“That’s because I didn’t mention Quentin,” I told him. “I’d rather the watch not get wind that he’s working again.”

“Varek knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

“I trust Varek, but I don’t feel the same way about his new barkeep. Quentin hasn’t done anything illegal tonight.”

Phaelan laughed, his voice low. “Night ain’t over yet.”

He was right, but I didn’t have to admit it. If certain members of the watch knew where he was, they’d jump to conclusions, and then they’d jump Quentin.

Phaelan’s ship had arrived in port late that afternoon, and the plan had been to meet for an early dinner. Early, because I knew he had plans later—plans that had everything to do with a woman, but nothing to do with a lady. My cousin had a strict threefold agenda on his first night in any port—get fed, get laid, and get drunk, in that order. Occasionally he would skip the food, but never the other two. When in Mermeia, my cousin could either be found in one of the city’s less reputable gambling parlors, or enjoying the comforts offered at Madame Natasha’s Joy Garden, and probably the attentions of Madame Natasha herself. This evening, Phaelan was positively resplendent in a doublet of scarlet buckskin, with matching breeches topped with high, black leather boots. At his side was the swept-hilt rapier he favored when out on the town. And unless my nose deceived me, his white linen shirt was as well scrubbed as Phaelan himself. An earring set with a single ruby gleamed in the lobe of one elegantly pointed ear. I knew all the fuss wasn’t on account of me.

“You took a bath,” I said. “And shaved. I’m impressed.”

“Just fancying myself up for you, darlin’.”

“I’m sure Madame Natasha and her girls will also appreciate your consideration.”

He grinned in a flash of white teeth. It was the kind of grin that could get him anything he wanted at Madame Natasha’s—or anywhere else in Mermeia—for free. He nodded toward where Quentin still waited by Nigel’s side door. “So what’s he doing here?”