My Bratty Wife

Brook took a few steps further into the room, the scent of expensive perfume still lingering faintly in the air. He stopped a respectful distance from Evan, who had now settled back onto the plush velvet couch, one leg crossed casually over the other, the cigar held loosely between his fingers. The dim lamplight gleamed on Evan’s bare chest, highlighting the smooth lines of muscle. He looked utterly relaxed, yet his eyes, fixed on Brook, were sharp and expectant.

"My Lord," Brook began, his voice regaining its usual composure, though an undercurrent of excitement remained. "My investigations into Lord Byron have yielded... a significant finding. Lord Byron has murdered people before."

The statement hung in the air. Evan, who had just raised the cigar for another drag, froze mid-motion. He slowly lowered his hand, smoke trickling forgotten from the cigar’s tip. A look of profound disbelief crossed his face, quickly followed by a short, incredulous laugh.

"Murdered people? Byron?" Evan scoffed, shaking his head. "Don’t be absurd, Brook. Byron wouldn’t deliberately step on an insect. The man is timid, cautious to a fault. He flinches at loud noises, avoids confrontation at all costs, can’t even use a gun. That’s precisely why he attaches himself to Ryan – for protection, for reflected strength because he has none of his own." He leaned forward slightly, peering intently at his servant. "Are you absolutely certain of what you’re saying? Your source isn’t embellishing, or perhaps confusing Byron with someone else entirely?"

"My sources are reliable, My Lord," Brook insisted firmly, meeting Evan’s skeptical gaze. "The information is not a hundred percent accurate though and the official record tells a different story but I have a good explanation for it."

Evan leaned back again, taking a slow, deliberate drag from his cigar this time, letting the smoke curl out as he considered this unexpected, almost unbelievable, information. If true, it was a weapon far more potent than he could have hoped for. "Very well," he said, his voice smoother now, intrigued despite his disbelief. "Explain. And this explanation had better be convincing."

Brook nodded, gathering his thoughts. "It concerns an incident at a tavern called the ’Golden Goblet,’ My Lord. Happened a few weeks back. It’s located in a slightly less reputable part of the city, but known as a place where certain nobles conduct... discreet business. Or indulge in less public pleasures."

Evan waved a dismissive hand, impatient. "Get to the point, Brook."

"The morning after a particularly busy night," Brook continued, "the tavern owner’s wife arrived to look for her husband who didn’t come home and found... carnage, My Lord. Absolute carnage. The place was destroyed." Brook paused, his expression darkening as he recalled the details his source had provided. "Blood, My Lord. Everywhere. Soaked into the rough wooden floorboards, splattered high on the plaster walls, pooled beneath the overturned tables. Broken chairs, smashed tankards... bodies lying amidst the debris like slaughtered animals."

He described the scene carefully, his voice low. "There were at least a dozen dead. Patrons, serving wenches, the tavern owner. Most had been killed with brutal, close-contact violence – heavy blows, multiple stab wounds. Faces were battered, almost unrecognizable. It was clear there had been a fierce, desperate struggle." He added, "Their valuables were gone. Pockets turned inside out, rings ripped from fingers, purses cut from belts. The official investigation concluded swiftly: a gang of ruthless bandits, finding more resistance than expected, had slaughtered everyone inside during a robbery."

Evan listened, his initial skepticism warring with a growing interest. The brutality sounded typical of desperate thieves. "A tragic, albeit common, tale of city violence," Evan commented drily. "So, what does this gruesome scene have to do with the timid Byron?"