me.”

Simms’s eyes widened. “Attacked? By whom?”

Thatcher gently shook his head, the details of the attack still hazy in his aching mind. “I’m not sure… It happened so fast. But whoever it was, they meant to do me harm.”

He saw Aaron’s jaw clench with anger. “We need to report this to the authorities,” the boxer said. “No one gets away with attacking one of our own.”

Thatcher nodded in agreement, and immediately regretted the movement. “Yes, we must. But first, I need to gather my wits and make sense of what happened.” As his memory sharpened, he recalled the distinct sound of the attackers’ voices, the refined accents that hinted at upper-class breeding. It sent a chill down his spine as he pieced together the events of the night. “It was them,” he murmured. “The Revivalists.”

Simms and Aaron exchanged troubled glances. They all knew too well the dangerous nature of the group and the havoc they wreaked on those who challenged their beliefs.

“The bloody hell are they up to with you?” Aaron muttered, his fists clenched at his sides in frustration.

Thatcher’s mind raced with the implications of the Revivalists’ involvement. He remembered their heated words, their threats of retribution against those who dared to oppose them. And now, it seemed, they had made good on their promises, targeting him for his play.

Well, Lottie’s play. His play. Whichever.

“They’re trying to intimidate me over something in my play,” Thatcher confessed. “But I won’t be cowed by their threats. I’ll stand firm and fight back.”

Simms nodded in agreement. “We’ll all need to tread carefully, sir. The Revivalists are not to be underestimated.”