Page 6 of Again, Scoundrel

“Right here, Nora.” Aunt Lydia appeared behind her daughter. “Come inside and stop being so dramatic.”

Nora stepped into the grand foyer of Chester House and greeted Lydia with the same huge hug that Catherine had greeted Violet with. The four women, different though they were, shared the same physical exuberance and large, intensely blue eyes.

“I am not being dramatic,” Nora said. “Or not unduly so. We almost died, Lydia. Our ship practically sank! Tell them, Violet.”

Violet smiled at her mother. “It was quite turbulent.”

“See?” Nora said. “I was correct. Now, escort me upstairs, sister, while these two young ladies conspire about Catherine’s triumphant return to the marriage mart.” She winked at the younger women and took her leave up the stairs with Lydia.

“I’m afraid they’re the ones conspiring,” Violet said when her mother was out of earshot.

Catherine grinned. “Oh, I know they are. Cooking up marriage plans for the both of us, I have no doubt. But never mind them. We will have bucketfuls of fun! I’m delighted to see you again. Thank you for acting as my companion.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Violet gave her cousin a tired smile. “And I truly am sorry about your father. Though I hope you understand I’m here only as a companion, no matter what my mother might envision.”

Violet glanced down at the severe dress she wore, buttoned from head to toe as if it were a suit of armor instead of a traveling gown. “I’ve other plans for my life now, as I wrote to you. I’ll not marry.”

Catherine reached out and grasped Violet’s hand, giving it a little squeeze. “I know. I read your letters avidly and am so impressed with what you’ve accomplished in only three years. From what you’ve told me of James, I think he would be very proud of you. Now, let us have some tea and a rest. We’ve a full social schedule in the days ahead, starting with the Somerville dinner later this week.”

Alistair Crawford stood outside the Somerville townhouse and breathed deeply, gathering his thoughts before he made himself knock on the door.

He’d been back in the exclusive world of the peerage for less than a week, and he was already adrift. And slightly tipsy from the whisky he’d imbibed before arriving. He was drinking too much, he knew. And gambling too much. Certainly spending too much time in the gaming hells and brothels of London’s seediest neighborhoods.

The voyage home had been grueling for his ship, which had limped into port barely seaworthy from weeks of vicious storms. And worse for his heart and mind.

The East India Company had been nothing like he’d imagined when he joined three years ago. Certainly nothing like his stint in the Navy.

There was no esprit de corps. No band of brothers. No joy in the briny sea air, wide open horizons, or gentle tilt of a ship on water. There was only brutality in the name of money and power, and Alistair couldn’t stomach it.

He’d been stationed in a region of Punjab the Company had annexed two years earlier and there was no hiding the evidence of atrocity all around him. Families ripped apart, men pressed into service, mass graves for Muslims and crematoriums for Sikhs. Too many dead to count.

He’d never seen anything like it and hoped never to again. So, he served out his contract, retired once more, and came home to London with nothing. Just as Father had warned he would.

His father, the Marquess of Timsbury, would be in attendance at the dinner tonight, as would his older brother, Darius. He slipped his hip flask out of his pocket and took another long drought before he knocked on the heavy door to the Somerville residence.

He’d accepted the invitation only because he knew his father would be pleased if he attended, the Somervilles being longtime family friends. Or Alistair hoped it would please him, anyway. This was to be the first stop in his planned father/son goodwill campaign.

He needed more money than his mediocre allowance to launch his dream of a trading company. Money his father had to spare, if only he’d loosen the purse strings for Alistair the way he’d always done for Darius.

If only he liked or admired Alistair, the way he liked and admired Darius.

Get on with it, Crawford. The money won’t raise itself.

Perhaps he’d visit a gaming hell as a reward after dinner. Then he would clean up his act and get to work. He promised himself.

He wouldn’t let himself slide so far into the dissipated lifestyle of London that he couldn’t crawl his way back out again. He’d seen too many men tumble down the slippery slope into profligacy once they’d left their sea legs behind. A sailor without the sea was useless, and uselessness had a way of killing a man’s spirit.

With spirits, he thought wryly and took another sip of whisky before he stowed the flask back in his pocket.

He took a deep breath and shifted his weight from foot to foot as if preparing himself for battle. Which, in a sense, he was.

The relationship between Alistair and his father had been nothing but contentious since the summer he turned fifteen and had snuck away to join the Navy as a Boy First Class. To his father’s horror, he hadn’t even entered as a Cadet on a training ship like other aristocratic men did.

No, Alistair had wanted real training with real sailors on a real ship. And he’d had it. He knew the ocean like the back of his hand now. It was on land he was apt to become lost.

But he had a strategy for that. He’d earn his father’s trust, convince him to invest, and get out of London at the earliest possible moment. Tonight was the first step.

The heavy door swung open, and Alistair was greeted by the butler before he made his way directly to his hostess, Mrs. Somerville. She was presiding over the guests who had arrived before him, which was nearly all of them, as he had waited until the very last moment to grace the Somerville doorstep.