Despite his mood, the next day dawned beautiful and sunny, and Alastair swung his legs over the side of the bed with a groan. While he hadn’t been at the club long, he had drunk enough cheap alcohol to leave him with a fearsome headache. The hour was early still, and Alastair was tempted to shut the curtain and re-enter his bed, but instead he decided to start his day with the resolve he had found on the carriage ride home the previous night.

His mother and sister were breakfasting in the dining room, and were shocked when he entered.

“Alastair!” his mother said, her teacup to her lips. “I do not believe I have seen you rise this early in ages. Did you stay in yesterday evening?”

“I did not,” he said, his voice still heavy with sleep. “However I returned home early.”

Anne gave him a knowing look, but averted her eyes back down to the eggs in front of her when he glowered at her.

“Will Olivia be returning today?” his mother asked. “I cannot imagine her friend would be so ill as to need her for more than a few days.”

Alastair had not brought himself to tell his mother the truth of Olivia’s withdrawal from the house, but instead had contrived a story that she had gone to visit an ailing friend. Anne had called him a coward, and perhaps she was right. However, Alastair had always been one to avoid the inevitable, though he was unsure of how long it would be until he had to tell his mother that Olivia had decided to leave of her own accord. His mother had already been through so much, he did not want to trouble her with this situation unless Olivia’s removal became permanent.

“I am not sure, Mother,” he finally said in response, “though as far as I am aware it will be some time still.”

She nodded her head and looked back down at her plate.

“I will be going out later this morning on some business, should either of you care to join me,” he said. His mother declined with a shake of her head, but a look of excitement came over Anne’s face.

“Oh, I should love to!” She said. “Would you mind if we stopped to see the latest fashions at Abigail's? It has been some time since I visited and now that I am no longer in black I would so love to see the latest.”

“The seamstress? I see no reason why not,” he said, offering her a smile. Having eaten a piece of toast and finished his cup of coffee, he found he had no appetite for anymore, and told Anne he would send for her when he was prepared to leave. He summoned more coffee to the study, where he sat and took account of his finances and his holdings.

The ledgers had certainly taken a turn for the better. His father’s debts at the many gambling establishments through London were nearly paid, and what was left was inconsequential. His investments were beginning to show fruition after just a short while. How the columnist from The Financial Register had known such a thing and why he had provided Alastair such significant information, he knew not, but he would be forever grateful to the man.

Alastair reached down into the mahogany desk and pulled out paper as he took up the quill pen from the desktop. He was unsure what he could do for Mr. P.J. Scott, but if nothing else he must thank him.

His composed letter was nearly complete when his butler appeared at the door.

“Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head to Alastair. “There are some men at the door who wish to speak with you. They say it is about an urgent financial matter.”

Alastair sighed. It could be none other than creditors calling in his debt. Today of all days, must they come?

“Very well, show them in here,” he said, cringing. He would have the money in due time, he knew. He thought of what Olivia had said, to promise to pay installments. He also thought of her insistence that he use her dowry. He truly did not want to be such a man, to use the money of another to pay his father’s debts.

“Mr. Rogers and Mr. Johnson,” his butler introduced his guests, cutting through his musings. Alastair did not rise, but motioned them to sit in the chairs in front of the desk.

“Your Grace,” began the first, though Alastair had trouble concentrating on his words by the way his generous moustache bobbed up and down as he spoke. “We have sent you correspondence regarding the debts you owe, that have come to us for collection. It is time —”

Alastair held a hand up to stop the man.

“You must understand, sir, that these debts were my father’s,” he said, hating that he was speaking ill of him to others, but realizing he must explain the situation to these men. “I have income that is beginning to come in, but it will be some time before it is fully realized. Can you provide me more time?”

“It has been over six months since you acquired the debt, but much more than that since the debt has been owed,” said the second man, not quite as affable as the first. “You have had more than enough time. Your debt is due. Besides that, did you not recently marry the daughter of an earl of means? Surely she came with a pretty dowry that could more than cover what you owe.”

“I will not use my wife’s money to pay off my father’s debts.”

“Your wife’s money? ‘Tis yours now.” The man looked at him, perplexed.

“Be that as it may, I shall pay my own debt back without any help,” Alastair insisted. He sighed. Olivia had made one point that he should follow through on. “May I pay you installments?”

The man tilted his head, considering his words.

“May I speak with my colleague in the corridor?”

Alastair nodded. When they returned, they agreed to terms of installments, however first required a lump sum to be paid within the week. A sum that Alastair currently did not have, aside from Olivia’s dowry. He nodded his head grimly. He would find a way. There was no other choice.

Alastair rang for the butler to show the men out and post the letter he had composed to Mr. Scott, but as he addressed the enveloped he realized he would be passing by the journal’s office when he took Anne to the modiste’s shop. He tucked it into his pocket, and decided to take it himself.

* * *

As the carriage trundled down the cobbled roads of London, Alastair regarded his sister and decided it had been a wise decision to invite her along. Had she not accompanied him, he would be stewing in his own despondency. Instead, she chattered away incessantly about everything and yet nothing in particular. She told him of Lady this and Lord that, and who were supposed to make the best matches throughout the season. Guilt washed over him as he realized how he had neglected her, with first his father’s death and then his own hasty marriage. Her first season had been cut rather short due to the former duke’s passing, and her return this season had been put on hold due to his mother still being in mourning. Now, however, it was time for him to focus on determining how she could best make a match, and what she wanted of her life.

“Anne, what sort of man are you interested in marrying?” he asked her, noting how her cheeks flushed a deep pink at his question.

“Oh, I’m not entirely sure,” she said, suddenly extremely interested in the material of her muslin gown, picking at its threads in her lap. “Whoever you best deem to suit, I suppose, and whoever might be interested in me.”

He regarded his sister. She was a pretty thing, her tawny hair pulled away from her face, with eyes a mixture between his own green and a light hazel staring back at him. He had never looked at her as anything other than a child, really, and yet he realized she was likely more ready and interested in marriage than he had ever been.

“Is there a man in particular you have set your sights on?” he asked, raising his eyebrows as he bade her to look at him.

“Perhaps,” she said, chewing on her bottom lip. “However, I do not wish to discuss it.”

“Why ever not?” he asked. “Mayhap I could arrange an introduction following your return. Do I know the lucky gentleman?”

“You do know him,” she said. “But please, Alastair, leave it be. He hardly acknowledges my existence, and I should not like to embarrass myself.”

“All right,” he said with a shrug. “Should you change your mind, you have only to tell me and I shall see what can be done.”

She gave him a small, wistful smile. “Thank you, Alastair.”

They made a few stops, at his barrister and his tailor, before traveling onto the modiste Anne so loved on Bond Street.

“I will meet you within shortly,” he said to his sister. “I have merely to deliver a note to the office of the journal next door.” As she nodded, the carriage came to a slow in front of the nondescript Financial Register. Alastair alighted from the carriage and turned to help Anne out.

“I say, Alastair,” she said as she poked her head out of the door, “but is that not Olivia?”

He turned and saw only a volume of skirts through the front window of the office. He helped Anne down and led her to the front of the office, where they peered through the window.

“It is her! Should we enter and speak to her?” Anne asked, but Alastair answered her with a shake of his head, pulling her away so she wouldn’t be seen.

“No, we shall remain out here,” he said. “Keep yourself back from the window. I am mightily curious as to what my wife is doing at such an office, if it is her as you say.”

Somehow he knew it was. The woman was forever in places and situations where she had no business being involved.

He kept himself and Anne tucked in the shadows of the building. Anne giggled. “Alastair, I feel as though I am involved in espionage!” She said before he shushed her. As he saw Olivia, her friend Isabella in tow, step away from the desk of the man inside, Alastair all but pushed his sister into the nearby dress shop, where he hid behind a mannequin attired in a brilliant arrangement the color of a sunrise.

He looked up to see Anne laughing at him.

“Would it really be so difficult to simply speak with Olivia?” she asked. “Look at yourself Alastair, you are hiding behind a dress in a modiste’s shop.”

He quelled her into silence with his glare, though a small smile remained on her face. “Take your time in here,” he said. “I shall return shortly.”

Ensuring Olivia was nowhere to be seen, he entered The Financial Register, bidding the man within a good day.

“I have correspondence for the columnist P.J. Scott,” he said. “Would you ensure he receives it?”

“Of course, sir,” said the rather round man in front of him. “Though it is quite unfortunate timing. The man’s secretary was here but moments ago. She shall not likely return until next week.”

“His secretary? Are you referring to the blonde woman who was here, accompanied by another woman?”

“She’s the one,” he answered with a nod. “I’ve never met the man. He’s a peculiar one, though clearly brilliant. He will not leave an address, so I’ve no method of contacting him directly. He only sends the woman, who returns every week to retrieve any correspondence and his pay, and to submit the column for the following edition. Not that I overly mind. She’s a beauty, and a kind one at that.”

Alastair processed the man’s information as he purchased the latest journal, one he had not yet read. As he did so, he noted two envelopes lying on the man’s desk. One, in fact, bore his name. As he looked closer, he realized the handwriting was somewhat familiar, and he took note of it as he returned outside with his journal. He sat on a bench outside the shops as he waited for Anne and turned the pages, soon finding the latest column by P.J. Scott. It was, as always, witty and humorous while offering sound advice and wisdom that was, more or less, common sense spelled out. What was Olivia doing working as the man’s secretary when she —

A smile bloomed across his face as a sudden realization washed over him, hitting him like a slap across the cheek. What a fool he had been. No wonder Olivia had been so upset when he pushed away her advice. He had thought her interest one of a woman who wanted only to meddle in his affairs. Instead, she had been offering expertise to help him and had resorted to corresponding in letters under a pseudonym in order to get through to him. He realized now she had tried to disguise her handwriting in her notes to him, but when he now connected his wife with the writer, the samples would be close enough.

He shook his head. Not only had she saved him with her skill at the card tables, but she was also single handedly saving his entire estate from ruin. What had he done in return? Nothing but rebuked her sensible logic.

His wife was P.J. Scott. Imagine that. He shook his head. What a woman. His admiration for her, as much as it had been to begin with, increased sevenfold. The fact was, he had never told her what he thought of her, what he felt for her. Indeed, he had tried to show her with physical loving, but that had not been enough for her. It was no fault but his own that she was gone.

Now, he must make things right. He knew he did not deserve such a woman, but he would spend the rest of his life trying to live up to what she wanted, what she needed in a husband. Knowing she was at his old friend Bradley Hainsworth’s London home, he would go to her, and beg for her forgiveness.

“Anne!” he called loudly, running into the modiste’s, where women turned to look at him as if he had gone quite mad. His sister looked up at him from where the woman was fitting her. “We’ll take whatever it is she wants. Deliver when it’s ready,” he shouted to the woman. “Come, Anne, we must retrieve my wife!”