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On the other hand…the whole duke thing.

Alistair was already considered dangerously strange. Not exactly reclusive, but someone who refused to hobnob with the nobs—or the hobs, for that matter. He didn’t play by their rules, and that made him the oddest player in the game.

The only way he could make headway for the less fortunate citizens of London was if his fellow lords and ladies listened to his words—his written words.

None of which were flowing right now.

He frowned down at the blob of ink caused by the time he’d left his pen hovering over the paper as he thought of the next argument.

Hell. He couldn’t focus on this right now, not when his mind was absorbed with last night’s misadventure. How many men had he injured—killed? Thank Christ he’d been in the area, and that the woman—the lady—had known how to scream.

The letter he was writing, or attempting to write, was to the new Duke of Lickwick. The man was a true recluse, and his solicitor had made it clear he had no intention of appearing in the House of Lords, or corresponding with anyone of his stature. But Alistair had to try.

Men like the new duke could use his newfound influence—if the man could be bothered to build any—to work for the same causes as Alistair himself.

But his arguments would be shite if he couldn’t focus.

With a frustrated sigh, Alistair moved the letter off to one side and reached for the latest report from his financial broker. This quarter’s investments had impressed him when he’d glanced at the bottom line earlier; perhaps they’d help him focus.

The folio was full of the usual data and defenses, and he agreed with the man’s reasonings…except…

His finger came to rest against the line listing The Daily Movement. His broker was right; the newspaper had been showing a steady decline of profits, and was a poor choice as an investment. Normally, Alistair would’ve agreed with the decision to move that funding to a different field.

But he’d known the paper’s founder, and appreciated the direction the publication was going in.

Yes, that same message—that Britons should be concerned for their less-fortunate citizenry—was costing the paper readership and funding…but it was something Alistair could support. His financial broker knew that; the man should’ve asked before pulling his funding.

He’d have to arrange a larger share in The Daily Movement. Perhaps not as a mere investor, but someone able to steer the paper’s future.

Frowning, he made a small note in the margin, then reached for his letterhead to send instructions.

Before he could do more than write the salutation—“Morris, usually you are spot on, but get your head out of your arse”—the door to his study burst open.

“Alistair, darling brother, favorite brother—”

“He is your only brother, Amelia.”

“He is your only brother too.”

“I did not say he was not. I am just pointing out the flaw in your argument.”

“It was not an argument, I was just buttering him up.”

“Jabber jabber, ye wellies!”

At the cockatoo’s interjection, Alistair finally looked up from his work, his expression bland.

His younger sisters weren’t twins, but it was, at times, difficult to tell them apart. Luckily, Amanda had taken to wearing an extremely old-fashioned lace cap over her auburn coiffure, in order to “reflect her devotion to the holy order”, although he was never certain which order.

They’d thrown themselves into the chairs in front of his desk—why did he even have those? Oh, yes, his solicitor said they encouraged conversation. What made the man think he wanted to encourage conversation?—and were now staring at him with hopeful eyes.

Hamish, never a good flier in the best of circumstances, half-hopped to the edge of his desk and let out an angry squawk.

Alistair raised a brow in question.

“Mother has told us the good news, Alistair,” huffed Amelia, starting over again. “That you will be choosing a bride. Since we assume this means you will be attending social events, we have come to ask—”

“To beg!” Amanda interrupted. “Please please please take us with you?”