Rowan scrutinized the smudged tumbler as he rolled it between his fingers, shifting it from one hand to the other, careful not to send the amber liquid over the rim. The scotch should have burned going down as he hadn’t drunk in far too long, but its murky blandness spoke of spirits too long open on the shelf.

More difficult than overlooking the less than stellar drink was ignoring the various conversations going on about the public room at the Whisper Hook Inn—locals in search of a hot meal and lukewarm ale, or stragglers from the staging coach passing through on its way to and from London. There was little need to hear their business as Rowan sought to keep his reasons for being in Welling quiet—and the public room at the inn afforded him just that. The constant flow of people masked Rowan’s comings and goings. No one took notice of him, and Rowan, in turn, made a point of not retaining the names of the barkeep or the patrons.

Each time, it was as if Rowan had found himself in the rundown inn for the first time.

There was no need to familiarize himself with the neglected inn when this occasion could be his last visit—the tepidness of the spirits, the stale smell clouding the room, the scrape of wooden stools on the scarred plank floor, the rough bar top…all things Rowan did not commit to memory.

He could leave the Whisper Hook Inn and return a thousand more times. Or never again.

“Another scotch, m’lord?” the barkeep called, removing a plate with the remnants of Rowan’s meal from the bar top.

“No, thank you.” Rowan tossed back his glass, emptying the remaining scotch before sliding the tumbler toward the barkeep. Even though the liquid had seen better days, Rowan was not one to waste spirits, no matter the murky, suspect quality. “What time have you?”

“Nearly three.” The man moved farther down the bar to serve a pair of newly arrived patrons. Their threadbare trousers and wide-brimmed hats spoke of their employment in the fields surrounding Welling.

Rowan had no need for the barkeep’s undivided attention. To remain a man not remembered was preferable; yet, dressed as he was and arriving as he had, it would be odd if the proprietor didn’t recall his many visits and thus cater to him. Not that the man knew anything of Rowan, least of all his status as a duke. If the barkeep paid close enough attention, he’d have noted that, for years, Rowan came to the inn, had a drink—whether ale or something more substantial—and departed quickly when a fair-haired woman arrived in the stable yard.

So had been his tedious routine for nearly eight years.

Shifting his stare to the window, Rowan’s irritation only grew when he still did not see his traveling coach in the yard.

Where is the bloody woman?

Miss Marce Davenport was many things, but late was generally not one of them.

Since the day they’d struck their bargain, she’d always been punctual—for she knew well the consequences if she did not abide by Rowan’s dictates. With any luck, she would not test Rowan’s boundaries, or he would be forced to make the decision he’d been dreading.

Perhaps she tested his patience on purpose?

Today was not the day for her to challenge him.

With all things considered, he asked very little of the woman: her attendance at his country estate no more than three times per year, and repayment each month for what she owed the Harwich dukedom. In exchange, she kept control of Craven House. What she did with the ancient structure, he cared not. As long as she didn’t burn the house to the ground, Rowan was content to remain far removed from her business, and as an unspoken rule, she did the same with his. Their names were linked in no other way.

Except when they both journeyed to Welling and then continued on together to his family home, Hadlow Estate, in Dartford, Kent.

It was then that they became entangled in one another’s affairs, at least enough to make it through their stay in the country without raising his mother’s suspicions. The servants, both in London and at his country home, were easily dealt with—and had kept their positions in exchange for their silence on the matter of Rowan and Miss Marce Davenport’s association outside of Hadlow Estate.

Julian, Rowan’s father, had ruled with an iron fist, and though his only son found himself away more than in residence, his family’s servants obeyed his every command.

He turned toward the public room door as another coach pulled to a stop in the stable yard.

Once again, the conveyance did not have the Harwich crest on its door, nor did any of the finely dressed occupants exiting the coach have fair hair or an upturned nose.

“Another,” Rowan growled, and the barkeep hustled to pour him another drink.

The woman obviously had little care for her own well-being.

As he drained his glass once more, cringing at the tepid temperature, a hand settled on his shoulder, and a light, feminine voice purred into his ear. “Somethin’ sweet Molly Mae can do for ye, sir?”

Rowan stiffened, turning to see a woman of indeterminate age, her lips painted a bright red, with rosy cheeks and plumped cleavage, taking him in with a slightly hooded stare and a mischievous smirk. His stomach turned at the thought of what Molly Mae did for the men passing through Welling on their way to places unknown—and the atrocities that had forced her into such a career path.

Life was a cruel mistress, and Rowan would be remiss in thinking he was the only one cursed.

When he made no move to answer, she continued, “Ol’ Pete has a room saved jus’ for me.”

Gripping the woman’s fingers where they clutched the shoulder of his coat, wrinkling the fine fabric, Rowan removed her hand with a tight frown. “My apologies, ma’am, but I am only here long enough to meet a friend.” He glanced over her shoulder and out the open door. “And it appears they have arrived.”

To diminish any injured feelings, he slipped two shillings from his pocket and held them out to her. Quick as anything, Molly Mae swiped the coins with a grateful smile.

Rowan made no further conversation as he strode from the inn and into the crowded yard, his coach still unseen. The chilly February breeze slammed into him, making him take a deep breath and clamp his jaw tight to avoid chattering teeth. Winter still had a viselike grip on Kent, and with the dark clouds in the distance, there was little chance it would release its hold during Rowan’s stay at Hadlow.

The clouds were rolling his way from London—the path his carriage would be taking. Had something happened on her journey? After all these years with no issues, Rowan had become decidedly lax when it came to trusting she would come when he sent for her. It hadn’t struck him until now that her carriage might be tardy because something had waylaid her. The thought of a highwayman coming upon her unexpectedly sent a shiver of unease through him. Would the servant he assigned to protect her have the gumption to do what was necessary to transport her safely?

Even if she were out of the reach of a highwayman, what of the weather? Or perhaps a thrown wheel or injured horse.

If she did not arrive soon, he would be forced to set out and search for her.

Bloody hell, if she went back on their agreement, Rowan would be wise to forget the entire debacle—go on to his country estate without her and make as if she’d never existed. It would be safer for him, yet the questions he’d face when he arrived would be dangerous.

Dangerous, indeed.

He pulled his collar high to keep the wind from darting down his back and raised his hand to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun as he stared off into the distance. There were too many carriages, carts, and men on horseback to see anything clearly. Perhaps he should call for his mount and venture back toward London until he found his coach.

He suppressed the urge, knowing had a highwayman set upon any travelers word would have made it to the Whisper Hook Inn long before now.

Instead, Rowan moved to lean against the wall of the inn, praying he remained out of sight from Molly Mae or anyone else that thought to disturb him. The note he’d sent to his mother, the Duchess of Harwich, had said they would arrive at three o’clock, and bloody hell, he did not relish the idea of keeping her waiting. She’d spent too many long, lonely years doing just that…for her husband to make a rare appearance at their country estate, for her body and the Lord above to bless her with another child, and for her only living son to take time from his vast business ventures to visit Kent.

A coach, loaded with travelers and their cargo, pulled out of the yard as another far more familiar carriage navigated around it with his driver holding tightly to the reins. The conveyance ambled to a halt.

Within, he spotted the neatly pinned coiffure favored by Miss Marce Davenport.

His driver spotted Rowan and climbed down from his perch, hurrying over to where he waited against the inn wall.

“Your Grace,” Charles called over the din of the stable yard, removing his hat and giving Rowan a curt bow. “The missus needed ta stop at a bookseller afore depart’n town.”

Rowan frowned at his servant’s choice of word: missus.

“It why we be late, Your Grace.” Charles focused on his boots, his head dipping with contrition. “She said it be fer the duchess. A gift.”

Rowan’s irritation waned at the mention of a gift for his mother. It was a peculiar practice Marce had begun on her second stay at Hadlow, as if she were making amends for their deception—begging his mother’s forgiveness, though the duchess would never know of their lies. Once the present had been a set of watercolor landscapes of Paris. The next trip, a dried bouquet of flowers from Holland. And just the past Christmas, a musical contraption from the Amazon.

Rowan had made the mistake of asking about the nature of the gifts only once. Marce’s answering glare had halted any future discussion on the topic. He did not ask about the token, for in quick order, Marce would present the wrapped trinket to his mother, and she’d display it in her private sitting chamber for all to admire.

With a dismissive nod, Rowan decided not to press the issue of his coach’s tardiness any further.

“Shall we be on our way?” Rowan pushed away from the wall and started for the carriage.

“I will collect ye mount, Your Grace,” Charles said. The servant moved to the post outside the inn and untied Rowan’s horse, leading it to the rear of the Harwich coach.

Rowan strode through the teeming yard to his waiting carriage and pulled the door wide.

Perched inside on the forward-facing seat, the blond, delicate woman stared impassively at the velvet bench across from her. His pulse spiked slightly at the sight of her—regal and indifferent.

The woman known as Lady Harwich—Rowan’s duchess during their infrequent time at Hadlow Estate.

No greeting passed either of their lips as Rowan situated himself on the rear-facing seat; however, her stare moved to the window to avoid his.

He watched her squirm on the bench, rearranging her skirts before picking at the cuff of her sleeve. Her forehead didn’t wrinkle with suppressed tension, nor did she fuss with her hair. She was uncomfortable, certainly, but not wary of him. Little had changed between them over the years. She continued to treat him as if he were a scoundrel to be ignored, and he continued to silently blame himself for the situation they were both trapped in—yet unwilling to put a stop to it.