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“ L ord Atwood will see you now, Your Grace,” the butler announced, his tone carefully neutral.

Rowan nodded, rising from the stiff-backed chair where he had waited these past fifteen minutes. The delay was deliberate, he suspected—a small reminder that even a duke had to wait at Lord Atwood’s convenience.

He followed the butler through a corridor lined with ancestral portraits, noting the subtle signs of faded grandeur. The gilt frames needed polishing, and the carpet showed wear in high-traffic areas. House Atwood maintained appearances, but clearly their finances required careful management.

The study door opened to reveal a lean, austere man with silver-streaked hair. Lord Atwood stood behind his desk, his surprise evident despite his disciplined features.

“Your Grace. This is unexpected.”

“Lord Atwood. Thank you for receiving me without prior notice.” Rowan inclined his head slightly.

“How could I refuse the Duke of Aldermere?” A hint of irony colored his voice. “Please, be seated.”

Rowan settled into the offered chair, taking measure of his father’s old rival. Atwood’s study reflected its owner—orderly, traditional, without ostentation. No visible vices like the brandies that had crowded his father’s desk.

“May I offer you refreshment?” Atwood asked, resuming his seat.

“No, thank you. This won’t take long.” Rowan reached inside his coat and withdrew a flat package wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string. He placed it on the desk between them. “I’ve come to settle an old account.”

Atwood eyed the package with undisguised curiosity. “An account?”

“My father’s debt to you.”

With deliberate movements, Rowan untied the string and folded back the paper, revealing a substantial stack of banknotes. Atwood’s eyes widened fractionally.

“I don’t understand,” he said carefully.

“I believe my father borrowed this sum from you twelve years ago, regarding a land dispute in Northumberland.” Rowan kept his voice neutral, watching for any reaction. “I am here to repay it, with interest.”

Atwood’s fingers touched the edge of the stack, as if confirming its reality. “This is unexpected.”

“I could have handled it through my accountant,” Rowan said, “but I thought it best to settle the matter in person. To put the rivalry between our families to rest.”

Something like respect flickered in Atwood’s eyes. “Most honorable of you, Your Grace.”

Rowan inclined his head, noting how Atwood’s reserve had softened at the sight of the money. Greed, but not rage. Not the burning resentment that might drive a man to arrange a duke’s abduction.

“May I offer my belated condolences for your father’s passing,” Atwood said, pulling the stack toward him with practiced casualness. “A tragic end to a complex life.”

“Thank you,” Rowan replied automatically. “Three years now.”

“And for your own troubles.” Atwood’s gaze sharpened. “Your disappearance caused quite a stir. I had resigned myself to never seeing this debt repaid.”

The statement confirmed what Rowan had suspected. Atwood was pleased by the unexpected windfall but showed no signs of knowing more about Rowan’s absence than general gossip provided.

Not the vengeful type who would orchestrate an elaborate scheme for revenge.

“While we’re settling old accounts,” Rowan continued, “I wonder if you’re aware of any other unofficial debts my father might have incurred. Perhaps to individuals he wouldn’t wish publicly known.”

Atwood’s eyebrows rose. “Clearing the family ledger, are you?”

“Something like that.”

The older man leaned back, considering. “Your father was not known for financial prudence, but you likely know that already.”

Rowan nodded, waiting.

“He frequented a certain establishment. The Jackal’s Den. An exclusive gaming hall, not the sort that advertises its presence.” Atwood tapped his fingers on the desk. “I heard rumors he ran up considerable debts there in his final years.”

“And you know this because?”

A thin smile. “London is a small city for men of our class, Your Grace. Word travels.”

“Do you know the proprietor’s name?”

“A man called Loughton, I believe. Though I couldn’t say with certainty.”

Rowan committed the name to memory. “And you think my father might have owed him money?”

“It’s possible.” Atwood shrugged. “Though if they haven’t sought you out by now, perhaps the debt died with him. I would advise against stirring that particular nest of hornets. The Jackal’s clientele values discretion above all else.”

“I appreciate the warning.” Rowan rose. “And thank you for your candor.”

“Not at all.” Atwood stood as well, the banknotes now safely tucked into his desk drawer. “I must say, you’re not much like your father.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“He would not have been so… forthright in his dealings.” Atwood extended his hand. “Perhaps the next generation can move beyond old grievances.”

Rowan accepted the handshake, noting the firm grip. “That was my hope in coming today.”

As he took his leave, Rowan mentally crossed Lord Atwood off his list of suspects. The man had seemed genuinely surprised by his appearance and pleased by the unexpected payment.

The Jackal’s Den, however, presented a new avenue of investigation.

An exclusive gaming hell would attract powerful patrons, men with the resources and connections to arrange a duke’s disappearance.

His father had evidently been a regular, accumulating debts that might have followed him to the grave—or beyond.

Rowan descended Lord Atwood’s steps to where his carriage waited. His next move was clear, though not without risk. He would visit this Jackal’s Den, seek out the proprietor Loughton, and discover what secrets might be hidden in its shadowy interior.

But first, he would need to inform Felix of his plans. After the confrontation with Lady Penderwick in Hyde Park, his friend had proved himself a valuable ally. And Rowan had a growing suspicion that he would need all the allies he could gather before this hunt was finished.

As his carriage pulled away from Lord Atwood’s residence, Rowan found his thoughts drifting unexpectedly to Selina. She had shown surprising spirit in the park, defending young Penderwick from his mother’s interference.

The flash of animation in her eyes when she argued, the determined set of her chin—these had revealed aspects of her character he hadn’t fully appreciated before.

There was more to his wife than the composed, practical woman he had married for convenience. Perhaps, when this business was concluded, he might take the time to discover exactly who Selina truly was.

The thought was oddly appealing.