“That bastard Mercer has more brains than I gave him credit for.” Will stabbed his knife into the roasted pheasant, cut off a chunk, and chewed vigorously. "I can’t believe he managed to elude us all bluidy day.”

Alaric had to agree—Mercer was diabolically gifted at evasion. Somehow the blighter had gotten wind that the game was up, and he’d taken off like a hunted fox. Alaric, Will, and a team of constables and guards had tracked the earl to his residence, clubs, even a bawdy house he was known to frequent; he’d remained one step ahead and just out of reach.

With his usual efficiency, Kent had organized teams to keep up the search for Mercer around the clock. After twelve hours, Alaric had reluctantly conceded that respite was in order. Will had insisted on escorting him home, which had led to Alaric inviting his brother in for a late supper.

To his surprise, Will had accepted.

Now the two of them were seated in the dining room at one end of the long table. Will had slung his jacket and cravat over the back of his chair and looked perfectly at home. The two of them were eating and talking … generally acting like normal brothers might.

It was altogether odd.

And … not unpleasant.

Alaric sampled the chestnut stuffing, found it moist and flavorful. He attributed that both to his French chef’s talent and the fact that chasing down killers apparently piqued one’s appetite.

“Where do you think Mercer will go next?” he said.

Will washed down his food with a swig of wine. “I suspect he’ll try for safer shores. Gut tells me France. He’s a nob after all, and they like to dock there.”

“According to Kent, you’ve got the most accurate gut in the business.”

Will dropped his fork, clutched his brawny chest. “Sweet Child of Mary, was that a compliment from His Grace?”

Alaric’s lips quirked. As a boy, Will had been playful and irreverent; apparently, he’d never outgrown those tendencies.

“Your buffoonery offends the ducal presence,” Alaric said with mock hauteur.

Grinning, Will picked up his silver. “The ducal presence better grow a thicker skin if he’s so easily offended.”

“The ducal heir better get ready for a pummeling if he continues with this baiting.”

“As if you could pummel me.” Will shoveled in a forkful of asparagus à l’amande. Chewing, he said, “Ach, this is good, isn’t it?”

“The French know their cuisine.”

“I don’t mean the asparagus—I mean the two of us. Supping together. Talking instead of being at each other’s throats.”

Habit put a sardonic reply on Alaric’s tongue. Instead, he said, “Aye, ’tis a welcome change.”

Will paused, his hand on his wine glass. “I believe I owe you an apology, brother. I misjudged you.” His chest heaved on a breath. “All these years, I’ve blamed you for denying me sanctuary when instead you were … protecting me.”

The sincerity in his brother’s brown eyes put Alaric at a momentary loss for words.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said finally. “Not after Laura.”

To his surprise, Will merely shrugged. “I’m not so certain that wasn’t Fate intervening. After all, I ended up with the lass of my dreams. Couldn’t imagine being happier than I am with my Bella and our bairns.”

Will seemed to have no lingering animosity over Laura, his acceptance of the past genuine. Seeing that, Alaric felt a shifting inside himself: ’twas as if a boil had been lanced, the festering guilt draining free. His next breath came easier for it, his entire being somehow ... lighter.

Leaning back in his chair, he mused, “Will the calf love ever end? In all my life, I’ve never seen a man so happy to be leg-shackled.”

Will gave him a sly grin. “Well, you have seen my lass—what do you think?”

“That you are one lucky bastard,” Alaric said sincerely.

“Aye, I am. Then again, it seems Fortune smiles upon the McLeod brothers when it comes to women. You’ve found yourself a fine, spirited lass, eh?”

Heat crept up Alaric’s jaw, and a foreign feeling puffed up his chest.

Pride.

When he thought of Emma’s plucky determination, her warmth and intelligence, he was astounded that he’d found her. She would make him a fine duchess, provide him with beautiful, feisty children and create a stable, caring home for them all.

As long as you don’t bollix things up.

He pushed aside the doubt that had been plaguing him since the steamy interlude in the gallery. He told himself that such concern was natural seeing as how he was facing the prospect of marriage once again. But this was Emma, not Laura. And this time he knew what he was up against—what he was and wasn’t capable of.

He’d been clear with Emma. She wouldn’t expect his love.

Wouldn’t expect him to be more than he was.

They would have passion and laughter, even affection. After the debacle of his first marriage, it was more than he expected to find with any woman. He wanted his ring on Emma’s finger as soon as possible.

“When this business with Mercer is done, I’m going to marry her,” he said.

Will gave a knowing nod. “Don’t worry, we’ll find the bastard soon. With Kent tapping his old Thames River Police cronies to help scour the ports, we’ve got tabs on the water routes—”

A commotion outside the dining room cut him off. Jarvis entered with unusual haste.

At the unflappable butler’s ruffled expression, Alaric frowned. “What is it?”

“Your Grace, you have a visitor …”

“I’m not a visitor, you old fool,” said soft, imperious tones. “I am family.”

Alaric shot to his feet, Will following his lead.

A diminutive figure dressed in a brown velvet travelling ensemble entered the room. Beneath the brim of the feathered leghorn hat, her bright blue eyes latched onto him. She gestured him over with a regal wave.

When she held out her hand, Alaric bowed over it out of habit. He kissed the translucent, veined skin above her large carnelian ring.

“My dearest boy,” she said, sounding out of breath, “I’ve heard all the news, and I could stay away no longer. In fact, I would have been here earlier had it not been for a broken axel. Such inconvenient things, carriage wheels. Now are you well? Have you been ill? I’ve brought the medicines—”

“I’m fine, Your Grace.” Recovering from the shock of her sudden arrival, he said, “I don’t believe you’ve met my brother.”

“Your brother?” Her gaze swept over Will, lingering on his open collar and shirtsleeves, before returning to Alaric. Sotto voce she said, “Not much of a family resemblance is there, my dear? But I suppose all McLeods are not created equal. Different stock, you know.”

Will turned ruddy.

“Since William and I share a father, we are from the same stock,” Alaric said tightly.

Her blue eyes shimmered. “Oh dear. I’ve thought of you as my own for so long that sometimes I forget. Forgive me?”

The familiar mix of guilt and annoyance knotted his insides. Reminded him acutely of the failings Laura had accused him of. For despite all that he owed the lady before him, he’d never been able to feel more than gratitude toward her. A sense of obligation.

“There is nothing to forgive,” he said curtly. “May I present to you Mr. William McLeod? Will, say hello to Lady Patrice, the Dowager Duchess of Strathaven.”

* * *

An hour later, Patrice finally went upstairs to bed, leaving Alaric to bid goodnight to Will.

In the foyer, Will said in a low voice, “She’s quite an, ahem, interesting lady, your aunt.”

“She’s your aunt, too,” Alaric said irritably.

“Right.” Will cleared his throat. “Is she always this … full of energy?”

“Hysterics are part of her daily regimen.” The minute Alaric said it, shame tugged at him. “She means well,” he amended. “During the years when I was ill, she cared for me as if I were her own. Nursed me day and night.”

Then why don’t I feel true affection for her?

Laura was right about one thing: I am a coldhearted bastard.

“Can’t blame her for worrying after you, I suppose.” Pausing, Will said, “You have enough on your plate as it is, what with Mercer still on the loose. How do you plan to manage her as well?”

Alaric’s temples throbbed just thinking about it. In spite of the lateness, Lady Patrice had insisted on summoning the housekeeper to review the week’s menus; she’d wanted to ensure that the meals suited his delicate constitution. Then she’d directed two maids to change his old bedclothes to the new ones she’d brought because Scottish flannel would help him sleep better. She’d had those same blurry-eyed maids search through her mountain of luggage to locate a satchel of white sage. Apparently, some quack had sold it to her, claiming that burning the herb would ward off evil and keep Alaric safe.

As usual, she brushed off his objections by simply ignoring them. Or growing tearful.

Obligation or not, one hour in her presence was already driving him mad. With the hunt for Mercer, he had enough to contend with. The last thing he wanted was to deal with an anxious, overbearing dowager.

Then it struck him. He wouldn’t have to deal with Patrice.

Because he’d found someone else perfectly suited for the task.

“We’ll rendezvous at Kent’s tomorrow morning,” he said. “I have a plan.”