As he crossed into Argyle’s library, he did not demand to be punched in the face. Instead, he strode forward and met Argyle who sat before the fire, a tome in his hands, a glass of whiskey beside him.
He sat down opposite his friend. “I am in trouble,” he said.
“You’re always in trouble,” Argyle said without looking up.
“That’s not true,” he defended, picking an imaginary bit of fluff from his breeches.
Argyle sighed a long-suffering sound. “You’ve been in trouble for years, my friend. You’re only just beginning to admit it now. I’m in trouble too. What human is not? The world is fraught with toil and fear and—”
“Cease,” he all but pleaded. “I am not here to philosophize with you.”
Argyle snapped his heavy book shut and carefully stroked his fingers along the wide spine. “Then why are you here? Philosophizing is almost all that I do. After all, I’m alone with my thoughts most of the time.”
Argyle leaned forward and mocked, “Unless, of course, you have come for me to use my ancient Scottish magic and tell you exactly what you should do. Here, let me close my eyes. Gaze into the mist. Call upon the power of my Druid ancestors and—”
“Cease and desist, man,” Garret snapped. “You are going to drive me mad.”
“Well, I can either drive you mad, punch you in the face, or I can offer you a glass of whiskey.” Argyle leaned back in his chair. “What is it that you prefer?”
Garret stared at the snifter and the bottle. “I’ll take the whiskey,” he relented, wondering if he’d regret it.
“The water of life. A good choice,” Argyle said, “when one does not wish to use reason, but to choose emotion instead.”
The massive Scot poured out a large portion in a cut crystal snifter, then shoved it at his friend.
Garret took it, stared down into the amber-hued liquid, didn’t bother to swirl it around, and then tossed it back all in one go.
“Och,” Argyle laughed, “I see. That’s how it’s to be, then. I suppose I better join you.”
Argyle tossed his own drink back and then took the decanter and poured out two more glasses. “Tell me what the dilemma is.”
He was silent for several moments as if there was still hope of eradicating his problem without sharing it, but, finally, he admitted, “The idea of another man touching her makes me want to kill him.”
Argyle swirled his own beverage expertly about the crystal snifter. “I’m assuming the person is not actually real as of yet.”
He scored. “No, we do not have someone in mind for her.”
“We?” Argyle cut in.
“Yes, I’m going to help her find someone.” He defended his surely sensible action.
Argyle began to laugh. A deep, wall-shaking chortle.
“It is not funny,” he protested. “That is what I was meant to do. I’m supposed to help.”
Argyle stopped laughing, then leaned forward, pressing his forearms against his chair. “You’re supposed to help her become a mistress. You have taken her innocence. You have taught her, I’m assuming, a few things about pleasure, and you have, as far as I understand from the gossips, taken her out to several balls of the demimonde. Is this correct?”
“It is,” he allowed. “And I should have known that you would have more information than the king’s own spy masters.”
“Of course I do,” Callum said factually. “I have eyes and ears everywhere. It’s the only way I know what’s what in this country,” he added softly.
Callum was silent for a long moment, then said, “You don’t need to find her a keeper.”
“I do,” he retorted. “I cannot bear the idea of her being put into the hands of someone who—”
“Are you going to watch her for the rest of her life?” Callum asked quietly.
He nearly choked on his whisky. It burned through him as he swallowed. “Pardon?”