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“If you insist, Your Grace.”
“I do. How are you, Bickerstaff? How is your family?”
A shadow passed over the man’s already gloomy face. “My family, Your Grace?”
“Er, that is...” Embarrassed, Drew strove to recall anything he knew about the headwaiter, besides his famed stoicism and tact. “Wasn’t there a Mrs.Bickerstaff?”
“Never, Your Grace.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” He’d offended the man when he was trying to be nice, to show how he’d changed from the drunken rake to a sober, well-meaning duke.
Bickerstaff looked mortified that Drew would apologize for anything. “Think nothing of it, Your Grace. My brother is married and has a family. My niece Elsa is a bright young thing and a comfort to me.”
“Glad to hear that.” He cleared his throat. “Have you seen my brother lately?”
“Lord Rafe hasn’t visited in several weeks.”
Drew detected a note of scorn in his voice when he spoke about Rafe, which wasn’t surprising given that dealing with an inebriated Rafe would try the patience of a saint.
“Perhaps one of his friends is here?” asked Drew.
“The Duke of Westbury is in the dining room, Your Grace.”
“Perfect. I’ll join him.”
Bickerstaff led him to the table.
Westbury reminded Drew of Rafe—fair hair, cloudy heart, and up to his bloodshot eyeballs in debt.
Drew didn’t think he could be the author of the note, though. MissPenny had said that the person who wrote the note held a deep-seated grudge. And Westbury, while desperate for cash, wasn’t the kind to threaten young ladies.
Westbury raised bleary eyes from a glass of something inappropriate to the early hour. “Thorndon. Heard you were in Town.”
“Westbury.” Drew took the seat across from him.
“Bickerstaff, bring the duke some of that excellent Madeira.”
“Coffee,” corrected Drew.
The headwaiter bowed and left them.
“Coffee?” asked Westbury. “Heard you were sober as a schoolmarm but didn’t believe the rumors. You used to drink me under the table most nights. Those were the days, eh? Brandy, barmaids, and bedsport.”
Drew frowned. He wasn’t here to relive his wicked past or to defend his present choices. “I’m no schoolmarm but I never drink brandy before lunch. A little coffee would do you good, Westbury. Keep you alert.”
“Don’t want to be alert. Prefer a hazy state of inebriation gathering to full-on fog by nightfall.”
“Have you seen Rafe?”
“Not for weeks. Owes me fifty quid. If I’d seen him I’d remember, because I would’ve tried to squeeze it out of him.”
Westbury was a cautionary tale about what would happen to the estate if Drew failed to produce an heir. Westbury had already lost most of his fortune at gaming houses and had been forced to begin selling off his properties one by one, causing hardship and havoc for his tenant farmers.
“I’ll pay his debt if you answer a few questions,” said Drew.
“Ask away. I’ve got all day.” Westbury leaned back in his chair, squinting in the sunlight shining through the windows.
“Viscount Fitzbart was chasing Rafe down the Strand waving a pistol—do they have a long-standing feud?”
