Page 1 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

CHAPTER 1

“Where’s Merrick?” Rowan demanded, his voice cutting through the thick haze of tobacco smoke in the cramped tavern.

The barkeep glanced up from the tankard he was polishing. His gaze flickered over Rowan’s fine coat before settling on his face. Recognition sparked in his eyes.

“Don’t want no trouble here,” he muttered, leaning forward. “Last table in the corner. Been drowning himself in gin since noon.”

Rowan tossed a coin onto the sticky counter. “Whiskey. The good stuff, if you have it.”

He made his way through the crowded room, ignoring the curious glances that followed him.

The Salty Dog was no place for gentlemen, much less a duke. But Rowan had stopped caring about appearances long ago.

In a dark corner, hunched over a near-empty glass, sat Samuel Merrick. The man looked older than when they’d last sailed together. His weather-beaten face now deeply creased, and his knuckles swollen with arthritis.

“Never thought I’d see you again,” Merrick said, without looking up. “Thought you were dead.”

Rowan slid into the seat opposite him. “Death would have been kinder.”

Merrick’s bloodshot eyes finally met his. “So, the rumors are true. The Duke of Aldermere, press-ganged like a common thief.”

“That’s why I’m here.” Rowan leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I need information about the press-gangs operating out of Portsmouth last spring.”

Merrick stiffened. His gaze darted around the tavern. “I don’t know nothin’ about that.”

“We both know that’s a lie.” Rowan’s voice remained calm, but his eyes hardened. “You’ve been sailing those waters for thirty years. You know every captain, every ship, every method they use.”

The barkeep arrived with Rowan’s whiskey. He waited until the man retreated before continuing.

“I am not asking for free,” Rowan said and slid a small purse across the table, the coins within clinking softly.

Merrick eyed the purse but didn’t touch it. “Some things ain’t worth the coin.”

“Then name your price.”

“It ain’t about money.” Merrick drained his glass. “Men who ask questions about press-gangs tend to disappear.”

Rowan’s hand shot out, gripping Merrick’s wrist with enough force to make the older man wince.

“I already disappeared once. I won’t let it happen again,” he growled, and something in Rowan’s expression must have convinced him.

Merrick sighed, his shoulders sagging.

“There was a naval officer involved in press-gang operations out of Portsmouth last spring. Captain Hadley. Had a reputation for taking bribes to target specific men.”

Rowan released his grip. “What kind of bribes?”

“The substantial kind.” Merrick glanced around again before continuing. “Word is he’d arrange for certain troublesome gentlemen to disappear—debtors, inconvenient heirs, men who’d wronged the wrong people.”

“And where is this Captain Hadley now?”

Merrick shook his head. “Dead. Fever took him last winter. But he wasn’t working alone. These operations usually involve many people. Officers willing to look the other way, middlemen to arrange the payments.”

Rowan committed the name to memory. “Anything else?”

“Just that whoever paid him had deep pockets.” Merrick finally reached for the purse, tucking it into his jacket. “And that they wanted you gone bad enough to risk hanging for it.”

The words hung between them. Rowan finished his whiskey in one swallow, feeling it burn down his throat.

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