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holding back the plate.
“Those belong to other patrons. If you would like, I will drop by again in a
few moments with another for yourself.”
    Wycliffe
mumbled an obscenity and went back to his own beverage.
    Avonlea reached
over the table and swiped the Earl of Wycliffe’s scotch. The man had clearly imbibed
enough already. And he suspected it had to do with the former Duchess of
Downsbury’s untimely death.
    “Give me my blasted
drink back!” Wycliffe hiccupped.
    He simply
shook his head. “I will not. Get a grip of yourself, man. I understand you are
mourning, but enough is enough.” Avonlea swirled the contents, eliciting a
groan from Wycliffe. “This will not bring her back. It is time to move on.”
    Wycliffe
snorted. “I cannot simply go and find someone to replace her. You would not
understand. I have needs, and only she knew exactly what I required.”
    This surely could not be all about bedding a
woman. Just what exactly is he in to?
    His comment
had garnered some attention, the other gents chuckling in their seats.
    “I assure
you, if you take the time to visit Madame Martine’s establishment, you would be
pleasantly surprised at how accommodating her ladies are,” the earl quipped.
    The drunkard
grunted in disgust. “If you won’t give me my drink, and the staff here at
White’s won’t serve me, I will find myself a hovel. Luckily for me, London has
many.”
    He rose,
knocking over his chair, and ran into a server, sending his tray clattering to
the floor. The contents spilled and stained his pants. “Ugh! Get out of my way.”
Wycliffe growled, staggering out the door.
    “Well, that
was a joy. When do you suppose the Earl of Wycliffe will get his head out of
the bottle and heed his father’s wishes?” Lord Rutledge asked while taking the glass
from Avonlea’s hand.
    “Never, at
the rate he is going. Wycliffe has a duty, and the only way he can get out of
this mess is with help.”
    “Help? Stop
being ludacris , Avonlea. You should know it is every
man to his own at this point. There is too much going on right now, none would
dare meddle in personal affairs.”
    “What are
you afraid of, Rutledge? That your own skeletons will come tumbling out of the servant’s
quarters?”
    Rutledge,
whose portly belly stuck out more than a woman in confinement, stood and wagged
a fat finger in his face. “Listen here, you impertinent fool, I will not
tolerate your insolence.”
    “Insolence?
You, my fat friend, will be one of the first pigs to be roasted on an open spit
for your negligence. Quite frankly, I think I will follow Wycliffe’s direction
and have a swig of some cheap vile from a hovel in one of London’s finest.” Avonlea
departed, leaving Rutledge and the other gentlemen to wager and gossip like
women.
    Why does life have to be so black and white? He had heard of Wycliffe’s attachment to the duchess, as others did, but to
think there really was more to the association. What if he and Emily were in
that situation? Married to other partners, but visiting each other secretly.
What a ruinous conundrum in which to be. To be besotted with someone who
happens to be married to another.
    Not too long
ago, he had assisted Nathaniel, and now he would do the same for Wycliffe. Why does it always fall on me?
    He
walked down the cobblestone street until he reached a young lad in cut-off
pants. “I have a guinea with your name on it if you’ will tell me what
direction a tall, muscular man passed by. He has dark hair, though I doubt
anyone would notice given the hour it is. He is also wearing gentlemen’s
clothing much like myself, and he might have been mumbling. Did you see any man
of the sort?”
    “’e
went that way, sir. He was grumbling like a mad man, something ’bout being
gipped a scotch at White’s and ‘ eaded in the
direction of them fancy ladies. I think the establishment is called Martine’s.”
    So
the bloke was headed for Martine’s place after all. It would not hurt to