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It was clear to Alistair that what he felt for Violet Goodwin was more than just lust. It was more than an uncomfortable annoyance or a whim of his body—it was something deeper.

He knew that as surely as he knew his own name, and the mannerisms of his father, and the look on his elder brother’s face when Alistair did something that Darius, as the heir apparent, could never get away with. He knew it as surely as he knew any other detail of his life.

What he didn’t know was what to do about it.

He couldn’t very well keep arguing for McGann’s plan to marry Violet now.

Nor could he concede that he ought to marry her.

Whether or not Violet believed him, he knew what he was and what he wasn’t.

And right now, he wasn’t the kind of person Violet should keep in her life on a permanent basis. Not yet.

As he’d gone to bed last night, he’d heard Violet’s whisper in his ear, asking whose words it was that told him he wasn’t good enough.

He’d always thought they were his. But for the first time he wondered if perhaps that hadn’t always been true.

If they’d originated from elsewhere and taken root in his head so long ago, he’d forgotten they didn’t spring from him in the first place.

Which meant they weren’t intrinsic to him, and he might be able to overcome them.

What Alistair needed was to get his father’s investment, and with it other deep-pocketed gentlemen of the ton . And he needed to do it quickly before he lost her.

For the first time in the month since he’d been back in town, he awoke early, sat at his desk, and began making plans.

He would speak with Darius first, who could intervene on his behalf with his father.

His father had always done as Darius asked.

And then he would approach Somerville, Pembrooke, and a handful of other acquaintances.

He felt idiotic as he worked, realizing that this is what he should have been doing all along instead of wasting what was left of his money on whisky and cards.

Alistair arrived at Timsbury House in time for the family’s unbearably early breakfast hour, only to find that they had departed the evening before to the country house in Kent.

Damn it, he thought as he sat down to a cup of coffee at the large table in the morning room.

“Would you like breakfast, sir?” the butler asked, but Alistair just shook his head.

He’d eaten already and wanted nothing more in his stomach as he reviewed his business plan. He was suddenly feeling queasy at the thought of raising funds for the business. He’d never before wanted something as much as he wanted this, and he’d never had as much on the line as he did right now.

If he succeeded in finding his capital, he’d have his freedom. He’d have his future. And he hoped to all that was holy, he might have a chance at having Violet Goodwin, too. For the first time since he’d met her, he thought he saw a path forward that might allow them to be together.

He’d very much wanted to make the first pitch for his business to his brother, but as that was no longer a possibility, he’d have to go straight to Somerville and Pembrooke. He sipped at his coffee and ran through his proposal once more in his mind. It had to be perfect.

McGann had a ship that was in disrepair but could be fixed and put to sea more cheaply than building new.

Alistair would be the face of the company, putting his title and ties to the aristocracy, tenuous though they both were, to good use.

They’d both worked for the East India Company, and now that public opinion was turning against its practices, the time was right to open a competing venture.

A much smaller venture to be sure, but Alistair had faith in it.

The monopoly of the East India Company was soon to be broken, so they needn’t stay small forever.

There was every reason to think they could and would be successful.

He drank another cup of coffee and, when the clock hit noon, the earliest possible moment he felt he could visit anyone other than family, he lifted himself from the table and went to find Somerville.

“Crawford,” Somerville said, leaning back in his desk chair as Alistair was shown to his study. “You’re about early this morning. Or is it that you’re still up?”

Alistair flinched as Somerville chuckled, but the assertion was no more than he deserved. He’d spent all of his first month at home in his cups.

“What can I do for you?”

“I’ve a business proposition to discuss with you, Somerville,” Alistair said. “I’d like to start a shipping and trading company, and I’m in need of investors. I’ll make the return worth your while.”

Somerville nodded as Alistair explained his plan but held up a hand to stop him before he could finish.

“Crawford,” he said. “Why did you bring this to me? The Marquess should be your funder.”

“I’m approaching many potential investors,” Alistair replied. “The Marquess is currently in Kent.”

The elder gentleman leaned back in his chair. “And you couldn’t wait for his return? Is it gambling debts?”

“It is not.”

“The Marquess is one of my oldest friends, you know. We were together at Eton and then Oxford.”

Alistair nodded. He himself had known the Somerville family since he was in leading strings.

“You must be aware then, as I am, that your father wishes for you to remain here in London.”

Alistair nodded again, more curtly this time. The realization that he was wasting his time began to dawn on him. Somerville would not go against his father.

“You must also know,” Somerville went on, confirming Alistair’s assessment, “that I would have no desire to go against his wishes.”

“There’s money to be made,” Alistair said, but Somerville only waved that away.

“I’ve plenty of money. Lifelong friends are harder to come by. If he wants you home, son, and not at sea, I won’t interfere.”

Somerville paused and studied Alistair’s face. “But I will invest if the Marquess does. Your plan is sound enough.”

Alistair opened his mouth to say more, but Somerville cut him off. “Don’t take this any further. That’s the best I can do.”

“I’ll come back when I’ve got the Marquess’s agreement in hand, then.”

“See that you do. And, Alistair, if you want to raise other funds, you’ll have to do the work for it. Do you catch my meaning? Fathers and friends of fathers will only get you so far.”

“I was in the Navy, Somerville. Hard work is all I know.”

“But you did not stay in the Navy. Nor in the Company.”

“I am aware of that.”

He’d left both. But he’d thought it would count for something, all those years at sea.

“Then be aware you’ll have to convince people you mean to stay with this.

Work on your reputation, son. Show your face at events.

Engage with your potential investors. Stop drinking that god awful whisky you carry around everywhere.

And for heaven’s sake, choose a bride. Someone with a sterling reputation and finances to boot, if you can find such a lady to have you.

If you bring money to the table, others will believe you’re serious. ”

The next day brought Pembrooke’s declination for the reason that his allowance was not enough to cover investing, only his living expenses. It was a statement Alistair thoroughly doubted given his friend’s inclination to excess, but his arguments did nothing to change the mind of the young heir.

Pembrooke did invite Alistair to a week-long house party in the country filled with young lords as debauched as he was, but Alistair politely declined. He needed this week to work.

Every morning, he awoke early, ate his austere breakfast of coffee and toast, and made his plans for the day. Every evening, he came home exhausted with little to show for it. By the end of the week, several truths were clear to him.

First, his reputation was worse than he’d realized, and Somerville’s suggestions were more than just advice. They were a necessity if he was to become a man of business. He had to show his face at events and let the world know he’d stopped drinking.

Second, a show of support by the Marquess would be monumentally helpful in getting him back into the good graces, and therefore the pockets, of London’s gentlemen.

Third, he had begun counting items off in his mind, as Violet did in conversation.

And finally, he was more eagerly looking forward to next Thursday, the day they would try out the medical clinic idea at Nowhere, than he wanted to admit.

This long week he’d thought of little but his business plan and Violet.

But he wouldn’t see her, wouldn’t court her, until he had his funding in hand.

He would deserve her, no matter what it took. It was a promise he’d made to himself that he planned to keep.

Violet climbed into Esmee’s carriage on Thursday with her nerves at a fever pitch. Her fingertips pushed into the soft velvet of the carriage seat as she rode to Covent Garden.

It had been a week of highs and lows. She was thrilled that today was the first day of their medical clinic at Nowhere. She’d been in London for over a month, and she had not practiced medicine once except for that unfortunate incident with Miss Jenson at the Waverly Ball.

Her fingers itched to get started; her mind whirled at the possibilities of what the day would bring.

She’d missed this feeling, the heady mix of excitement and nerves and fear she always felt before a day of work.

She imagined this was how soldiers felt before they went into battle, with no idea what the day would bring and only prayer that they had the skill to handle it.

On the other hand, she had not seen, nor heard from, Alistair Crawford once since their moments of intimacy the week prior.

Every day, as callers and cards and flowers came for Catherine, she waited hopefully, but not once were those offerings for her.

He’d disappeared from her, just as he’d always done before.