But Olivia tilted her head and gave him a look he recognized all too well—the look that usually came before a battle of wits. “Perhaps I should come with you,” she said. “I keep a muff pistol in my reticule, and I’m an excellent shot.”
Evander immediately shook his head, more sharply than he intended. “And put you at risk? Never. You’ll stay here, where it’s safe.”
She opened her mouth, clearly preparing to argue—but something shifted in her expression. She paused, then exhaled slowly and gave a small, deliberate nod.
“Very well,” she said, “but only because there’s chocolate in the dining room now. And I have no intention of being heroic on an empty stomach.”
She was putting on a brave face for him, but he could see it in the way her smile lingered just a moment too long, the way her posture remained tall even when her eyes betrayed fatigue.
“I’ll return as soon as I can,” he told her again, his voice gentler now.
She touched his hand once more. “I’ll hold you to that,” she said.
And he knew she would.
13
Evander stepped into White’s, the heavy oak door thudding shut behind him. The familiar scent of smoke and old leather met him like an old adversary. His eyes swept the opulent hall, filled with the usual congregation of idle aristocrats posturing over cigars and snifters of brandy. But Evander had no patience for social niceties. He was here for one man.
Warwicke.
His butler had mentioned that Warwicke had left for the club more than an hour ago. If Evander had been in a better state of mind, he might have shaved the stubble he hadn’t noticed accumulating. But decorum was a luxury he couldn’t afford—not after what had happened.
He spotted Warwicke near the far corner, seated at a small table with Lord Alcott. Warwicke was half-slouched in his chair, a drink in hand, his expression relaxed. Evander envied that ease for the briefest of moments. Alcott was mid-laugh—something witty, no doubt—but the moment their eyes met, both men fell silent.
Evander crossed the hall in long strides, ignoring the curious stares that followed him. He came to a stop at their table. “We need to talk.”
Warwicke raised a brow, the humor in his face vanishing. “Now?”
“Yes,” Evander said, not bothering to soften his tone.
With a slight wave of his hand, Warwicke gestured towards the empty chair. “Take a seat, then.”
Alcott began to rise. “I should leave you to?—”
“You can stay,” Evander cut in, lowering himself into the chair. “It’s only a matter of time before this gets printed in the newssheets.”
Alcott stilled mid-motion, then slowly sank back into his seat. “That sounds ominous.”
“It is,” Evander confirmed grimly. “My father was attacked. Someone threw a rock through the study window and knocked him unconscious.”
Warwicke set down his glass, his expression hardening. “Is he all right?”
“He’ll recover,” Evander said, though even now the image of his father slumped in the bloodied armchair still made his stomach clench. “But he refuses to sell the indigo plantation. I don’t understand why he’s being so blasted obstinate.”
“Most likely,” Alcott chimed in, “because he doesn’t want to walk away from a fortune.”
Evander exhaled sharply through his nose. “Yes, but what use is a fortune if he’s dead? We’ve already lost one family member. I’m not interested in losing another.”
Warwicke leaned forward slightly, his fingers tapping against the table. “Was there a note?”
“There was,” Evander said. “Tied to the rock. It said, ‘This is your last chance.’”
Silence settled between the three men.
Warwicke’s frown deepened. “Then the reformers are done playing games. They’ve intensified from threats to physical violence.”
Evander’s voice dropped. “What should we do?”
