ROBERT BRANBROOK SAT ALONE at a table in his club, staring into a half-empty glass of scotch. The only good thing about Scotland, as far as he was concerned. One up, then, on England. The Irish had Irish Whiskey, the Scots had Scottish Whisky. What did England offer a man to drown his sorrows? Gin. Robert shuddered at the thought. He swallowed the rest of the glass to dispel the memory of the revolting stuff.

“You look a bit peaked there, Banbrook,” a jovial voice said. A large hand clasped his shoulder briefly.

Robert looked up from his empty tumbler and squinted to bring Sir Stirling James into focus. Stirling pulled out a chair and seated himself at the table.

“I’m as fine as a fiddle, Stirling, I can assure you.” Robert reached for the nearly empty decanter before him. He missed once, but claimed it on the second try. He flashed Stirling a grin, proud of his success. “You see? Fine as a fiddle,” Robert repeated.

Liquid sloshed onto his fingers and he looked down. Whisky tumbled from the mouth of the crystal decanter and over the hand clasping the tumbler. Furrowing his brow in concentration, he angled the bottle to get more into the glass.

“I’m glad to hear it, Banbrook, because I was worried you’d spent the past three days in this club drinking yourself to death.” Stirling lifted an arm and waved. A footman hurried over with a cloth to sop up the spilled liquor.

“Oh, I have. I am.” Robert offered a grin, though he could hardly feel his face.

“I take it this ill-conceived effort has to do with a certain young lady?” Stirling asked as the footman mopped the spill.

“You, Geoffrey, bring me another bottle,” Robert said to the footman. He turned back to Stirling. “You use the word lady loosely.”

“I find that doubtful.” Stirling nodded toward the footman. “John will ignore your request.” Stirling emphasized the man’s name. “The entire staff will. I’ve had you cut off.”

Robert let out a mumbled curse. The footman departed without looking at him. A glance showed no others near.

“Can’t you leave me to drink myself to death in peace?” Robert asked. He squinted at the older gentleman. “You used to be fun.” He knocked back his drink and realized very little whisky had made its way into his glass.

“Oh, I have something fun planned, never fear.” Stirling stood and gestured again.

Footsteps sounded behind Robert. He craned his neck in an effort to see who approached. Two of the burlier footmen, their faces set, marched toward him. Or was there one and he was seeing the man twice? He blinked several times, but neither of the two disappeared.

Large hands clasped his arms and lifted him from the chair. At least four hands, so at least two of the fellows, then. Or was that three? The empty tumbler slipped free of his grasp to hit the table with a thunk.

The sound drew his attention as the men got him to his feet. Sad empty tumbler. All it wanted was to do its duty by him. So loyal. Not like women.

Stirling appeared at his side, swaying like a storm-tossed schooner. “What do you think, Banbrook, can you walk?”

Robert shook off the hands and straightened. “I most certainly can. What do you take me for?” He raised his chin, endeavoring to stare Stirling down, but his chin wouldn’t stop. It went up and up. Robert’s head tilted back. He’d never taken time to properly contemplate the ceiling of his club before. One always overlooked the details.

Four hands gripped him and stood him upright again when he started to topple backward. Stirling, still swaying, appeared greatly amused. He gestured and the hands began to half walk, half carry Robert.

The faces of other gentlemen at the club moved in a slow spiral around him as they crossed the room. Most were turned his way. Expressions ranged from sympathetic to disgusted. Robert would have taken careful note of who owned the latter, but the names of his peers were strangely absent from his brain. Maybe they were all named Geoffrey. The idea inclined him to laugh, but he didn’t want to amuse Stirling any further.

The hands didn’t toss him from the club as he half-expected, but instead took him up the steps and into one of the private rooms, furnished with a bed, desk, chairs and table. Inside stood a large, full washtub, as well. He had just enough sense to wonder why no steam rose from the tub before he was picked up and plunked, fully clothed, into the chilly water.

In shock, he slid under the surface. He came up gasping for air. Rapid blinking brought Stirling into view beside the tub. Robert unleashed a stream of invectives. Stirling gestured. A large hand settled on Robert’s head and pushed him back under, then let him up immediately.

“Feeling better yet?” Stirling asked as Robert’s head cleared the surface once more.

“You bloody, rat-faced, son-of-a—” A gesture from Stirling. Robert went down into the water again. He flailed at the hand, but it didn’t remain on his head long enough to strike. He pushed himself to the surface, spitting water. “Do you mean to kill me?”

Stirling looked down at him, arms crossed, expression contemplative. “I thought death was your goal.”

“You bloody well know it’s not, you madman. This water is damned cold.”

“Here in Scotland, we call it refreshing.”

“Well I’m a bloody Englishman and I don’t appreciate being dunked in a trough.” Robert pushed a hand over his face, skimming away water. “What are you playing at, Stirling?”

“Playing?” Stirling shook his head. “No. I’ve a favor to ask, actually.”

“A favor?” Robert gaped. He stood. Water streamed from his hair, coat, flattened cravat, everywhere. “This is you asking for a favor?”

“I need you clear-headed enough to comprehend my words.” Stirling’s tone was reasonable, but amusement lurked in his features.

Robert muttered a few choice curses as he stepped over the edge of the tub. Water sloshed across the floor. One of the footmen immediately began to wipe it up. The other offered Robert a towel, his expression neutral.

Robert took the proffered cloth and mopped at his face. “Look what you’ve done to my jacket. My vest.” He let out another curse. “My boots, man. Look what you’ve done to my boots.”

“Put them by the fire. John will take your clothes and see them made right.”

Robert turned to take in the cheery blaze. Now that his vision was clearer, he also noticed a set of clothes laid out, as well as a nightshirt and robe. His clothes. His nightshirt and robe.

He cast Stirling an incredulous look. “You’ve been to my residence?”

“Yes. Your staff are rather worried about you. They haven’t seen you in three days.”

Robert shook his head, bemused. He crossed to the fire, then began stripping his lean frame. Stirling ordered the tub removed and the floor mopped. Robert shucked his sodden attire.

After toweling dry, he took up his robe. His original intention had been to dress, but weariness had settled. What was the point in dressing, after all? Once he heard Stirling out and sent him on his way, Robert could return to drinking just as easily in a private room in his robe as he could in the public room, dressed.

He belted his robe closed, plopped into an armchair and propped his feet on the nearby stool. He watched with little interest as servants gathered his wet garments, sopped up the last of the water and disappeared. The chair was near the fire, the warmth lulling. His eyes closed.

“Now, about that favor.”

Robert forced his lids open to find Stirling seated on the other side of the fireplace. “The answer is no,” Robert muttered.

“All I require is for you to attend three balls.”

“Balls? With dancing?” Robert scowled. “With ladies?”

“That is generally the way of balls.” Stirling rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers before him.

“Can’t. I’ve sworn off women. For good. No more.” Robert shook his head, then regretted the movement as the room bounced. “I will not be jilted a third time, and certainly not again in Scotland. I’m leaving.”

“Oh?” Stirling raised an eyebrow. “Headed back to London, are you?”

Robert looked away from those perceptive eyes. He could never go back to London. Every inch of the city reminded him of Cinthia. “Maybe the Continent. Perhaps even France.”

“France? Do you intend to get yourself shot?”

Robert shrugged. “At least in France, when a man is jilted, he can drown his sorrow in cognac.”

Stirling watched him over his steepled fingers.

Robert resisted an urge to squirm under that gaze. “Or I could hang about Edinburgh for a time. I’ve nothing against Scotland, just women.”

With a sigh, Stirling brought his hands to the chair arms. “Miss Thomas did the right thing, breaking it off with you.”

Robert went rigid. “What did you say?”

“Kitty Thomas did the right thing when she broke your engagement.”

Anger coiled inside Robert.

“Anyone can see you’re still in love with Cinthia.”

Robert’s anger disappeared like summer rain. Cinthia. The real reason he’d come to Scotland. For two years, they’d been engaged. In London, they were the toast of the Ton. Every dance, the theater, the park. Always together. Blissfully happy as they waited for her father to return from his government appointment in India so they could wed.

Then Lord Ailbeart had come along, with Scottish title. He enticed her with his lineage. Whispering that she was meant to be a member of the peerage, Lady Cinthia, Viscountess Dunreid. Not simply Missus Banbrook.

Fool that he was, Robert hadn’t been worried. He’d believed in her. Believed in their love. Not until the morning he’d called round and learned she’d left for Scotland did he have any idea Viscount Dunreid had succeeded in his conquest.

He passed a hand over his eyes, weary. “What are you after, Stirling? I’ve heard rumors of your new game, matchmaking.” He eyed the other man. “I’m not looking for another woman to propose to. Twice was enough.”

Stirling leaned back in his chair, his expression too innocent to be so. “The last thing I want to do is get some poor girl’s hopes up with an introduction to you. Until you get over Viscountess Dunreid, you aren’t fit for any woman.” He shook his head. “No, I simply need you to help a certain young Miss stave off an aggressive gentleman long enough to find herself a good husband.”

Robert frowned. “Stave off? She doesn’t want to marry this gentleman? At least she’s smart enough to realize as much.”

“Aye, she seems an intelligent sort, but I believe the key issue is the offer of the gentleman in question. He wants her, but he has no intention of making her his wife.”

So, a cad up to no good and apt to tarnish a young lady’s reputation. “I see. She’s in need of protection, then, not one of your quick weddings.” He scrutinized Stirling. “Why don’t you do help the girl?”

“I could, I suppose, but I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the honor, or the amusement. Anyone can see you’re in need of a bit of distraction.”

Robert supposed there was some truth in that. Still, “Escorting some young Miss to dances doesn’t sound particularly amusing.” It sounded painful.

A sly grin formed on Stirling’s face. “Oh, I daresay escorting this young Miss is just what you need. That, and a bit of revenge.” He leaned forward in his chair. “You see, Banbrook, Dunreid wants the young lady for his mistress. You, my friend, are going to save her.”