She tried to sit up and he reached for her at once. “Let me help.”
As he supported her, she smiled faintly and brushed her fingers along his sleeve.
Yes. He was still grieving. Still haunted and still overwhelmed. But in this quiet room, with Olivia at his side, he remembered why he kept going.
Because there was still something left to fight for.
His mother leaned back against the pillows, her frail form dwarfed by the carved headboard behind her. Though her cheeks had grown hollow and her voice had softened with age and illness, she still carried herself with quiet dignity.
“Tell me about the funeral,” she said gently. “Was it well attended?”
Evander sat on the bed. “It was.”
“That is good,” she murmured, her gaze distant. “I was worried no one would come.”
He looked at her, noting the fine tremble in her fingers as they twisted the edge of her blankets. Even bedridden, she thought first of appearances—of whether Bryon had been mourned properly. She had always believed in upholding dignity, even in grief.
A knock interrupted the quiet.
“Enter,” Evander called.
The door opened to reveal a young maid. She dipped into a quick curtsy before speaking. “My lord, a gentleman has requested a moment of your time. Lord Luca Dexter.”
Evander furrowed his brow. “I do not know him. Did he state his business?”
“No, my lord. Only that it was urgent.”
He considered sending the man away. His instincts pricked with unease—unannounced callers with vague intentions rarely boded well—but curiosity won out. “Inform him I will be down shortly.”
Another curtsy, and the maid slipped away.
Evander rose. “I should see what he wants,” he said, casting a glance at his mother. “But I won’t be long.”
She offered a faint smile, though fatigue dulled its warmth. “I will be waiting. Olivia will stay with me.”
That small comfort gave him a measure of peace. He looked at Olivia, meeting her gaze in silent thanks before quitting the room.
As he descended the staircase, he tried to push aside the residual weight of the funeral. Yet the ache remained, threaded now with the sense of growing unrest. First, the attempt on his life. Now this unexpected visitor. Something wasn’t right.
He entered the drawing room and immediately spotted the man. Tall and broad-shouldered, Lord Luca stood near the window, back straight, hands clasped behind him as he stared out at the gray sky beyond. There was a calculated stillness to him, as if every movement were rehearsed.
“Lord Luca,” Evander said.
The man turned, dark eyes sharp, his expression composed. “Lord Westmere.” He offered a shallow bow. “Thank you for seeing me.”
Evander remained rooted in his spot. “I must admit I don’t know why you’re here.”
Unfolding his hands, Lord Luca stepped forward with the confident ease of a man who expected to be listened to. “I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”
“Questions?” Evander repeated. “Why?”
“You may have heard,” Lord Luca said, “I recently purchasedThe London Gazette. I’m writing a piece for an upcoming issue.”
Evander’s brow lifted. “You’re writing it?”
“I am,” he said without a trace of embarrassment. “I find it helps to be directly involved in my publications.”
“And what, exactly, does this have to do with me?”
