His throat tightened as a cold sensation settled over his shoulders, the mantle of duke thumping over his shoulders like a salt-crusted, waterlogged blanket. London—it was the only place in all the world he truly didn’t want to be. On the sea, he was judged on his effort and worth as captain. Here, every step was measured, every action noted, but for the flimsiest of reasons. One wrong word and a goddamned scandal would be certain to ensue. He resented the charade with every bone in his body.

Scowling, Rhystan shook off his annoyance. The only solution was to make this visit as short as possible and be back out to sea where he belonged. He thought of his mother and sister, and guilt speared him. They’d done fine without him all these years. No sense changing something that wasn’t broken.

“See that the cargo is unloaded,” he shouted to Gideon once the Belonging was docked beside a massive steamship on the wharf.

The sale of the tea, spices, lace, and silks they carried would fetch a pretty penny. Fair trade was an important part of his shipping business, and though most of it was aboveboard with the Crown, Rhystan didn’t wear his trousers down around his ankles either. The taxes levied on merchant goods was astronomical.

“See you at the tavern?” his quartermaster asked.

Rhystan scrubbed at the several weeks’ growth of beard he’d acquired, knowing that he would have to break from their usual tradition. “Not today. I have to find my valet to make myself presentable and be off to Huntley House to make sure my mother isn’t on her last breaths as implied by her letter.”

“Is she?”

“You’ve met the lady,” Rhystan said. “What do you think?”

Gideon’s succinct opinion of the duchess, who had glared at him at the funeral as though she were facing him down at dawn, had hit the nail on the head—she was clever and manipulative to a fault, though her loyalty to her family was unquestionable.

“I think that she’s as fine as a farthing fiddle,” he said. “But I’m wagering she wants you to marry, settle down, and be duke.”

Rhystan’s mood darkened. “Precisely.”

“I’ll drink a pint to your sanity, then.”

“It will take more than a pint.” Rhystan sighed. “Put a round on the lads from me.”

With that, he donned his coat. He’d sent word of his impending arrival to his own private residence a carriage ride away in Mayfair, but if anything, they’d put into London early. His coachman might not yet be there.

And then there was the matter of his…fiancée.