An underhanded businessman if he was resorting to extortion, not that that was any change from what he’d been charged with or his unscrupulous dealings in the opium trade. Rhystan’s eyes narrowed on the former vice admiral’s stained coat and the pallor of his skin. He refused to be intimated by anyone, and yet he could not put his family or Sarani into such a position.

“And if I refuse?”

“Then the Times and the ton will have a lovely new scandal to froth over.” Markham rose but dug into his pocket for a crumpled slip of paper. “That number will be sufficient for now. I’ll give you a day or two to secure the funds, but make no mistake, Duke, a scandal will ensue if you don’t comply.”

Rhystan didn’t deign to look at the paper lying between them on the desk. “What makes you think I won’t have you thrown on a convoy bound for the Americas the minute you walk out of here?”

Markham tutted, his face smug. “Because I have taken measures to ensure my safety. A message with strict instructions to be delivered to the Times if I am not heard from within short order. Good day, Your Grace. I look forward to a lucrative business relationship.”

After the piece of filth left, Rhystan clenched his fists, resisting the ferocious urge to flip the desk over. Calm, he needed to be calm. And he needed to think. There was no way he was going to pay a fortune—he glanced at the obscene number written on the paper. Blackmailers like Markham did not go away.

“Morton,” he called out and wrote out two quick notes on pieces of parchment.

“Yes, Your Grace?” the butler asked.

“See that these get to Mr. Longacre and Gideon Ridley down at the Green Stag on the north bank of the Thames at once.” He paused, eyes narrowing on his butler. Servants were excellent sources of information. “I need to know everything there is to know on that man who was just here, Markham. Any and every detail about his dismissal. Pay who you have to.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“And call for my carriage,” he added. A little reconnaissance at his club wouldn’t hurt.

* * *

“How on earth anyone can imagine that using this racquet to hit a shuttlecock over a patch of lawn while sweating one’s thighs off underneath all these layers is entertaining is utterly beyond me.” Ravenna collapsed on the bench beside Sarani, her face flushed with exertion. She gulped down a glass of cool lemonade.