Page 2

“Darling, I know you do not like attending social events, but if you want to be married…”

Oh God, not this again.

Mother, of course, knew his arguments. And, apparently, his thoughts. “Yes, this again. Now, thanks to our efforts six months ago—when you came this close to taking this seriously—you have the special license already. It is in the top drawer of your desk, I know. You must marry!”

One of his brows slowly rose in a silent challenge and she huffed. “You need to marry, to beget an heir. You know—we both know—how easily tragedy can strike. Do you really want Barty to inherit?”

Bartholomew—his father’s cousin—had always slavered after the estate. He was close to eighty, weighed twenty stone, and thought a sixth round of drinks counted as haut cuisine. God knew what he’d manage to do with Effinghell if he had access to those resources and influence.

No, of course he didn’t want Barty to inherit. And yes, he knew very well how quickly tragedy could strike. But no man likes to think about his own death…

Alistair scowled and pointed bitterly to his throat. He might be a duke—and one who wasn’t an old lecher—but he was most definitely defective. He wasn’t in a position to offer for the diamonds of Society.

Mother’s expression softened. “Oh, Alistair.”

“Buck up, magnificent fooker,” snapped Hamish.

“Yes, yes,” she cooed, stroking the bird’s top feathers. “Do hush.” She inhaled and squared her shoulders. “I think you should be aware that you are a catch, Alistair. Surely you can see how any titled, eligible young lady would be delighted by your suit?”

He blew out a breath in frustration.

Hell.

He had no desire to parade in front of Society’s cruel mockery, and hear their gleeful whispers, as if he were deaf as well as mute. And he certainly didn’t want to do it to find out which one of the simpering, spiteful bitches—the ones who smiled becomingly, then tittered behind their fans when they thought he couldn’t hear—would be willing to lower herself to marry him.

If that’s what it would take, Barty-the-drunk was looking better and better as an heir…

It wasn’t as though he’d be around to suffer it.

“Darling…” Mother was still stroking Hamish. “I understand. Truly I do. But try to understand. For your sisters’ sakes—for my sake, because what would happen to us if your cousin inherited?—you must find a suitable bride.”

He snorted.

A suitable bride? Any bride who wanted a man like him would have to be truly desperate.

Reaching for his hat, he gave his mother a curt nod, his way of telling her he’d consider her words. He doubted he’d do much besides consider them, even when his mind should be on his night’s work.

“Alistair!” she gasped, pulling her arm—the one holding the bird—against her chest. This allowed Hamish to peck at the lace of the mop cap she wore over her hair. “Ow! Shite, you naughty thing!” she scolded, pulling him back again.

“Shite ye naughty thing!” Hamish repeated.

Mother flapped her other hand at the pet, trying to shut him up, as her gaze swung back to Alistair. Her surprise turned to irritation as she finally looked at what he wore. “You are going back out again, are you not? Do not think to lie, young man, I can see you. Dressed all in black—those trousers came from the scraps bag, did they not?”

Black was a perfectly respectable color.

And he hadn’t been a young man in a long time.

He settled his hat atop his head.

Yes, he was going back out.

As he tried to brush past her, Mother stopped him with a hand on his arm, and he turned to peer down into her eyes.

“Be careful, darling,” she whispered. “I worry so, knowing what you are pitting yourself against.” She squeezed his arm. “At least take someone to protect you. Hiro or Rocky—no, not Rocky, it might damage that beautiful face of his.”

Alistair blinked in surprise, and his mother shook her head and took a deep breath. “I mean, I shall spend the night praying for your safety, and for you to one day understand the danger you put myself and your sisters in by taking such chances.”

Alistair felt his lips curl at her melodrama.