Alasdair stood near the wall of an over-stuffed ballroom, watching a gaggle of blonde curls marching toward him. He could disappear, a shadow within a shadow in his black tailcoat and trousers. Even as their goal, with five sets of blue eyes on him, he could be gone between one blink and the next.

What good would it do, though? This was his life now and had been for nearly six months. Six months stretching into eternity at a laboriously slow pace. The only remaining way he was permitted to serve the Crown was to carry on the Lochgeal line. His damn fool brother had done this to him, trying to jump some damn fool horse over a wall, and Alasdair hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye.

Nor had he visited the spot, to properly curse his brother’s stupidity. He wasn’t permitted the peace of his family’s country seat. Not during the season. Perhaps, when the parade of young women dried up, his mother would grant him the solitude of the one place he thought of as home.

The gaggle’s arrival was punctuated by swarming. Ringlets bounced. Laughter tittered. The tops of their heads came only to his chest, but their sickly-sweet perfume knew no such bounds. A less controlled man would have gagged.

“Girls,” Lady Cluaran snapped. “Curtsy to Lord Alasdair. He’ll think you have no manners.”

This brought them into a tight half circle, two arrayed on each side of her ladyship. At some hidden signal, they curtsied in commendable unison. Five pairs of eyes peered up through a thin dusting of lashes.

Mediterranean blue, some might say, but not Alasdair. He’d seen the fabled sea and wouldn’t insult those waters with the comparison. The Mediterranean had depth and teamed with life. Rather, the eyes of Lady Cluaran and her daughters invoked sapphires. Heartless, empty and desired for all the wrong reasons.

“Some men prefer a woman lacking in manners,” one of the blonde beauties said, batting her lashes at him.

“Yes, a streak of hoyden goes quite far toward winning a man, Mama,” another agreed.

The other two tittered.

Lady Cluaran offered an indulgent smile. She could afford lenience. With the fortune settled on each daughter, they had their pick of men. Except Alasdair.

He didn’t know the names of the two who’d offered their high-pitched words of wisdom. He’d never bothered to sort out which daughter was which. They were Mallorie, Moraine, Miranda and Malaria, or some such. Or was that last one of those new ailments they’d discovered in the colonies? He frowned.

“You see, you’ve displeased him,” Lady Cluaran said, her smile gone. She slithered forward and ran a hand down his arm. “Come now, Lord Alasdair. You’ve been on the continent. Surely, you’ve met more forward girls than my daughters.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “Though none as pretty.”

“Indeed,” he said, aware words must leave his mouth eventually.

“I daresay the only question is, in which order do you wish to dance with them this evening?” her ladyship continued.

Four wrists, dance cards dangling, were thrust toward him. Not completely devoid of manners, Alasdair contained his grimace. Each ball, the same thing.

“I can make them go away, and stay away, in exchange for a small favor.”

The voice, male, low and unapologetically amused, came from just over Alasdair’s left shoulder. He very nearly gave a start. No one had sneaked up on Alasdair Lochgeal in over twenty years. Not since he was a boy of ten. Who was this man?

The man came to stand shoulder to shoulder with him. One glance showed a richly-dressed gentleman, older than Alasdair, but undiminished by his years. More telling was Lady Cluaran’s reaction, and that of her gaggle. Blonde heads dipped, features molded into respect.

“Sir Stirling, how pleasant to see you.” Lady Cluaran’s tone was respectful, but held no avarice.

A married gentleman, then, this Sir Stirling, and one whose gaze glinted with mirth. Alasdair could see that, even from the corner of his eye.

“Lady Cluaran.” Sir Stirling bowed to each as he named them. “Lady Mallorie. Lady Moraine. Lady Miranda. Lady Malinda. How lovely to see you all. Please, don’t let me interrupt. I believe Lord Alasdair was about to sign dance cards. Perhaps one of them even twice, eh my lord?”

The gaggle snapped open their fans and giggled behind them, as if that somehow concealed the reaction. Peering over lace edged fabric, their covetous gazes locked on Alasdair’s face.

Not in the mood for games, Alasdair turned to Stirling. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure, sir, though you seem to know who I am.”

“All of Inverness knows who you are, my lord.” Lady Cluaran added an ingratiating smile to her words. “This gentleman is Sir Stirling James.”

Sir Stirling bowed with commendable flourish.

Alasdair nodded in reply. So, this Sir Stirling wanted something from the new duke? Coin, influence?

“Is Sir Stirling correct, my lord?” one of the girls asked, lowering her fan. “Are you going to sign my dance card twice? Sir Stirling always knows these things.”

“He’s going to sign mine twice,” another countered. She flashed Alasdair a simpering smile before aiming a glare at her sister.

“No, mine,” the third and fourth chimed in.

Fans snapping back up to conceal their lips, they started to squabble. Under the cover of flowing skirts, a few sharp kicks were exchanged. Several arms were pinched. Lady Cluaran waded in with low, sharp words, trying to restore order to her brood. Alasdair shook his head and turned to Stirling, brow raised in question.

“All I ask is for you to hear me out,” Sir Stirling said, his voice low. “In exchange, as I said, I’ll make them go away. For good.”

Intrigued by the request and curious to see such a miracle, Alasdair nodded. The devilish grin he received in reply made him instantly wary.

Sir Stirling stepped up to Lady Cluaran’s side. He leaned down and whispered in her ear. She shot Alasdair a surprised look. Her shoulders drooped. She gave a sigh, offered Stirling a nod, and grabbed two ears. Her brood squealed anew as she dragged them off in search of other prey.

Alasdair was impressed. “What did you say to her?” he asked, once the gaggle left earshot.

Stirling shrugged, but his eyes gleamed with wry humor. “I told her you’re secretly engaged.”

Alasdair fought down shock. “What?” he demanded in low, clipped tones. “Lady Cluaran and her brood are the biggest gossips in Inverness. Before evening’s end, my imagined engagement will be the talk of the town, and in the paper tomorrow. My mother will hear, and demand to meet this fictitious girl.”

Stirling appeared unperturbed. “Then I daresay you’ll need a way to avoid your mother as well, which is what I’m about to offer.”

Alasdair clenched his teeth and smoothed his expression. “Make your offer, then, sir.”

Stirling shook his head, suddenly serious. “Not here. It’s a matter set in motion by the move of a rook.” He favored Alasdair with a long look. “Do you know, I’ve heard this home contains quite the collection of fine French vintages. Disgraceful, really, but what can you do? French wine is the best, they say.” He strode away, disappearing into the crowd with a swiftness to rival Alasdair.

Elation, more dangerous than anger, surged through him. He hadn’t been forgotten. His years of service weren’t to be rewarded by being cast adrift into a world of sapphire eyes, false laughter and idiotic platitudes.

Alasdair slipped along the ballroom wall. He drifted into the shadowed hallways of their host’s large Inverness home. Though he’d never been there before, in moments, he located the staircase leading down to the wine cellar and descended with care. He reached the base and peered down the hall, through an open door, and into the cellar beyond. Stirling lounged against a shelf at the far back of the room. Ignoring the man, Alasdair tamped down his eagerness and thoroughly inspected the hall leading from steps to cellar, senses strained for any hint of treachery.

“Possessed of a cautious nature, my lord?” Stirling called, voice raised to be heard.

Alasdair finished his inspection and strode down the corridor, then into the chill of the room. Large casks lined the wall to his left, shelves of bottles to his right. Even in the flickering light of the sconces, there was no place to hide, and little chance someone pressing their ear to the upstairs door would make out what was said on the far side of the room. A good choice.

“Say what you’ve come to say,” Alasdair ordered when he reached Stirling.

“I’ve come with word of a task that requires your skills.”

“Are quartermasters so difficult to come by in Inverness?” If Stirling had information, so be it. If not, he would gain none.

Stirling chuckled. “If that’s how you wish to put it, yes, quartermasters are a rare commodity here.”

Alasdair regarded the man in silence.

Stirling snorted. “I was told you’re a bit unsociable. I don’t know if that will do for the mission ahead.”

“And just what would that be, Sir Stirling?” Alasdair watched intently for any dip in the man’s gaze, a twitch of the eye or repetitive gesture. Any sign Stirling lied.

“One of your colleagues, a fellow quartermaster, if you will, has expressed a concern to the Raven,” Stirling said, any vestige of amusement gone. “His assignments are communicated in code, via letters from his father, a former…quartermaster. For some months now, there’s been concern of a spy in the father’s household.”

“I see.”

That they wished him to eliminate someone didn’t surprise him, but with the task now before him, he felt an unsettling reluctance to comply. That life, being an assassin for the king, was one he’d never carried to his home in the far north of Scotland. The icy rivers, craggy hillsides and roiling sea held a pureness he’d long shored up deep in his soul. He didn’t wish it spoiled. Wasn’t that why he’d carried out his orders? To keep Scotland unsullied?

Stirling’s eyes narrowed. “Am I asking the right person, my lord?”

Impressed that Stirling read him so easily, Alasdair nodded. His feelings were moot. If the Raven wished the thing done, he would do it. “You are. Where is this household?”

Stirling held up a hand. “We’ll come to that. I believe I must clarify the mission further.”

Alasdair raised an eyebrow. It seemed simple enough. Find the spy. Eliminate the spy.

“The father and his daughter are your concern,” Stirling continued. “Your assignment is simply to protect them.”

Alasdair frowned. He was to play nursemaid? “Not to seek the spy?”

“No.” Stirling shook his head. “We have an operative in place for that. You’re to get close to the family and, if you feel their danger is too great, move them to safety.”

“If I unveil this spy—”

“No.” Stirling gave a firm shake of his head. “The Raven wants the spy alive and unaware they’ve been found out. Besides which, you’re a duke now. Scottish dukes are rare. You’re too valuable to the Crown to risk in confrontation.”

There would be no confrontation. The spy wouldn’t be aware of Alasdair until it was far too late. “If I’m so valuable, why risk me at all?”

“We feel the danger is minimal, and you’re one of the best.”

Something didn’t sit right. “Who are this father and daughter?” Alasdair asked. “Why are they so important the Crown is willing to risk a duke to safeguard them?” No one had guarded Alasdair’s brother while he was away killing for the Crown. Not that anyone could have anticipated the idiocy of trying to take a half-broken stallion over a five-foot wall.

Stirling scrutinized him for a long moment. “The father is the Dagger,” he finally said, the words a mere whisper in the flickering half-light of the wine cellar.

Alasdair rocked back on his heels. The Dagger. The king’s most skilled assassin. Alasdair’s hero, in a sense. It was difficult to say, as Dagger was a hereditary position. Men like Alasdair were selected from the ranks for their skill. The Dagger was sculpted from birth. The title evoked a near-mythological fear to their nation’s enemies, for the Dagger never died. He’d been lurking in the shadows for hundreds of years.

“We owe it to the family to keep them safe,” Stirling’s voice remained low.

Alasdair’s resentment had fled at the man’s title. “Yes, we do.”

Stirling gave a sharp nod. “Good. How will you insert yourself into the household? The daughter doesn’t know what her father did, or her brother does. They, and the Crown, wish to keep it that way.”

Alasdair frowned. “How old is this daughter?” If she was young, he could pose as a tutor.

“I believe, in her late twenties.”

“And unwed?” Alasdair didn’t bother to hide his dismay. That meant she was hideous of form or temperament or both. She would leap at the chance to push herself onto any man, especially an eligible duke.

Stirling’s wry grin returned. “Courting her would be the easiest way to spend time there, and you could introduce her to your mother.”

Alasdair returned a flat stare. “Courting her would not permit me to remain there at all hours. In fact, it would prohibit such behavior.” And he would not risk ending up wed to whatever hideous creature lurked in the Dagger’s household. “Will she recognize me, this old maid?”

Stirling shook his head. “I doubt it. She rarely leaves the family estate. She writes only to her brother and two gentlemen she knows as Lord Belview and Lord Winston, but that’s on her father’s behalf. His eyesight is failing. The daughter has no known friends.”

Alasdair nodded, frowning at this fuller picture of the aging former Dagger and of the hideous spinster Alasdair would guard for the Crown. He must go there without wooing her, without putting the thought of marriage in her head, and yet have an excuse to remain as long as needed. One she would believe.

He knew he had no hope of fooling the father. No one outwitted the Dagger, even in retirement. Therefore, Alasdair’s excuse for being there must also reassure, give some hint he was an ally. He didn’t wish his arrival to worry the old man. That would be cruel.

“These two lords she writes to, tell me more about who she believes them to be,” he said. As Stirling spoke, Alasdair leaned against the wall to listen, and to formulate the perfect plan.