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“Violet,” Catherine said as the two women strolled arm and arm through Hyde Park the next morning.

It was early enough that the crush wasn’t out yet, leaving a few still, quiet hours for the two cousins to converse in private about what had happened the evening before.

Violet had given Catherine the barest outline of her activities in the gardens before Miss Jenson’s asthma attack but would not elaborate further.

“I wish you’d speak with me. There’s nothing you could say that would shock me.”

Violet only shook her head mutely. What could she say to her cousin?

That she’d spent all night awake, tossing and turning in her bed, the sheets wrapping around her tangled limbs?

That she had a physical ache that could not be fulfilled?

That too much of yesterday evening had been her worst nightmare?

True, she’d done what needed to be done with Miss Jenson. She had helped her; she knew that beyond a doubt. Her asthmatic patients in New York were plentiful, and the breathing exercises she’d shown the young woman would do wonders for lesser attacks.

But all that had happened after—that was her worst nightmare.

“Was he too forward with you? Did he force you?” Catherine asked in the face of Violet’s silence.

“No. No, of course not.”

She’d been the forward one.

She’d pressed her lips to his and not the other way around. She’d done what she swore she would not do, which was lose herself in the embrace of another gentleman and put her body and her future at risk. Just like she had unknowingly risked James’s so long ago.

Risked and lost.

She knew, of course, that no society, not the aristocracy here in London nor their counterparts in New York, would accept her choice of profession. She was too high born, and ladies did not work with their hands. Nor with bodies, body parts, or blood.

So, she shouldn’t have been surprised when Alistair had sided with Mrs. Jenson and called for the surgeon. And yet she had been. Her heart especially had hoped for a different outcome and been severely disappointed when it did not get it.

Violet shook her head in dismay. Best to remove him from her thoughts and concentrate on Catherine. And the need to tell their mothers what had happened.

Or some of it, anyway. The two elder women had left Catherine and Violet to navigate the season alone, no doubt in hopes that without their presence Violet might forget herself and engage in a flirtation too.

But after last night, Catherine would need the protection of her mother, the dowager countess. Violet could no longer act as her singular companion, and she’d stayed awake all night, trying to understand how she could have let this happen.

“Enough wool gathering and sad faces, Violet. Tell me what is going on. You really can’t be that upset about a potential blemish to my reputation if I’m not upset.”

“Excuse me, my ladies.” A Scottish brogue broke into their conversation. “I don’t wish to accost you, but I was at the Waverly Ball yesterday evening, and I’d like to have a word.”

Violet muffled a groan. If she didn’t want to discuss yesterday evening with her cousin, she certainly didn’t want to discuss it with a stranger.

“I’m sorry, we can’t help you,” Violet said and made a move to step around the Scot.

The man nodded as if in agreement but moved his enormous body just slightly so she could not pass.

“I can understand it,” he said. “They did not treat you well, if I might be so bold. I won’t detain you for long, but I did wish to say I was impressed by your actions, Miss Goodwin.”

He handed Violet his card. “If you find you’d like to practice medicine further, my sister works with the poor in Covent Garden on Thursdays.

She’s not trained like you, just provides clean bandages and a meal and the like.

She could use your knowledge, if you’d be willing.

Come and see us any Thursday at all. Good day to you both. ”

The Scotsman bowed and took his leave, while Violet stared at the card in her hand.

“Who was that?” Catherine asked, grinning. “He’s delicious.”

“Catherine! You’re incorrigible.”

Catherine only smiled more. “You didn’t notice? Oh, my dear, Alistair Crawford has scrambled your wits more than I thought if you didn’t notice that man. What does the card say?”

“That his name is Andrew McGann.” She turned it over. “And the address given is for something called Nowhere. How odd.”

“Nothing else?”

Violet shook her head and slid the card into her reticule. “No.”

“I guess we’ll find out what he’s about on Thursday, won’t we?”

“It’s tempting,” Violet said, and her fingers twitched at the idea of being able to practice nursing again. “But you’ve no idea who the man is.”

Catherine’s blue eyes twinkled. “I don’t. But I’m looking forward to finding out.”

Alistair Crawford awoke worse for wear. He’d stayed up far too late, pacing and seething in his study.

Then, once he’d finally moved abed in the early morning hours, he found he could not sleep.

So, he stayed awake all night, staring at the ceiling and counting the ways he turned everything he touched into a disaster.

When morning finally came, he dressed in a hurry and made his way out of his rented townhouse on foot to his family’s residence, hoping the chill in the morning air would help settle his mind.

He didn’t know why his father had summoned him, which made him anxious, as did his other business that morning: to convince his father to invest in his trading company.

He glanced longingly in the direction of the Thames as he walked to Timsbury House. He wanted to be back on the water and away from town, his family, and his failures that were stacking up like piles of smelly seaweed on the shore.

But he couldn’t leave. Not yet.

You’re not fifteen anymore, he reminded himself.

He couldn’t just flee whenever something went wrong. He was twenty-five now, and it was time to carve out a life for himself. One that he wanted; one that he built.

He still remembered how it had felt, packing his bags and sneaking out of Rosehips to join the Navy.

He’d been aboard a ship that very evening, on his way to the Baltic Sea.

In just a few hours, his entire life had changed, and he was no longer the second son of the Marquess of Timsbury.

No longer the young man whose father reminded him at every turn how ill-suited he was to be the spare.

He’d become someone else in the blink of an eye. He’d become a sailor.

If anyone had asked him three months before that day if he would consider joining the Navy, he would have told them they ought to take a visit to Bedlam. The change that drove him to it had been no less surprising to him than it had been to anyone else.

Three months before, he’d been soundly asleep in his bed at Eton. Darius, four years his elder, had already been at Rosehips, preparing for further study at Cambridge. And his parents, as far as he knew, were enjoying life as some of the highest-ranking peers in the beaumonde.

Darius had always been the golden child: a fencing master who earned the highest of marks, congenial and handsome, with blonde hair to Alistair’s brown, and the same deep-colored, so brown they were almost black eyes.

His brother was every inch the picture of an heir, and Alistair had always been keenly aware of their differences.

Alistair was more prone to dreaming of adventure and partaking in illicit midnight swims than he was to studying or fencing.

He enjoyed nothing more than a good laugh with his mates and a flirt with a barmaid at the local tavern.

He’d never been the reserved, blandly congenial kind of son that Darius was.

Perhaps it was true he’d always been slightly on the periphery of the family—his parents were devoted to each other and to his brother as the heir to the Marquessate—but he’d never thought of himself as wrong or unwanted.

Until the night the Marquess arrived unannounced at Eton and showed him otherwise.

Alistair brushed away those memories as he walked the streets of London. That summer of hell was a long time ago. He was a man who could look after himself now, not some startled and frightened boy.

He had to pull himself together, convince his father to invest, and introduce Violet to McGann. All that was standing between him and his plans for the future was a little capital.

Which future might that be? asked an insistent voice from somewhere deep in his gut that he shoved away.

The future , he thought firmly, where I run a shipping and trading company with McGann, and I’m back on the water where I belong .

It was the only future he could see.

Alistair entered the morning room of Timsbury House to find his family already gathered for breakfast. His mood soured even further at the site of the trio.

It was as it had always been—the Marquess, who was so cold and distant with him, was smiling benevolently at his mother, and his brother Darius was piling his plate high at the buffet table.

It was only Alistair who did not belong.

Darius was the first to greet him. “Brother,” he said jovially. “Good of you to come. Now that you’re back in town, you must join us to break the fast more often.”

Alistair grunted noncommittally and took up his own plate to fill with eggs, toast, and kippers.

“Alistair, dear,” his mother said, “are you feeling alright? Your coloring is off.”

“Fine, Mother,” he muttered and looked around at his family.

They were still the picture of aristocratic health and good looks.

His elder brother was as close to perfect as an heir could get, full of decorum and good if serious cheer.

His mother was a charming, respectable matron.

And still so beautiful. Alistair had noticed how often his father sent adoring looks her way when her attention was elsewhere.

And his father, of course—the feared, stoic, Marquess of Timsbury. A man who ran his estates and his family with a relentless precision yet was still adored by his close friends, his wife, and his eldest son. All of them the platonic ideal of the ton. Except for him.

Alistair glowered as he sat and shoveled his breakfast into his mouth. His head hurt and his cravat was too tight. He was quite sure he was sweating out the last month’s excesses beneath it.

Damn Williams, who had insisted on practically choking him with the thing in the name of propriety.

He wondered if he should broach the subject of the investment now and get it over with. The sooner it was had, the sooner he could leave. Or should wait to get his father alone first?

“So, brother,” Darius said, taking a sip of his coffee. “How is life in London treating you?”

“Well enough,” Alistair answered, to which his father gave a derisive snort. Alistair glanced down the end of the table to the Marquess.

“Do you have something to add, Father?” he asked.

“I believe all of the ton knows how your return is faring. Especially after the Waverly Ball debacle last night.”

“Arthur, please,” his mother said, laying a hand on his father’s arm to stay any further conversation.

“No, Mariel. This must be said. He made a spectacle of himself. Drinking too much with that ne’er do well Pembrooke. Accosting the West girl’s cousin, who was doing Christ knows what to Miss Jenson. You’ve outdone yourself this time, son.”

“Miss Goodwin saved Miss Jenson’s life,” Alistair said. “You’d do well to treat her with respect.”

“As you did? I wouldn’t call it respect when a gentleman lays hands on a lady and then turns his back on her.”

“Father, please,” Darius cut in. “That is only gossip.”

“Is it?” the Marquess asked. He stared down the table at Alistair. “Somerville was there, if you recall. He is not prone to over exaggeration.”

“I can explain,” Alistair said.

“No need. There is only one explanation, and I’m quite sure it has to do with the bottle of whisky that seems to be permanently affixed to your lips. You’ve got to recover yourself, son. You cannot continue on in this fashion.”

Alistair breathed in deeply. It was now or never.

“That is why I came to breakfast this morning, Father. I’d like to speak with you about a business venture.”

The Marquess snorted again. “I’ll not discuss business with you. Not until you show some indication of an ability to make a good decision. Heaven help me, but I cannot understand how you commanded a ship if you cannot even command yourself.”

Alistair sighed. It was as he had expected. His father thought the worst of him. And though he’d been wrong about last night—Alistair had not been drinking—he had made one bad decision after another since he’d left the Navy, starting with the East India Company and ending with Violet Goodwin.

“You disappoint me,” his father continued, cold eyes glaring at him from across the table.

Alistair put down his knife and fork and rose from the table.

“I am aware,” he said. “You’ve been clear enough on that point. Not only am I a drunkard and a failure, but I haven’t married, much less sired any precious grandchildren.

“What I cannot understand is why these last two items would be such a blemish on my character and worth nary a mention on my brother’s.”

He gave a short bow. “If you’ll excuse me. I find I’ve lost my appetite.”

Alistair stormed out of the house. He’d known since the summer he turned fifteen what his father thought of him, and it had been foolish to believe there was any reason for that to change now.