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“I’m glad you acknowledge it’s an act.”

“I don’t know, laddie. You were looking quite at ease in that fancy dress.” Alfie loosed a high-pitched chuckle.

“That was for a ball. I’ve more in common with a village wheelbarrow than a nobleman, and well you know it.” Rafe handed the log back. “All looks well. We could use five bolts more of Dhaka muslin, if you can manage it. The stuff’s selling like mad.”

Alfie tucked the paper into his breast pocket. He was still grinning. “Will Miss Red Skirts be there tonight?”

“I …” Have been wondering the same myself. All damned day. “… sincerely hope not.”

Rafe checked his pocket watch as they headed down the service corridor. He crushed his hat atop his head and jerked on his gloves.

“You know,” Alfie said, “you never have told me what she looks like.”

“I recall telling you a great deal about her.”

They stepped out into the narrow side street. It had stormed violently earlier; puddles and the smell of dampness and oil hung heavy in the air.

“I believe your description went, ‘commanding, domineering, and not Miss Penney.’”

Rafe’s cheeks stung. Absurd. It was as true now as it had been when he’d said it in the fresh heat of anger. “And? You know Miss Penney is my father’s intended for me.”

“Who you have only described as ‘ill-tempered’ and ‘pompous,’ yes?”

“It isn’t as though I plan to court her out of fondness. The arrangement is to be mutually beneficial. And hopefully distant.”

“That sounds an obscenely pleasant way to live.”

“Far sight better than being ordered about for the rest of my days.” He didn’t need to be marriage-minded to marry, he just needed to get his hands on that goddamned capital Thomas had promised him. “Not everyone can marry as well as you have.”

“Mm, and isn’t it true.” Alfie hadn’t wed until later in life, after his career with the navy had ended. But he and Lucia were infatuated with one another; true partners. It was enough to make anyone green with envy. “I’d still like my question answered.” His voice turned teasing again. “Do you find her beautiful, Rafe? Miss Red Skirts, I mean.”

“That is beside the point.”

The silence built. God, he could feel Alfie’s eyes on him, laughing! He might turn from red to purple if he didn’t end this now.

“Yes.” Rafe sighed, as if shedding off a great burden—but his chest disagreed. There was a strange, heavy ache there. “Now don’t say another word.”

Alfie raised his hands in surrender, but his confounded smile remained.

It wasn’t like Rafe to be late—or to slice his neck shaving—but somehow, he accomplished both upon his return to No. 36. He had just gotten the bleed above his Adam’s apple to stop when he noted the time and went thundering down the stairs, cravat in hand. A strand of hair shook loose from his attempt at pomade and grazed his forehead. He was going to be unfashionably late. A rumpled fool.

His throat closed when he reached the entry hall and saw his father’s hulking silhouette by the table, thumbing through letters. Thomas’s posture remained relaxed, malevolently casual. Only his eyes moved to take in his son’s half dressed state. “Going to put on a neckcloth, I hope.”

Rafe looped the white silk article in question around the back of his neck. “I’m on my way out.” He moved toward the door and the butler, Russ, opened it to him, letting in the brisk air of night.

“Wait.”

If it had been anyone other than the bleeding butler watching him, with his bald pate and slanted blue eyes (which were better suited to a feline than a man), Rafe would have closed his eyes. Drawn the bracing breath his lungs craved. Instead, he turned smoothly on his heel and faced his father. “Yes?”

Thomas covered the space between them, his large feet pointed outward at the toe. “Have you called on Miss Penney?”

“Not yet. I intend to shortly, perhaps—perhaps she will be in attendance tonight.”

“Hmph.” His father smiled; the expression stayed strictly contained to his grey-mustached mouth. He clamped a large hand over Rafe’s shoulder. Fingers tightened, curling into his skin beneath layers of clothing. “I should think it advisable that you do. Surely she has had interested suitors calling every day since the Miltons’ ball.”

The thought should have occurred to him. It hadn’t.

“Bowers—you know Bowers, the estate agent, pesters me all the time, desperate to maintain the connection now my store’s done so well—shared some interesting news with me.”