They say this was the Duke of Wellington’s local bar—his home, Apsley House, is around the corner. It was also the unofficial clubhouse for his regiment, hence the battlefield artifacts on display; they also say someone was beaten to death here for cheating at cards, hence the routine ghost sightings. This tiny plank-floored, currency-festooned pub/restaurant, pretty as a picture in a cobbled mews, comes off like a boozer in some upcountry village, with only 15 places at its pewter-topped island bar, but it’s actually upscale for a pub—if you want to eat a Beef Wellington in the Duke of Wellington’s actual favorite pub, it’ll set you back £40, but beers are only a few quid more than usual. Once a haunt for servants of the surrounding townhouses, clientele these days can skews toward the rich and famous, who can seal off some of its coziest rooms with curtains