Chapter 9 #2
Before he could answer, a deafening crack shattered the evening calm—a sharp splintering sound that echoed through the dining room like a musket shot.
A large brick came hurtling through the tall sash window, striking the floor with a heavy thud, shattering a pane of glass and scattering shards across the polished wood and patterned carpet.
The gust of night air rushed in behind it, fluttering the table linens and extinguishing several candles along the sideboard.
Evander shoved back his chair and rose swiftly to his feet, glass crunching beneath the soles of his boots as he crossed the room. Olivia stood, too, heart pounding in her chest, her hand clutching the back of her chair.
He crouched beside the brick and examined it. “There’s a note,” he said, reaching down and untying the coarse string that held a scrap of parchment wound around the projectile.
He unfolded the paper and read aloud a single word, harsh and scrawled in thick black ink: “Nabob.”
Richard was already beside him, his eyes scanning the note with narrowed focus. “This is no jest. It’s a warning. We ought to send for the constable.”
Evander straightened slowly, tucking the paper into his jacket pocket. “It’s not the first threat I’ve received.”
Olivia gasped as she stepped around the table. “What do you mean?”
He met her eyes, reluctant but resigned. “A few days ago, I was accosted outside our townhouse. A man threatened me with a knife. He told me to sell the indigo plantation and to get out of India, or else.”
The room fell into stunned silence.
Dosia’s hand flew to her mouth, and even Olivia’s mother looked visibly shaken. Olivia stared at Evander, her mind racing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” he said. “And I had hoped it was an isolated incident. Clearly, it was not.”
Richard folded his arms. “You’ll need help. Someone who can keep their head when things turn violent.”
Evander gave a single nod. “That’s why I need to speak with Warwicke.”
With a nod, Richard said, “I agree.”
A smile came to Evander’s lips that looked forced. “I don’t wish to let this ruin the evening,” he said, gesturing towards the table. “Shall we return to our seats?”
Olivia moved towards him slowly, her voice quiet but steady. “We may continue dinner, but you must promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“You will tell me everything. No more secrets.”
He hesitated for the briefest of moments, then replied, “You have my word.”
Though her questions still burned within her—about the plantation, the man with the knife, and what Evander truly planned to do—she forced herself to return to her chair. But she would not forget. Not tonight. Not tomorrow.
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’s treatment 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.”
Evander nodded gravely. “Doing nothing feels far worse.”
Warwicke tapped his fingers against the desk. “Do you think your father could be persuaded to sell?”
A shadow crossed Evander’s face. “Highly unlikely. He’s enamored by the profit margins and refuses to acknowledge the moral complexities.”
“Not an uncommon trait among the peerage,” Warwicke muttered.
Evander gave a humorless chuckle. “Our coffers aren’t as full as they once were. I believe my father sees this as salvation.”
Warwicke’s tone lightened. “Speaking of new beginnings… I hear congratulations are in order. A wedding?”
Evander’s face relaxed into a smile. “Yes. I married Lady Olivia.”
“Lady Olivia?” Warwicke’s brows rose. “I hadn’t realized you harbored an attachment.”
“That’s because it’s complicated,” Evander admitted. “My mother… she’s ill. It was her greatest wish to see me married before…” His voice trailed off.
“And you don’t regret it?” Warwicke pressed.
“No,” Evander said. “Not for a moment. Olivia is… she’s extraordinary. But it wasn’t a love match. At least, not for her.”
Warwicke considered him. “Do you love her?”
“I do. And she’s my dearest friend. But I had to convince her to marry me.”
“Given the scandal surrounding her name, it’s an advantageous match for her,” Warwicke pointed out.
“Yes,” Evander replied, his tone firm, “but that’s not why I married her. I didn’t do it to save her. I did it because I couldn’t imagine anyone else beside me.”
Warwicke gave a small nod. “To find friendship and love in the same person is rare. And worth fighting for.”
“That’s the problem,” Evander confessed. “I fear Olivia only sees me as a friend.”
“Then you must change her mind.”
Evander lifted a brow. “And how, exactly, do I do that?”
Warwicke’s lip twitched. “Flowers and sweet treats are usually a good start.”
“I’ve tried flowers and truffles. She appreciated them, of course, but…” He exhaled. “I want more. I want a true marriage.”
The amusement faded from Warwicke’s eyes, replaced with something more earnest. “There was a time when I would have told you not to bother. But now… now I believe it’s worth every effort. My wife changed my life. Loving her changed me.”
Evander glanced at the long, jagged scar on Warwicke’s cheek. “You seem different. Happier.”
“I am,” Warwicke said simply. “For a long time, I didn’t think I deserved happiness. Especially not after the war. But Dorothea proved me wrong.”
Evander’s expression softened. “I’m glad for you, truly.”
Warwicke met his gaze. “Marriage requires courage. It means allowing someone to see all your vulnerabilities and trusting they won’t use them to hurt you.”
Evander didn’t hesitate. “Olivia would never hurt me.”
“Then fight for her,” Warwicke asserted. “Show her that friendship can become love. That your marriage can be more than what it began as.”
“I intend to.”
“Good,” Warwicke said.
Just then, the door to the study eased open, and Lady Warwicke stepped in, her red hair neatly arranged into a low chignon at the nape of her neck.
She was dressed in a soft morning gown of pale lavender, the color complementing her fair complexion.
She stopped short just inside the threshold, her expression momentarily apologetic.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said, her hand lightly touching the doorframe. “I didn’t realize you were occupied.”
Warwicke rose and waved her forward. “You needn’t apologize, my dear. Please, come in.” He turned slightly, gesturing towards Evander. “You remember Lord Westmere?”
A smile bloomed across her face, brightening her entire countenance. “Indeed, I do.” She crossed the room with graceful steps. “How are you faring, my lord?”
Evander stood at once and offered a respectful bow. “Very well, my lady. And you?”
“Well enough, thank you,” she replied warmly. “I did not mean to interrupt. I merely came to see if my husband would join me for breakfast.”
Warwicke stepped around the desk and took her hand in his. “I would be delighted to.” He glanced towards Evander. “Perhaps you would care to join us as well?”
Evander shook his head. “You are kind to extend the invitation, but I must return home. Olivia will likely be awake soon, and I would rather spare her the ordeal of facing my father over breakfast without any reinforcements.”
Lady Warwicke’s smile turned conspiratorial. “Then we must have you both to dinner soon, at a more civilized hour.”
“We would be honored,” Evander said, inclining his head.
Warwicke offered his arm to his wife, which she took with a light touch. “And how are you this morning?” he asked softly, his gaze lingering on hers.
“Perfectly well, thank you,” she said, her tone affectionate.
As the couple turned to depart the study, Evander followed at a respectful distance. They walked together through the corridor until they reached the front entry hall.
There, Warwicke came to a halt and turned to face Evander once more, his manner shifting subtly back into the serious mode of earlier. “I’ll look into what we discussed. You have my word.”
Evander met his gaze. “Thank you, Warwicke. Truly.”
Lady Warwicke glanced between the two men, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly with curiosity. “Dare I ask what exactly it is you’re investigating?”
“A simple enough matter,” Warwicke assured her.
Before he could say more, Evander interjected, “I’ve received two threats—one in person, the other quite literally through a window. Your husband has very generously agreed to help me uncover the source.”
Lady Warwicke’s expression immediately shifted to one of concern. “Threats? That sounds far from simple. Will it be dangerous?”
Warwicke gave a one-shouldered shrug, the movement deliberately nonchalant. “Possibly. But you need not concern yourself.”
She tightened her hold on his arm and looked up at him with tender insistence. “I will always concern myself where you are involved.”
“And that,” Warwicke murmured, “is why I will forever love you.”
Realizing it was his moment to depart, Evander quietly cleared his throat. “I’ll take my leave,” he said before he stepped out into the pale morning light.
The air was crisp and fresh, carrying with it the scent of dew-covered hedges and distant chimney smoke. As the door closed gently behind him, Evander drew his coat tighter around his frame and descended the stone steps with slow, measured strides.
He was genuinely pleased for Warwicke. The man had returned from the war scarred in ways both seen and unseen. And yet, in Lady Warwicke, he had found peace, acceptance, and the kind of love that could knit even the most fractured soul back together.
Was such a thing truly possible for everyone? Or only a fortunate few?
Evander wasn’t certain.
He had married Olivia for many reasons—duty, friendship, affection—but love had grown in his heart long before she had agreed to take his hand. He loved her with a depth that surprised even him. However… she did not love him in return. Not in the way he wished.
A heaviness settled in his chest as he made his way towards his waiting carriage.
What if she never did?
The thought struck him harder than he anticipated. Was he destined to spend his days pining for a wife who saw him only as a loyal friend?
He didn’t regret marrying her—he never could—but he feared he had made a grave miscalculation. Love, unrequited, was a lonely thing.
He glanced up at the morning sky, knowing there was still time. Time to win her heart. Time to build something real.
But it would take patience. Courage. And no small amount of hope.
Drawing in a long breath, he climbed into his carriage, resolved to try.