West collapsed back on the bed with a groan. “If I close my eyes, I can see my great-aunt Hermione standing by the bed, pointing her bony finger at me. You sound exactly like her.”

He pitched his voice higher and infused it with aristocratic disdain. “Westbury, doing your best to dig your own grave while you had a younger brother was foolish and irresponsible. But since poor Bertram was taken from us too soon you must cease this depraved and immoral existence at once.”

“She’s right, you know. You had a brother and now you don’t. It’s all on your shoulders now.”

“I didn’t just have a brother. I had a shiny archetype of everything virtuous, honorable, and untainted. My father used to write me weekly letters detailing every one of Bertram’s triumphs. When Bertram died in that horse riding accident my father lost the will to live.” West tried to pull himself upright but the sharp pain in his ribs stopped him. “It should have been me, Rafe. I should have died young, not Bertram.”

Rafe thumped his walking stick on the floor. “Enough! Don’t you have a gaggle of sisters to escort to balls? You’ll have to go sober long enough to fulfill your brotherly duties.”

“Geese form a gaggle. Finches form a charm. I believe the collective noun for my sisters is a ‘haunting.’ Or perhaps, like hippopotamuses, a ‘bloat.’ I do love those girls.” He managed to haul himself upright and swing his legs out of bed. “But the sheer number of them and the staggering grandiosity of their millinery and seamstress bills is enough to drive a duke to drink. Maybe they should be a ‘banditry’ of sisters. Got any tipple in this room?”

“Not a drop. Have some coffee.” He waved a cup at him. “It’ll wake you up.”

“I don’t want to be alert. I prefer a cloudy state of inebriation that gathers to a thick, impenetrable fog by nightfall.”

Rafe shook his head sadly. “You’ve a sharp mind and a good heart buried somewhere under that tough shell of depravity.”

“Lecturing me on the evils of strong spirits. Next you’ll be raising your quizzing glass and telling me to do my duty and marry a girl of good birth and good upbringing. I don’t need another aunt.” West stumbled over to the cheval glass.

Dark stubble on his square jaw. Blood matted in his blond hair. A bluish bruise on his cheekbone that nearly matched his eyes. He tilted his head. The raised bump on his temple was a shade best described as rotting aubergine.

“My sisters aren’t going to be pleased about these scrapes and bruises.” He splashed cold water from the basin on his face. “Maybe you’d agree to escort them to the first ball in my—”