Rhystan stared at the calling card presented to him by his butler. What the hell did the disgraced Vice Admiral Markham want with him? He’d been caught corralling private wealth and had faced a court-martial that had had him cashiered and dismissed with disgrace. The bit of business he’d gotten into with illegal shipments of opium had been his end. That the man expected an audience now was entirely laughable.

In any other circumstance, Rhystan would have set the bastard out on his heels with a few choice words, but with Sarani’s reputation hanging in the balance, he hesitated. A duke of his station was unassailable…but Markham knew exactly who Sarani was. As did Talbot.

The earl could be dealt with—Talbot was a coward at heart. Markham, however, was a political strategist who had gotten the maharaja’s ear and been the right arm of the British Crown in Joor for years. Rhystan frowned. What was he doing here?

“Show him in,” he said to Morton. “But make him cool his heels for a bit.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

Briefly, Rhystan’s thoughts strayed to Sarani, who, his coachman had informed him, had been returned safely to Huntley House last night. He’d been prevented from chasing her by his sister, who demanded to know what he’d done to upset her, and then the duchess, who had had the gall to stare at him as if he’d done something unforgivable. By the time he’d arrived outside, his coach had just been returning, and instead of going back inside, he’d elected to go home.

His instructions followed to the letter, a quarter of an hour went by before the vice admiral was shown into the study. Rhystan collected his thoughts, trying to figure out the man’s angle. He had to have one. They were not allies. In fact, Rhystan considered the man an enemy. But the timing of both Talbot’s and Markham’s arrivals in London stank of conspiracy.

“Markham,” he said, not looking up from the papers on his desk. “Feel free to sit.”

“Your Grace,” the vice admiral said, settling himself into a chair opposite. “Your father’s death was a loss to England.”

“Thank you.” Rhystan looked up, hiding his shock at the man’s dissipated appearance. The years had not been kind. And fortune, too, he supposed. Not that he gave a whit. Markham could rot for all he cared. “What do you want?” he asked brusquely, dispensing with any pretense of pleasantries.

Markham’s eyes narrowed. Despite his circumstances, shrewd intelligence glinted in that hawk-eyed gaze. “Money.”

“I’m not a charity, Markham.”

“This is not a charitable contribution,” he said. “Consider it an…investment. Say in a future partner on the seas.”

Brows high, Rhystan sat back in his seat and pretended ignorance. “You’re in shipping?”

“A man has to eat.”