She would bide her time.
And when the moment was right, she would insist on answers.
It was still early in the morning as Evander followed Warwicke’s butler down the long, quiet corridor of the townhouse. His footsteps echoed faintly on the polished floorboards, the only other sounds the gentle creak of the butler’s shoes and the distant ticking of a clock somewhere deep within the house.
The butler halted outside a set of heavy oak doors and gave a discreet knock before opening one. “Lord Westmere to see you, my lord,” he announced with a crisp bow.
Baron Warwicke looked up from behind a broad mahogany desk littered with ledgers and scattered correspondence. He raised a brow in acknowledgment, then gestured for Evander to come in as the butler quietly excused himself and shut the door behind them.
“Good morning, Addington… er, Westmere,” Warwicke said, the corners of his mouth twitching with the hint of a smile. “Forgive me. Old habits.”
“No apology necessary,” Evander replied with a polite nod as he stepped farther into the study. “I’m still adjusting to the title myself.”
Warwicke motioned to the chair opposite his desk. “Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you.” Evander settled into the chair.
“I heard about your brother,” Warwicke said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
A faint, conflicted smile flickered across Evander’s lips. “Bryon was… challenging. But he was still my brother. I am sorry he’s gone.”
Warwicke’s expression darkened. “It’s no secret that he and I didn’t get along. He once told me outright that I had no right to my title.”
Evander sighed. “Yes, well… my brother never did keep his opinions to himself. He could be rather prickly.”
“That he could,” Warwicke agreed dryly, then leaned back slightly in his chair. “So, what brings you to me at such an early hour?”
Evander straightened. “I came to ask a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
His voice dropped, solemn. “I’ve been threatened. Twice now.”
Warwicke sat forward, his easy manner hardening. “By whom?”
“I don’t know,” Evander admitted. “A man with a knife confronted me outside my townhouse, and more recently, someone threw a brick through my dining room window.”
Warwicke’s eyes narrowed. “And do you have any idea why someone would go to such lengths?”
With a reluctant sigh, Evander said, “It has to do with the indigo plantation in India. My father and Bryon purchased it before his death, and now someone wants me to sell it.”
Warwicke exhaled slowly, his brow furrowing. “I’m not surprised. There’s a growing movement opposing Britain’streatment of India. Reformer groups have sprung up across London and beyond. Some are loud. Others are dangerous.”
“What should I do?”
“If I were in your place, I would divest myself of the plantation entirely. Indigo has become… complicated. But I suspect your situation isn’t so simple?”
Evander shook his head. “No. My father insists that I manage the estate. He believes it’s a legacy worth preserving.” He hesitated. “Which is why I came to you. Would you be willing to look into these threats?”
Warwicke sat back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful. “You realize I’m no longer a Bow Street Runner. I’ve responsibilities now. Estates. Tenants.”
“I know,” Evander said quickly. “But you still have connections and a particular set of skills. I wouldn't ask if it weren’t serious.”
A slow smile tugged at Warwicke’s lips. “You always were persuasive. Very well. I’ll make a few inquiries.”
“I appreciate it,” Evander said.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Warwicke warned. “You may learn more than you want to know. And there’s always the possibility I find nothing at all.”
