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Amanda rolled her eyes. “Like you need any more scandal in your life?”

With a gasp, Amelia rounded on her sister. “I am not scandalous!”

“Not for lack of trying. It is a miracle no one has found out about your mice farm.”

“It is not a farm, it is just a collection! I breed them—”

“To feed to your python, yes, I know.” Amanda rolled her eyes. “Which, I feel the need to point out, is scandalous enough. If Society found out the Duke of Effinghell’s sister kept a python, do you know what they would say?”

F-ing hell, is likely what they’d say.

But Amelia slumped back with her arms crossed. “No one is going to find out because no one would tell them, right, sister? Besides, we never go anywhere, so no one can hear any gossip about us.”

“It is just as well Mother nixed your plan to put in a moat for the hippo.”

Hamish squawked, “Mooooo.”

“I was six when I suggested that, Amanda. I cannot believe you are still holding that over my head!”

“Well, Alistair?” Amanda startled him when she swung her attention back to him once more. “If you let us attend the Stoughton ball, I promise not to blab about Amelia’s proclivities.”

“They are not proclivities,” mumbled Amelia, deep in her pout. “They are my friends.”

He was a duke. He’d been one for years and was used to moderating disagreements, albeit via writing. Most men in his position would find this tiring; being forced to moderate two semi-spoiled, well-meaning younger sisters.

But Alistair found himself hiding his smile.

Their jabber could, at times, be refreshing.

He held up a finger to get their attention. When both young women were looking at him, he shook his head.

He wasn’t going to be going into Society to look for a wife.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel guilty as hell when his sisters’ expressions both collapsed.

Nay. Ye cannae afford to become a laughingstock of Society.

The girls’ protests almost drowned out the discreet knock on the door. He had no way to call out, but after a moment, Hiro pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The younger man’s black hair was slicked back from his forehead, the staid and somber expression marred somewhat by the wicked scar which arced up one side of his forehead.

It was amazing how boring he managed to look most of the time.

Apparently only Alistair remembered his butler’s ability to kick arse.

“A visitor, Your Grace,” Hiro intoned, bowing. He offered a salver upon which rested a single calling card.

Amused, Alistair scooped up the card.

O. Wilson

Chief Editor, Reporter

The Daily Movement

He flipped the thing over, but the white square offered no more details, no clues as to why the man would be bold enough to call upon him.

No one ever called upon him.