Page 17 of Again, Scoundrel

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.”

Chapter