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Alistair made his way back to Waverly House on foot. He’d borrowed the Timsbury carriage for the evening and had to retrieve it. He stomped down the street, nearly running over some elderly gentlemen who called out “heel” in the wake of his passing. Alistair didn’t disagree. He was a heel.

All he wanted now was to go back home, drink as much as necessary to dull this strange ache in his chest and climb into bed. But he’d sworn off drinking, and when he arrived at his conveyance, Andrew McGann was leaning against the side of it, smoking a cheroot.

“That,” the Scotsman drawled as soon as Alistair came near, “was not well done of you.”

“McGann,” Alistair said. “I can explain.”

“I doubt you could.”

“Then why are you standing here?”

Alistair was irritated and angry and ready to be done with this whole evening, including and especially Andrew McGann.

“I want a new plan,” McGann said. “It’s clear the first one will no longer work.” He eyed Alistair up and down. “But from the looks of you, ‘twill not be wise to hash it out tonight. Come see me Wednesday, Crawford. At Nowhere.”

His mood was blacker than black by the time Alistair returned to his rented townhouse. He growled at the maid and the footman in short order, the only two servants he employed other than Williams, his long-standing valet.

“I’ve laid out your dressing gown,” Williams said, following Alistair up the stairs to his dressing room and ignoring his foul mood. “You might be more comfortable—”

“I’ll change myself.” Alistair cut him off. “You may go.”

“As you wish.”

Williams left him alone to mutter and pace before he changed into his dressing gown and made his way to his study. There, he found Williams had stoked a fire and poured a glass of something for him already. Something he didn’t quite recognize.

“What is this abomination?” he yelled.

Williams stepped directly inside the door as if he’d been waiting for the question.

“It is a cocktail, my lord. You may recall you asked for cocktails to be served earlier in the week.”

Alistair frowned. So he had. He’d been intrigued by the latest alcoholic concoctions on offer at his club and had asked Williams to have the makings ready. It was the last thing he wanted now.

“Get rid of it.”

Cocktails were an American invention, and he wanted nothing more to do with America this evening. He sat back in his chair, frowning, until Williams arrived a few moments later with a different bottle.

“Whisky, my lord?”

Alistair was tempted. He wanted to let the alcohol soothe the furious anger ricocheting through him. He wanted it as an excuse to throw a fit. To break a chair or smash a vase.

He wanted to forget every moment standing out on that drive as he’d watched the way her eyes changed colors. They were a soft blue when she was hurt that turned to a dark, brazen sapphire when she was angry. He’d made her both, and he hated himself for that.

But he wouldn’t indulge no matter how much he wanted to. How much he wanted to drink told him how important it was that he didn’t.

He sent Williams and the whisky away and stared into the fire but could find no peace.

He jiggled his foot and clenched and unclenched his fist to no avail.

He paced his study and rummaged around his desk until he found an old cheroot.

He really didn’t care for smoking but lit it up all the same. It did nothing to settle him.

He paced the room again and then collapsed into his fireside chair. He was about to call Williams back to ask for the whisky after all, when the man re-appeared holding a note on a silver tray.

“My lord,” his valet said. “It was just delivered.”

Alistair reached for the note, feeling his heart sink into his chest. He knew who it was from before he tore it open because the Timsbury crest was emblazoned on the outside of the envelope. An extravagance only the wealthiest of families entertained, which, of course, the Timsburys were.

Or his father was. And his brother Darius would be one day. But not Alistair, not unless he kept his hands to himself and figured out a way to fund his trading company.

“Tomorrow for breakfast,” the note read.

His father had not bothered to sign the card nor provide a time for their meeting.

It didn’t matter. Alistair knew what time his father ate breakfast. And he knew his father would know that he knew.

He also knew he had no choice but to attend because his father provided the only income he had at the moment.

He heaved a sigh. Orders from Lord Timsbury were the last thing he needed or wanted, but his father had not cared what his second son might need or want for a long, long time.