“You must,” Warwicke asserted. “Until we find Olivia.”
Evander stared ahead, jaw set, heart hammering with grief, rage, and dread.Wherever you are, Livy... hold on. I’m coming for you.
The coach lurched to a stop in front of a whitewashed townhouse, pristine and imposing against the gray sky. Evander didn’t bother to wait for the footman and flung open the door himself, boots hitting the cobblestone before the wheels had fully ceased turning. His blood was pounding in his ears. He couldn’t waste a moment.
He took the front steps two at a time, fury giving speed to his limbs, and pounded on the door with the side of his fist.
The door creaked open. A tall, gaunt butler with white hair and an expression of long-suffering patience appeared in the frame. “May I help you?”
“I need to speak to Lord Luca,” Evander said sharply. The effort to keep his voice controlled made his jaw ache.
“I’m afraid Lord Luca is not home,” the man said with a rehearsed apology. “If you would be so kind as to leave your calling card?—”
Evander stepped forward, barely restraining himself. “Where is he?”
The butler’s expression didn’t change, but a hint of discomfort flickered in his eyes. “I am not at liberty to say, sir. But as I said, if you leave your card?—”
“That is unacceptable,” Warwicke’s voice cut in behind him, calm but firm.
The butler’s mask slipped for a second and annoyance flashed in his eyes. “I wish I could help you, but as I said—Lord Luca is not home.”
He began to shut the door.
Warwicke stepped forward and stopped it with his hand, pressing it open just enough to slide inside. “And Ifind thatunacceptable,” he said, stepping into the entry hall.
The butler jerked back, scandalized. “If you don’t leave immediately, I will send for the constable.”
Warwicke smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Please do. I’m acquainted with most of them.” His voice dropped, losing all trace of politeness. “Now tell us where Lord Luca is.”
“No,” the butler said again, though his voice had lost its earlier confidence.
Warwicke’s smile faded. “It wasn’t a request,” he asserted.
The butler visibly swallowed. Evander saw the way his hands twitched at his sides, uncertain whether to hold his ground or bolt.
“I could be dismissed,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “If I say anything.”
Warwicke took one slow step closer. “And I could be far less pleasant if you don’t.”
Evander almost felt pity for the man. Almost.
The butler cracked. “He’s at his office,” he said quickly. “But he isn’t alone. His employees are with him.”
“Thank you. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Warwicke leaned in just enough to be intimidating. “I imagine you’re thinking about sending a messenger ahead to warn him.”
The butler hesitated.
“I wouldn’t,” Warwicke said with a dismissive wave of his hand. The gesture was casual, but the butler flinched as though itwere a threat. “We want this visit to be a surprise. You wouldn’t ruin a surprise, would you?”
The man shook his head.
“Good,” Warwicke said, turning.
Evander didn’t speak as they made their way back to the coach, their boots echoing hollowly against the stone. He climbed in wordlessly, and the moment the door shut, the coach jolted forward again into the churn of London traffic.
Only once they were moving did he turn to Warwicke and say, “You terrified that poor man.”
Warwicke didn’t even look his way. “He’ll live.”
