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Alistair and McGann took a hack even further into the dark, winding alleys of Covent Garden until they arrived at the seedy center of the rookery.

“Where are we going?” Alistair asked. He wasn’t afraid—he was tall and strong and could take care of himself. But all the same, he’d rather not put himself into a compromising situation if he could help it.

“Don’t worry,” McGann said, “we’re almost there.”

“And what is our final destination?”

“Nowhere.”

McGann knocked on the roof of the hack to stop the conveyance. He lumbered out and made his way to a large, nondescript building with no windows and only a single visible door, which he banged on loudly until a slot opened to reveal a set of green eyes staring back at them.

And then McGann and whomever those eyes belonged to commenced a discussion in a Scottish dialect so thick that Alistair couldn’t follow it at all. After a few moments, the door swung open to allow them entry.

“This way,” McGann said and motioned for Alistair to follow.

“Is this a gaming hell?” Alistair thought he knew every one of those in London.

“No,” McGann said. “I told you, it’s Nowhere.”

McGann led him down a long, darkened hallway and then through another door, and then another after that, which opened into a warm and cozy interior filled with men and women drinking together.

“Is it a brothel you’ve brought me to, then?” Alistair thought he knew all of those, too.

McGann put his hand on Alistair’s shoulder to stop his movement mid-step. “I wouldn’t say that too loud if I were you. One of these nice Scottish lasses would put your eye out for less. Every one of them can plant a facer to knock you off your feet if she’d a mind to.”

“My apologies,” Alistair said with a slight bow to no one in particular and therefore to everyone.

It was true that it didn’t seem like a brothel, despite the mixed-gender drinking.

The atmosphere was lively, with conversation flowing all around him.

In fact, it seemed a far more delightful place to drink than his gentleman’s club, or Lord forbid, White’s, where his father was a member.

Alistair couldn’t think of a less appealing place than White’s .

“McGann,” the woman behind the bar yelled as they moved further into the room. “Explain yourself.”

“I’ll vouch for him,” McGann said.

“You better. We don’t serve his kind here.”

“I said I would, and I do.” McGann gave Alistair a little shove to move him along. “Now bring us two and stop your complaining.”

The woman grinned at him. “I’ll complain all I want. It’s my establishment.”

“Two what?” Alistair asked as McGann settled them into a quiet booth in the back.

“Two whiskies.”

“Is that the only option?” Alistair asked as two glasses appeared before them.

“It is. You’re in a bar only for Scots, so it serves only what a Scotsman would want to drink. And if you tell anyone else about this place, you’ll get more than a facer. Do you understand?”

Alistair took one look around the room filled with some of the largest men and women he’d ever seen. “I do,” he said evenly.

“Good. Now listen carefully, Crawford, because I’ve a proposal for you.”

“I don’t have any capital,” Alistair said. He’d just lost the last of his money at the hell.

“So I saw. Lucky for you, it’s not your money I need. It’s your title. And your interest in starting a trading company.”

“I beg your pardon. How would you know about that?”

McGann shrugged. “You talk too much when you drink, and you’ve been drinking a lot, Crawford. But as fate would have it, I wish to start a shipping company. Pairs well with a trading company, so it’s a good thing I heard what I did, aye? I have a ship and you’ve the title to fund it.”

“It’s only a courtesy title, McGann. It doesn’t mean anything.”

McGann grinned his stupid grin again. “Your father is a Marquess, Crawford, and your brother a Viscount. Even if you don’t like the fact, it doesn’t make it useless.”

Alistair only shrugged at that.

“Listen,” McGann went on. “I’ve a ship in need of repair.

We can fix it up and put it to sea more cheaply than building new.

Between us, we’ve twenty years of experience captaining and navigating vessels.

We know the business of trade, sea routes, navigation—all of it.

With the public finally seeing the Company as the right bastards they are, the time is ripe for a competing venture.

Yours and mine—my ship, that is, and your connections. Together, we can make a go of it.”

“I don’t do business with criminals,” Alistair said.

“Sod off, Crawford. You spent three years with the Company, and there’s no bigger criminal organization than that. Unless you count the aristocracy. And as we’ve established, you’re a member of that, too.”

“Not by choice,” Alistair said.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“So, you provide the ship and I provide the capital? That doesn’t seem a fair trade.”

“Are you not listening, man? You provide the connections, I provide the ship, and we both provide the capital.”

“And how do you plan to raise your share?”

McGann laughed. “I don’t plan to raise it. I’m going to marry it.”

Alistair snorted and threw back the rest of his whisky. “No heiress will marry a fugitive,” he said. “Not one of my acquaintance, anyway.”

“I’m not a fugitive. I promise you. ‘Twas only a misunderstanding.”

Alistair looked at McGann warily. He didn’t care for the ton , but he wasn’t despicable enough to destroy one of its ladies either. “No,” Alistair said. “I won’t help you ruin some poor girl with your lies.”

“Look, Crawford, all I’m asking is that you’ll consider a partnership. Introduce me to the right lady, and I’ll do the rest.”

Alistair threw back his drink and sighed. “Who’s the lucky woman?”

“Miss Violet Goodwin. I believe you had dinner with her just this evening.”

Alistair felt his heart slam against his chest at the mention of Violet’s name. “Are you following me, McGann?”

“Nay. I was following her. That you two were together was just an obliging happenstance.”

“We weren’t together,” Alistair all but growled. “And how do you even know of Miss Goodwin? She’s been in town less than a week. Or do you contend that she also talks too much when she drinks?”

McGann smiled. “Your lot aren’t the only ones who gossip.

All those folks who wash your sheets and shine your shoes like to share their tasty bits of talk too.

And if they’re Scots, which they probably are if you’re keeping them downstairs, they share those tasty bits here.

Grease the right palms in the right place, Crawford, and it’s amazing what you can learn. ”

Alistair all but rolled his eyes. “You’re worse than the ladies of the ton , McGann. Nothing but an overly large gossipmonger. But I’m sorry to tell you you’ve made a foolish choice. Miss Goodwin’s cousin is the one you ought to be after. She’s on the marriage mart.”

“Nay,” McGann said. “It’s Violet Goodwin I want.”

“Why?”

McGann ignored the question and raised his hand for two more whiskies, which appeared at the table in an instant. “Do you hunt, Crawford?” he asked finally.

“On occasion.”

“Then you’ll understand a doe that knows she’s being hunted keeps her ears open for danger, skittish-like. But one who doesn’t even know the season has begun? Well, she’s just standing there in an open field, waiting to be somebody’s supper. Better me than something more dangerous that takes her.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Why not Catherine West?”

“Because it can’t be her, that’s why. But by all means, if you know of another heiress in need of a husband, make that introduction instead.”

Alistair eyed McGann. There was obviously something the man wasn’t telling him, but it didn’t matter, because he was right.

Unbetrothed heiresses of the marrying age were not common occurrences.

And when they were, they were mobbed by suitors, as Catherine West surely would be the moment she stepped foot into a ballroom.

Violet would be the easier choice. And it wasn’t as if he had any plans to marry her.

Hell, she’d probably never speak to him again after tonight.

“Fine,” he said, gulping whisky to douse the burning feeling in his chest.

“You’ll make the introduction then?” McGann asked.

“If you give me your word as a Scotsman that you won’t ruin her or trap her or any such nonsense.”

“I’ll not give you my word as a Scotsman,” McGann said, to which Alistair raised his eyebrow again, “but as a Highlander. ‘Twill mean more that way.” He held out his hand for Alistair to shake.

Alistair stared at the large palm extended over the table, offering all he wanted for the price of an introduction.

To Violet.

He took another gulp of whisky and briefly closed his eyes against the words he said next.

“I’ll do it. At the Waverly Ball in two weeks.

It’s one of the biggest fêtes of the season and hosted by an old friend from Eton.

Rumor has it he’s looking for a wife, so every lady on the marriage mart will be there, and I can get you an invitation.

” Alistair squinted at McGann. “You do,” he asked, “have appropriate attire?”

McGann rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll look the part. And, Crawford, pay your whisky more mind in the future. She’s a fine drink. Made to savor, not guzzle.”

“It is good. Where’s it from?”

“Family recipe,” McGann said and stood. “I’ll see you in two weeks at the Waverly Ball.”