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“Then, perhaps it’s fate that you ran into me this evening.”
“Young man, you are wise beyond your years.”
Just as the viscount was reaching for his glass, the force of gravity seemed to pull him backwards, for he ended up entirely on the floor. John swiftly came down to make sure that the viscount was all right—although secretly, he hoped that he was not—and to his amazement, he discovered that Bolton had entirely blacked out.
The bartender seemed to be accustomed to this occurrence, for a few men hoisted the viscount up, carried him to his carriage, and then he was gone. When the bartender returned, John couldn’t help but inquire, “Does this happen often?”
“At least once a week,” the bartender replied as he polished a glass.
“Such a pity.”
“Viscount Bolton has some personal demons to face if you ask me.”
“I should say so.”
John took a sip of his own beer and considered things. Perhaps, when Bolton awoke the next morning, he would have a faint memory of what John had said to him.
