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S omeone was following Rowan.

The hackney had dropped him several streets away from his destination, allowing him to approach the Jackal’s Den on foot. London’s less reputable establishments preferred discretion from their clientele.

It was the third time he’d spotted the same shadow.

Rowan casually adjusted his course, turning down a narrow side street.

He walked in silence for several moments, footsteps echoing on damp cobblestones.

At the next intersection, Rowan pulled himself into a darkened doorway.

Rowan’s body became tense as a coiled spring.

Footsteps approached—hesitant, searching. A silhouette appeared at the mouth of the alley.

The moment the figure passed their hiding place, Rowan moved with shocking speed. He seized the follower by the shoulders, slamming him against the brick wall.

“Why are you following me?” Rowan growled.

“Steady on!” came a familiar voice. “It’s only me!”

Rowan released his grip, stepping back in surprise. “Felix?”

Felix smoothed his wrinkled coat and his crooked hat. “I should have known I couldn’t shadow you undetected.”

“What the devil are you doing here?”

“Making sure you don’t get yourself killed.” Felix examined a tear in his glove with exaggerated dismay. “Was the manhandling truly necessary?”

Rowan’s eyes narrowed. “I told you I was handling this alone.”

“Yes, and I nodded very seriously while completely ignoring that ridiculous statement.” Felix brushed dust from his sleeves. “You’re hunting dangerous men in dangerous places. Did you honestly think I’d let you face that without backup?”

“Go home, Felix.”

“Not a chance.” Felix’s customary levity disappeared, his expression hardening. “I’ve spent a year wondering if you were dead. I won’t spend another night wondering the same.”

The stubborn set of his friend’s jaw told Rowan that argument would be futile. Felix could be remarkably immovable when he chose.

“Fine,” Rowan conceded. “But you follow my lead. No unnecessary conversation, no drawing attention. We’re there for information, nothing more.”

Felix’s face split into a grin. “Like old times. Remember that tavern brawl in Cambridge?”

“This isn’t Cambridge,” Rowan warned. “These men would slit your throat for the buttons on your coat.”

“How fortunate I wore my second-best buttons, then.”

Despite himself, Rowan felt a flicker of gratitude for his friend’s presence. The Jackal’s Den was known for its exclusivity and its dangers in equal measure. A second pair of eyes might prove valuable.

They continued their journey through progressively seedier streets.

Gas lamps grew scarcer, the facades of buildings more dilapidated.

Finally, they stopped before an unmarked door set into a grimy wall.

No sign announced its purpose, but a burly man stood guard outside, his eyes evaluating every approaching figure.

“Let me handle this,” Rowan murmured.

The doorman straightened as they approached. “Members only.”

Rowan withdrew a sovereign from his pocket, pressing it into the man’s palm. “The Duke of Aldermere to see Mr. Loughton.”

Recognition flickered in the doorman’s eyes—not for Rowan, but for the name. “Wait here.” He disappeared inside, returning moments later. “You may enter. Your companion as well.”

The interior hit them like a wall—thick smoke, the mingled scents of spirits and sweat, voices raised in laughter and argument. Oil lamps cast a jaundiced glow over gaming tables where men hunched over cards and dice, their faces masks of concentration or desperation.

“Charming establishment,” Felix murmured. “I especially admire the décor. Is that actual blood on the wallpaper?”

“Silence,” Rowan warned.

His eyes swept the room, noting exits, counting potential threats. Former naval training had honed his ability to assess dangerous situations instantly.

They had taken only a few steps when a mountain of a man detached himself from a nearby table. His face bore the scars of countless brawls, his cauliflower ears testifying to a pugilist’s career.

“Your Grace,” he growled, blocking their path. “Didn’t expect to see your face in here.”

Rowan kept his expression neutral. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“We haven’t. But I know your father well enough.” The man’s lips curled. “He owed me fifty pounds when he had his unfortunate accident.”

Felix tensed beside him, but Rowan maintained his composure. “I’ll settle any legitimate debts before I leave. Right now, I have business with Loughton.”

The brute’s eyes narrowed. “Your father said the same. Always business more important than paying his dues.”

“Move aside,” Rowan said quietly.

“Not until I get what’s mine.” The man stepped closer, alcohol fumes preceding him. “Unless you’re a welsher like your father.”

Rowan sighed inwardly. He had hoped to avoid precisely this scenario. “I said I’ll pay you later.”

“And I say you’ll pay me now,” the brute growled, reaching for Rowan’s coat lapel. “Or perhaps I’ll take interest another way.”

Training took over. As the man’s hand closed on his collar, Rowan moved. A swift block, a step inside the man’s guard, and a precise strike to the solar plexus that left the brute gasping. But the man recovered quickly, swinging a meaty fist that caught Rowan on the mouth, splitting his lip.

The taste of blood filled Rowan’s mouth, igniting something primal. The months aboard the Intrepid had taught him to fight without mercy. He feinted, then struck the man’s kidney with calculated force.

As the brute doubled over, Rowan delivered an uppercut that sent him staggering backward into a table, scattering cards and coins.

Around them, the gaming hall erupted. Men shouted wagers on the fight’s outcome; others scrambled to protect their stakes. Felix found himself tackled by one of the brute’s companions, but demonstrated surprising skill in handling himself, landing a solid punch that bloodied his attacker’s nose.

The chaos escalated until a gunshot cracked above the din. Silence fell instantly.

“Enough!” a cultivated voice commanded.

A slender man in an impeccable suit stood on the staircase, a smoking pistol pointed at the ceiling. His refined appearance seemed at odds with the establishment he clearly controlled.

“Bring them to my office,” he ordered, gesturing toward Rowan and Felix. “The rest of you, back to your games.”

Two guards materialized, escorting them up the stairs and through a door marked “Private.”

Inside, the noise of the gaming floor faded, replaced by a hushed, civilized atmosphere. The office was elegantly appointed, more gentleman’s club than criminal den.

The man settled behind a mahogany desk, placing the pistol within easy reach. “I am Mr. Loughton. And you, I believe, are the current Duke of Aldermere.”

Rowan wiped blood from his lip. “I am.”

“Your father was a frequent patron. Though I don’t recall him ever starting a brawl in my establishment.”

“The brawl wasn’t my intention,” Rowan replied. “Merely a complication.”

Loughton’s fingers drummed on the desk. “Complications cost money in my business, Your Grace. Broken furniture, spilled drinks, frightened patrons.”

Without hesitation, Rowan reached into his coat and withdrew a thick envelope. He placed it on the desk between them.

“This should cover any damages, plus whatever my father owed when he died.”

Loughton made no move to touch the envelope. “What brings a duke to my humble establishment? Surely not a son’s devotion to settling debts.”

“Information,” Rowan answered. “About certain patrons who might have had dealings with my father.”

Loughton’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t betray my clients’ confidences, Your Grace. Bad for business.”

Rowan withdrew a second envelope, considerably thicker than the first. “Perhaps this might persuade you to make an exception.”

A smile ghosted across Loughton’s lips as he eyed the second payment. “You’re determined, I’ll grant you that. What exactly do you wish to know?”

“I’m looking for patrons with naval connections. Particularly anyone who might have had reason to wish me harm.”

Loughton’s eyes sharpened with interest. “Naval connections? How specific.”

“Do you know such a person?”

“I might.” Loughton’s fingers tapped the desk thoughtfully. “But why should I help you?”

Rowan placed a third envelope beside the others. “Because I can be a valuable friend or a dangerous enemy.”

Felix cleared his throat. “He’s terribly dramatic, isn’t he? Must be all that sea air he’s been breathing lately.”

Loughton’s gaze flicked to Felix, then back to Rowan. After a moment’s consideration, he gathered the envelopes and tucked them into his desk drawer.

“Captain Elias Veer,” he said. “Retired naval officer. Used to come in with your father quite regularly. They quarreled badly not long before your father’s death.”

Rowan kept his expression neutral, though his pulse quickened. “Quarreled about what?”

“I don’t know the specifics,” Loughton replied. “But it was heated enough that my doormen had to separate them. Something about payment and services rendered.”

“Where can I find him now?”

“Last I heard, he’d purchased a property in Cornwall. Retired on sudden wealth.” Loughton’s emphasis was subtle but clear. “Hasn’t been seen in London for some time.”

“Cornwall,” Rowan repeated. “Interesting.”

“Isn’t it just?” Loughton’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Now, if our business is concluded, I have a gaming hall to oversee.”

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Rowan said, rising. “I trust our transaction remains confidential.”

“Naturally.” Loughton stood as well. “Though I suggest you settle with Burke before leaving. He has a long memory for slights.”

Outside Loughton’s office, the gaming hall had resumed its normal activity. Rowan scanned the room and located the brute, Burke, nursing his injuries and a glass of spirits in a corner.

“Wait here,” he told Felix, then crossed the room with purposeful strides.

Burke tensed as Rowan approached, his hand reaching for something beneath the table.

“You claimed my father owed you fifty pounds,” Rowan said without preamble.

“Plus interest for the wait,” Burke growled.

“How much?”

“Seventy-five.”

Rowan withdrew a banknote for one hundred pounds and placed it on the table. “This settles the debt in full. You will speak of neither my father nor this encounter to anyone.”

Burke’s eyes widened at the amount. “Right you are, Your Grace.”

“If I learn you’ve mentioned this meeting, I’ll return. Next time, I won’t be so generous.”

The implied threat hung between them. Burke nodded, tucking the banknote away quickly before anyone else noticed.

Rowan rejoined Felix, and they made their way toward the exit, drawing considerably less attention than on their arrival.

Outside, the night air felt cleansing after the smoke-filled den. Felix released a theatrical sigh of relief.

“Well, that was invigorating. Though I must say, your negotiation skills lack a certain finesse. Is punching now your opening gambit in all discussions?”

“Only when necessary.” Rowan glanced around, ensuring they weren’t followed. “We need to find this Captain Veer.”

“Cornwall’s a large county,” Felix remarked. “And the good Captain may not welcome visitors.”

“He’ll see me.” Rowan’s voice hardened. “One way or another.”

They walked in silence for several streets before Felix spoke again. “A woman’s coat of arms. That narrows our search considerably.”

“Indeed.” Rowan’s mind was already cataloging possibilities as he touched his split lip, wincing slightly. “We need to return home. I have arrangements to make.”

“For a trip to Cornwall, I presume? Excellent. I’ve always enjoyed the sea air.”

“You’re not coming.”

“We’ve had this argument already,” Felix reminded him cheerfully. “I won. Remember?”

Rowan sighed, knowing further protest would be futile. “Fine. But we keep this between ourselves for now. The fewer people who know our plans, the better.”

“Agreed.” Felix glanced at Rowan’s battered appearance. “Though you might have difficulty explaining your injuries to your duchess.”

The mention of Selina gave Rowan pause. She would indeed have questions about his split lip and bruised knuckles. Questions he wasn’t prepared to answer.

“I’ll handle my wife,” he said shortly.

Felix’s expression turned serious. “Will you? Because from what I’ve observed, you’ve been doing anything but.”

“My marriage is not your concern.”

“It becomes my concern when it affects your judgment,” Felix countered. “You’re hunting dangerous enemies while keeping your closest ally in the dark.”

“For her protection,” Rowan insisted.

“Or your convenience.” Felix held up a hand as Rowan bristled. “Before you bite my head off, consider this: Your Grace has proven herself resourceful and discreet. She might be an asset rather than a liability.”

The suggestion unsettled Rowan more than he cared to admit. Involving Selina meant revealing his abduction, his time at sea, his vulnerability. It meant trusting her with his shame and his weakness.

“I’ll consider it,” he said finally, knowing he would do no such thing.

Felix seemed to read his thoughts, but merely shrugged. “Your choice, of course. But remember, dukes make attractive targets precisely because they stand alone.”

As they hailed a hackney, Rowan found himself remembering Selina at Hyde Park, defending young Penderwick from his mother’s interference. Her quiet strength, her unwavering dignity, even in the face of Lady Penderwick’s venom.

Perhaps Felix was right. Perhaps Selina deserved more credit than he had given her.

But bringing her into his confidence meant risking her safety, and that was a chance Rowan wasn’t willing to take. Better she remain ignorant and protected than informed and endangered.

With that resolution firm in his mind, Rowan settled into the hackney beside Felix, his thoughts already turning to the journey ahead and the confrontation with Captain Veer that awaited him in Cornwall.