He walked over to her. “He gave me mine, said that one was for you.”

“He gave us each a sovereign?” The coin’s value of a pound was double the ten shillings—if she didn’t subtract the upended beer—she normally earned for the six days she worked in a week.

The young man shrugged, the brown locks covering his forehead falling into his eyes. “Like all Trewloves, he’s probably as rich as Croesus.”

He was a Trewlove? That was no doubt why he looked familiar. She’d probably seen him at the spate of recent weddings when a number of Trewloves had married nobles. The owner of this establishment had married the Duke of Thornley. Would this Beast fellow tell his sister how rude she’d been to him? Would she lose her position? But then why would he have left her a little extra with which to line her pocket if he was going to take action to see her gone?

“Go on, take it,” Rob said as he began running a damp rag over the table.

Very carefully, she picked up the coin and slipped it into her pocket. “Does he come here often?”

“Depends what you call often. The brothers all used to spend a good bit of their time here before they got married. He’s the only one who’s managed to escape the matrimonial shackles but doesn’t come ’round as often now that the others are scarce.”

When Mr. Trewlove returned she would not only let him know that Jimmy had apologized, but would also thank him for having a word with the rambunctious young man. She didn’t think anyone at his table was going to be giving her bottom any attention in the near future.

Certainly no one troubled her the remainder of the night.

Still, she was grateful when the customers were ushered out at midnight and the front door was bolted. She and the other workers began placing chairs on tables, sweeping, mopping, tidying up. It was a little over half an hour later when they all stepped into the alley. Mac locked the back door behind them, said his farewells, and headed up to the rooms that came along with his position. As the others—Polly, Rob, the cook, another bartender, and another serving maid—wished her good-night and carried on, she wandered to the street that the tavern faced. Her brother was usually leaning against the front of the building, waiting to escort her home. He didn’t like her walking alone about Whitechapel at night. She didn’t like walking alone at night.

Once she reached the street, a fissure of dread speared her. Griffith wasn’t there. He was always prompt, which at first had come as a shock to her. As the spare, he’d only ever been interested in play, had never taken responsibility for anything other than having a grand time.