Chapter Twenty-Seven
Powell’s was nearly empty, but then Archer supposed everyone was at home preparing for the evening. It was still too early for even the most determined of men to be out at a club. But not Archer. No, he wanted to start drinking early and not stop until they had to carry him out.
“A glass of whisky—no, make it a bottle,” he told the footman as he walked into the reading room.
He was well into his second glass when Lord Wickford came over. “Dinner is now being served in the dining room, Mr. Fitzwalter.”
“Thank you. I’m not interested,” Archer told him.
“Are you certain? We’ve got a lovely roast—”
“What did she ask you?” Archer asked, interrupting the man.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What did Miss Benton ask you this afternoon?” he repeated.
His lordship had the grace
