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“Miss Beaton is made of strong moral fiber,” said Sebastian, lathering soap across West’s throat. “She’s not put off by your general air of degeneracy and depravity. Though you’d do well to be careful around her. I don’t want you giving her false expectations. She could never become your duchess and I won’t have you ruin the girl. I like her too much.”
“I’m not going to compromise her. I know she’s off-limits. You don’t have to remind me.”
“Good, because if you did . . . I could slip, you know. I’m getting old. My hands might tremble. If you do anything to make Miss Beaton sad, I might have a sudden bout of trembling.”
“Point taken, Sebastian.”
“Very good, Your Grace. Are you looking forward to the opera this evening?”
West gave him an incredulous look. “Did you just ask me that?”
Sebastian smirked.
“They want me to reform so the proper young ladies will have me.”
“A little reform will do you good, Your Grace.”
“I doubt it. Oh, Sebastian. I’d like you to ask Bowditch to pay me a call in my study this morning.” Bowditch was his humorless man of business, responsible for managing his affairs.
The razor stopped moving. “You can’t just say things like that while I’m shaving you, Your Grace. You really will cause an accident. The last time I attempted to arrange an interview at Mr. Bowditch’s request, you threw a boot at me and threatened to have me deported to one of the penal colonies.”
“Since I’m unusually sober this morning, I may as well extend my misery and hear the full extent of my financial woes from the horse’s mouth.”
“It will only drive you to drink. And you must stay sober for your sisters’ sake this evening.”
“Must I? I was thinking a glass or two might improve the opera immeasurably.”
“Miss Beaton won’t like it.”
She really did have every member of his household staff wrapped around her little finger.
“Just send for Bowditch. I’m man enough to take the truth.”
The truth had been difficult to swallow. He might require a drink to wash it down.
West descended the stone steps leading to No. 20 Ryder Street. Here was a world where he knew the rules. Dark, masculine, steeped in strong spirits. It wasn’t warm and comforting but it was the home away from home that he’d chosen for the last several years of his life.
The proprietor, Jacques “Jax” Smith, greeted him with a friendly nod. “Been some time, Westbury.”
“I had family matters to attend to.” He settled into a familiar seat at the bar.
“Your Grace,” the barkeep, Gus, said, a little warily, eyeing him. The last time they’d met, West had been unruly and itching for a fight.
“No hard feelings, Gus. I know I’m the one who started the fight. And I heartily regret it. You’ve got a fist like the mighty hammer of a Norse god.”
“Heard you’ve been engaged and jilted since we saw you last. You’ll be wanting some of this.” Gus held up a bottle of Jax’s proprietary gin, infused with his own blend of botanicals.
West’s mouth watered and his hands shook. He slid his hands onto the bar, palms down, to stop the slight trembling. He’d made a promise. And when he decided to do something, he didn’t do it by half. “Only watered ale for me.”
“Now that’s something I never thought I’d hear from your lips, Westbury,” said Jax.
“I promised my sisters I’d reform.”
“Hate to lose my best customer,” Jax joked.
“You’ve taken too much of my fortune already.”
Jax made a bow. “Thank you for choosing our fine establishment, Your Grace.”
