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Prologue

Alistair Kincaid, the fifth Duke of Effinghell, was hiding from his mother. Or, to be rather more precise, his mother’s cock—

Cockatoo? Cockatiel? Cock-something.

Parrot. Just call it a parrot.

“Alistair! Alistair, darling, I know you are in here. Oh, where is that blasted light?”

“I smell ye, ye shite!”

The dratted Hamish might very well smell Alistair, anything was possible. But Alistair wasn’t going to announce himself—for more than one reason.

But he was well and truly trapped; it was impossible to deny. The gold parlor had only the one entrance and exit, and Mother was standing in front of it. Why in the hell was she traipsing about at this hour, with Hamish to boot? They should be asleep, like normal people.

And parrots.

“Alistair, I saw you come in—oh! I found it.”

In the moment before Mother found the light, Alistair threw himself into one of the chairs by the window, so she wouldn’t find him skulking in the curtains like a housebreaker. Which, if one was getting technical, he was.

“Darling, what are you doing, sitting here in the dark?” Mother asked as she swept further into the room, now that she could see.

Calmly, Alistair lifted the paper—yesterday’s—from the small table beside him and made a show of reading it.

Mother scoffed. “I cannot believe you have been sitting here just waiting for me to find the lights, so you might read that paper. It is almost midnight!”

Alistair glanced at the clock, then inclined his chin in agreement. It was almost midnight.

Which meant he was late.

“I am not going to ask you why you are still awake, darling, but you must give me a moment of your time. I have been trying to track you down all day.”

The townhouse was large by London standards, but not so large she couldn’t find him if necessary. But Alistair would be the first to admit he lived a busy life. Since he never appeared in public—not as the Duke of Effinghell, at least—he ran his estate business from his study. His days were spent in correspondence with his stewards, and writing spiritedly persuasive letters to the papers and to his contemporaries in the House of Lords.

He might not speak to them, but he could damn well influence their social reform voting habits.

So for all he knew, Mother had been trying to pin him down. Yet again. As if he didn’t know what she wanted.

So he made a show of folding the paper and laying it across the boot which rested atop his opposite knee. Relaxed. At ease. Not at all concerned about the coming attack.

Mother, knowing him as well as anyone, sighed hugely. “Do not give me that put upon act, Alistair. You know I have your best interest at heart.”

His, and the dukedom’s. Yes.

“Your sisters need a woman’s influence.”

He raised a brow and swept his gaze down her dressing gown, which caused her to huff.

“Besides me. I know I am a perfectly respectable influence, and I can escort them to certain social functions. But not all of them. Amanda and Amelia need to find matches. And since you refuse to escort them in Society, they have had less opportunity to find husbands.”

Amanda had declared she wouldn’t be finding a husband, but leave it to Mother to refuse to acknowledge her wishes.

Alistair continued to stare blandly, until she rolled her eyes.

“Yes, I know you could just ask one of your friends to escort them—escort us. And yes, I am certain they are charming. Young Kipling was my favorite—too bad he ran off to France or Prussia or wherever. But he could not open the doors you can.”

Abruptly, Alistair stood, tossing the paper back to the chair. He didn’t have time for these complaints, and apparently his mother could read his impatience, because she held up a hand.