You were an orphan, lucky to be working at London’s most popular tavern. Just a young peasant trying to make ends meet. But waiting on drunken lords and cleaning up their filth wasn't the most efficient pay. Mrs. Bluveridge, the innkeeper and tavern-owner, was like a mother to you, and like all mothers, she wanted you to succeed. No man would lay a hand on her child, no man unless he could give them more than just a romp. "Lord Dudley," were the words she whispered in your ear, taking the tray of beer mugs from you. Before you could protest, she just nodded. You straightened your clothes and hair and walked over, introducing yourself. He answered with a belch. Lovely. “Pardon,” he said, clearly a bit loose-lipped and still trying to maintain some decorum.