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“ W here’s Merrick?” Rowan demanded, his voice cutting through the thick haze of tobacco smoke in the cramped tavern.

The barkeep glanced up from the tankard he was polishing. His gaze flickered over Rowan’s fine coat before settling on his face. Recognition sparked in his eyes.

“Don’t want no trouble here,” he muttered, leaning forward. “Last table in the corner. Been drowning himself in gin since noon.”

Rowan tossed a coin onto the sticky counter. “Whiskey. The good stuff, if you have it.”

He made his way through the crowded room, ignoring the curious glances that followed him.

The Salty Dog was no place for gentlemen, much less a duke. But Rowan had stopped caring about appearances long ago.

In a dark corner, hunched over a near-empty glass, sat Samuel Merrick. The man looked older than when they’d last sailed together. His weather-beaten face now deeply creased, and his knuckles swollen with arthritis.

“Never thought I’d see you again,” Merrick said, without looking up. “Thought you were dead.”

Rowan slid into the seat opposite him. “Death would have been kinder.”

Merrick’s bloodshot eyes finally met his. “So, the rumors are true. The Duke of Aldermere, press-ganged like a common thief.”

“That’s why I’m here.” Rowan leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I need information about the press-gangs operating out of Portsmouth last spring.”

Merrick stiffened. His gaze darted around the tavern. “I don’t know nothin’ about that.”

“We both know that’s a lie.” Rowan’s voice remained calm, but his eyes hardened. “You’ve been sailing those waters for thirty years. You know every captain, every ship, every method they use.”

The barkeep arrived with Rowan’s whiskey. He waited until the man retreated before continuing.

“I am not asking for free,” Rowan said and slid a small purse across the table, the coins within clinking softly.

Merrick eyed the purse but didn’t touch it. “Some things ain’t worth the coin.”

“Then name your price.”

“It ain’t about money.” Merrick drained his glass. “Men who ask questions about press-gangs tend to disappear.”

Rowan’s hand shot out, gripping Merrick’s wrist with enough force to make the older man wince.

“I already disappeared once. I won’t let it happen again,” he growled, and something in Rowan’s expression must have convinced him.

Merrick sighed, his shoulders sagging.

“There was a naval officer involved in press-gang operations out of Portsmouth last spring. Captain Hadley. Had a reputation for taking bribes to target specific men.”

Rowan released his grip. “What kind of bribes?”

“The substantial kind.” Merrick glanced around again before continuing. “Word is he’d arrange for certain troublesome gentlemen to disappear—debtors, inconvenient heirs, men who’d wronged the wrong people.”

“And where is this Captain Hadley now?”

Merrick shook his head. “Dead. Fever took him last winter. But he wasn’t working alone. These operations usually involve many people. Officers willing to look the other way, middlemen to arrange the payments.”

Rowan committed the name to memory. “Anything else?”

“Just that whoever paid him had deep pockets.” Merrick finally reached for the purse, tucking it into his jacket. “And that they wanted you gone bad enough to risk hanging for it.”

The words hung between them. Rowan finished his whiskey in one swallow, feeling it burn down his throat.

“If you’re smart,” Merrick added, “you’ll forget this conversation ever happened.”

Rowan stood, adjusting his coat. “I appreciate the concern.”

“It ain’t concern.” Merrick’s eyes were solemn. “It’s a warning. You turn over these stones, there’s no telling what might crawl out.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Rowan left the tavern and stepped into the chilly night air. Captain Hadley. Bribes. Portsmouth. It wasn’t much, but it was more than he’d had yesterday.

Finally, he could begin his hunt in earnest.

The London townhouse was ablaze with light when Rowan’s carriage finally pulled up the following evening.

He hadn’t meant to stay away so long, but the trail had led him across half of London, from shipping offices to naval records to seedier establishments where men with loose tongues could be persuaded to speak.

Most of it had been fruitless. Captain Hadley had indeed retired from service after the war, but the name of his co-conspirator remained elusive. And unfortunately, the Intrepid’s logs had been suspiciously incomplete for the period in question.

Rowan’s head throbbed with exhaustion as he climbed the steps to his front door. It swung open before he could reach for the handle.

“Your Grace,” Simmons stood in the doorway, relief written across his usually stoic features.

Behind him, several members of the household staff hovered anxiously.

“Simmons,” Rowan nodded, stepping inside.

His housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, clutched her hands to her chest. The footmen exchanged glances. Even the scullery maid had crept up from below stairs to peek around the corner.

“We were afraid… that, well… Your Grace, we—” Mrs. Wilson said, her voice quavering.

“That I’d gone missing again?” Rowan finished for her, and the housekeeper gulped.

“Well… y-yes, Your Grace,” she mumbled back.

The guilt that had become his constant companion twisted sharply in his chest. Their fear was justified. For a year, they had not known if their master was alive or dead.

“I assure you I have no intention of vanishing again. You have my word,” Rowan said firmly.

The tension in the hall eased visibly. Simmons stepped forward to take his coat.

“You have a visitor, Your Grace. The Marquess of Halston has been waiting in the parlor since four o’clock.”

Rowan clenched his jaw. Felix. He’d have wanted to go to him first, but apparently, the cat was out of the bag now.

“Very well. I’ll see him now,” Rowan said and made his way to the parlor, bracing himself.

Felix had been his closest friend since their days at Cambridge, which meant he would demand explanations Rowan wasn’t prepared to give.

The parlor door swung open. Felix lounged in Rowan’s favorite armchair, a glass of brandy dangling carelessly from his fingers.

At the sight of Rowan, Felix’s eyes widened. The glass slipped from his grasp and shattered on the floor as he leaped to his feet.

“Rowan!” Before Rowan could react, Felix had crossed the room and enveloped him in a fierce embrace.

Rowan’s body went rigid, unaccustomed to such displays of affection. “What, no teasing quip?” he asked, his arms remaining firmly at his sides.

Felix released him and immediately landed a solid punch to his shoulder. “I’ve been worried sick about you, you inconsiderate bastard! I looked everywhere. I lost sleep over you.”

The naked emotion in his friend’s voice made Rowan’s body go stiffer. He took a step back, putting distance between them.

“Well, as you can see, I’m perfectly fine.”

Felix’s expression changed, his familiar mocking smile replacing the raw concern.

“Fine? You look like something the tide washed in! And what’s this?

” He gestured to Rowan’s face. “Growing a beard now? I never thought I’d see the day when the impeccable Duke of Aldermere resembled a common dockworker. ”

There it was. The Felix he knew how to handle.

“Not all of us have the luxury of personal groomers at all times,” Rowan replied dryly, pouring himself a brandy from the decanter.

“Save me the sarcasm. Where have you been all this time?”

Rowan’s fingers tightened around his glass. “My journey home wasn’t easy. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Leave it at that?” Felix scoffed. “You disappear on your wedding day, no word for a year, then suddenly you’re back, sporting a tan and refusing to talk about where you’ve been?”

“That about sums it up.”

Felix studied him with uncharacteristic intensity. “This isn’t like you, Rowan.”

“Perhaps you never knew me as well as you thought.” The words came out harsher than he intended.

Something flashed in Felix’s eyes—hurt, quickly masked. “Very well. We’ll save that battle for another day.” He settled back into his chair. “I suppose you want to know what you’ve missed?”

Relieved by the change of subject, Rowan nodded. “Enlighten me.”

Felix launched into a detailed account of the ton’s activities during Rowan’s absence. Most of it was trivial. Marriages, scandals, financial rises and falls. Rowan listened with half an ear, his mind still on the sea.

“Oh, and your almost-bride is engaged again,” Felix added casually.

Rowan’s attention snapped back. “What did you say?”

“Lady Galerton. The woman you left standing at the altar? She’s betrothed to Viscount Penderwick now.”

Rowan’s hands clenched into fists. “When?”

“The announcement was made last week. Quite the talk of the town, given her history. First an elderly husband who left her practically penniless, then jilted by you?—”

“I did not jilt her,” Rowan cut in sharply.

Felix raised an eyebrow. “What would you call it?”

Rowan ignored the question. “When is the wedding?”

“No date set yet, but they’re holding the engagement party tonight at the Penderwick townhouse. The mother is quite eager to secure the match before another disaster befalls the poor woman.”

Rowan stood abruptly. “What’s the address?”

Felix’s eyes widened. “Surely, you’re not thinking of going there? You’ve only just returned, my friend. Are you seeking another scandal?”

“The address, Felix.”

His friend sighed. “Berkeley Square. The white house with the green door. But Aldermere?—”

Rowan was already heading for the door. “I have to go.”

“At least let me come with you,” Felix called, hurrying after him. “God knows if you’re coming back!”

“No.” Rowan’s tone left no room for argument. “This is something I must do alone. And I am coming back.”

Felix caught his arm. “She’s moved on, Rowan. Leave her be.”

Rowan pulled free of his grip. “She’s still my betrothed.”

The shock on Felix’s face would have been comical under different circumstances.

“Legal documents were signed,” Rowan continued. “The special license was issued. All that remained was the ceremony itself.”

“Which never happened because you disappeared!”

“Not by choice ,” Rowan’s voice turned icy. “And now I’ve returned to claim what’s mine.”

He strode from the room, his mind made up.

Lady Galerton belonged to him, regardless of what arrangements she might have made in his absence.

And no fresh-faced viscount was going to take her from him.