Page 9 of Again, Scoundrel

“She just arrived this week,” Catherine continued, looking at her companion with her large blue eyes. They shared those eyes, he noticed. “She, well… she–”

Both he and Miss Goodwin turned to look at Catherine then, wondering what she might possibly say next. There was no way to save this most awkward of introductions.

“The boat was unbearable,” Catherine finally blurted out, and Miss Goodwin’s cheeks turned a bright shade of red. It was the only show of emotion the woman had made yet and was enough to make Alistair all but roll his eyes at them.

Of course, they would make derisive comments about the sea. It was nothing he hadn’t heard before. The aristocracy had barely tolerated his stint in the Navy as a working officer instead of the position normally favored by men of his social class, a cushy seat behind a desk in the Admiralty.

And the idea of the East India Company had been, in his father’s words, abhorrent. The fact that he’d quit it and would start his own trading company should he be able to raise the capital?

That would be baser still, he knew, before he even brought it up to the Marquess. The beaumonde did not favor tradesmen within their ranks, and he would have quite an uphill battle to gain his father’s confidence and approval.

He sighed. He had neither the time nor the patience for women like these, nor for the ton that spawned them. He couldn’t wait to leave behind their prosaic mindsets, adherence to arcane rules, and distaste for an actual day of hard labor.

“It’s a ship not a boat,” he said crisply. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He left to find his father.

First, though, he leaned against the wall in a quiet corner of the hallway and took a surreptitious sip of whisky from his pocket flask.

Keeping his spirits close at hand was a trick he’d picked up in the Navy, when long days of work aboard a ship meant one was never close to refreshment.

He noticed many gentlemen now considered a pocket flask the height of fashion and carried them everywhere, although he didn’t understand why. Aristocrats were never far enough away from a servant or wet bar to need a flask.

And neither will you be unless you find the Marquess.

He sighed and took another sip. It didn’t matter what affectations the ton was putting on these days. He should go find his father; the man was here somewhere.

“Drinking already, Alistair?”

Hell’s teeth.

Alistair stuffed the flask back in his pocket and turned. His father was standing right behind him with his elder brother. “Father,” he said. “Darius.”

“Alistair,” Darius held out his hand and grasped Alistair’s. “It’s been too long.”

Alistair felt a wave of relief at the warmth in his brother’s greeting. They’d seen little of each other since he’d joined the Navy at fifteen, and Darius had been ensconced at one of the family’s country estates in Kent since Alistair had arrived back in town.

Alistair had been unsure of the reception he might receive. His return home from his second career in under a decade with nothing to show for it except the whisky flask in his hand was more than enough reason to give Darius pause, but he saw no censure in his brother’s eyes. There was only a genuine fondness for his younger sibling shining back at him.

“How is Rosehips?” Alistair asked.

“Still beautiful. Although the land remains problematic. You ought to come and see it.”

“Hmph.”

Rosehips had once been his favorite of the family estates when he was a child, but he hadn’t been back since he joined the Navy. Even then, the marshy ground was beautiful, if not well-suited to farming. They had been steadily losing tenants to better prospects inland for years.

“I noticed you greeting Lady Catherine,” the Marquess cut in. “She’s back on the marriage mart this year now that she’s out of mourning. And there will be quite a portion to her name, I hear. The new Earl wants her married as quickly as possible.”

“How nice for her,” Alistair said.

He wasn’t interested in his father’s constant hounding for him to be married and settle down. It was all the Marquess ever wrote to his son about and, had they seen each other at all in the last nine years, what Alistair was sure his father would speak to him about. That or his disregard for Alistair’s employment with the East India Company.

“You might try being civil. Mrs. Somerville thinks you two would suit.”

Alistair eyed his father. “You were behind tonight’s seating arrangement, I take it? Of course, you were. I don’t know why I’d ever think otherwise. I’m not back in town to be married off at your command.” He gestured at his brother. “Seat him next to her.”

“Darius can handle his own affairs. You, I’m less certain of.”

“I have acquitted myself well, Father. In service to Queen and country. Or does that not rate in your accounting?”