Page 69 of Again, Scoundrel

The idea of digging through a week of unopened and unanswered messages made Alistair’s head throb even more. He sighed. “Send a tray with coffee and toast. I’ll need something stronger than tea this morning.”

“It’s four p.m., my lord.”

Alistair growled something unintelligible while Williams shut the door behind him. Not a moment later, the toast and coffee arrived, so quickly Alistair knew Williams had asked for it to be made before he’d even woken him.

He breakfasted and dressed haphazardly, before making his way down to his sitting room to greet Pembrooke. Even after the food, his head still ached, and the inside of his mouth tasted like an ashtray. He’d partaken in multiple cheroots last night trying to eradicate the taste of Violet from his tongue and the smell of her from his nostrils. He regretted those attempts now, as not even the bitter lingering of tobacco was enough to remove her mark from his body.

Pembrooke looked him up and down as soon as he entered the drawing room and whistled.

“God’s teeth, man,” he said. “You look a wreck. No wonder you’ve missed my letters. How long have you been blotted?”

Alistair ignored that greeting, such as it was, and walked to the side bar to pour himself a brandy. He sat heavily on the sofa, drink in hand, and didn’t bother to offer one to his guest. His stomach protested at the thought of more liquor, but he took a sip anyway.

“What of the funds?” he asked.

Pembrooke made his way to the side bar and poured his own brandy.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said. “Although I don’t generally imbibe this early.” He paused and turned to Alistair. “I need your assistance, Crawford.”

“With what?” Alistair gulped down the rest of his glass before handing it to Pembrooke to pour him another.

“Crawford, when was the last time you had a proper meal?”

“I can’t imagine how that’s your business.”

Pembrooke poured another brandy for Alistair, although it was a noticeably short pour, and strode over to the sofa. “Fair enough. I do need your help, however. As a friend.”

“And where were you,” Alistair asked, eyebrow arched, “when I came to you for help?”

Pembrooke at least had the grace to look chagrined. “I am sorry about our last conversation. I would invest if I had the funds, truly. But I don’t. Not yet anyway, but soon enough. It’s why I’m here. With your help, my situation will improve.”

“The Viscount will increase your allowance?”

“No. The estate is insolvent. That much is a certainty. I’m to marry, Crawford, as I told you. I’ve asked the lady, but she has not yet agreed.”

Alistair glared at him. Marriage was currently his least favorite topic. “She’ll agree,” he said.

Pembrooke was tall, classically square-jawed, with fair hair and an aristocratic nose. Hell, he had an aristocratic everything. He was heir to a Viscountcy, for Christ’s sake. He had what the women of the ton wanted; what Alistair did not have and never would. Reputation, familial support, a title that was more than a courtesy.

Pembrooke was just like Darius. And Alistair was different.

Violet is different too, he thought, although it hadn’t mattered in the end. She’d still refused him. And when she did, she’d confirmed everything he knew to be true about himself—everything his father had accused him of.

“I’ve invited her to the house party to guarantee it,” Pembrooke said.

Alistair tipped the entirety of the brandy glass into his mouth before he finally looked up.

“And what’s this to do with me?”

“The lady is cousin to Violet Goodwin.” Pembrooke looked him up and down, his narrow eyes squinting. “I recall you are acquainted.”

Alistair grunted in response.

“Catherine will not attend the house party if her cousin doesn’t. You need to convince Miss Goodwin to attend.”

“I have no sway over Violet Goodwin,” Alistair said and held out his glass for more.

Pembrooke stared at him for a long moment before he took a step backward and settled into one of the wingback chairs, ignoring Alistair’s demand for brandy. He stretched his long legs out in front of him, looking as if he had been born to lounge in wingback chairs.