Chapter 12 #2
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked, eyes sparkling. “You snuck into my bedchamber to seduce me.”
Her mouth fell open. “I most certainly did not!” She took a moment to gather herself. “I explained why I was there.”
“That you did,” he said solemnly. “But it was all rather convenient, wasn’t it? You just happened to stumble into my room.”
“You are a lackwit.”
He placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “You wound me, my Kicksy-Wicksy.”
Olivia groaned. “Must you keep calling me that?”
“It’s an affectionate endearment. Very traditional. And I like it.”
“It’s appalling.”
“It’s adorable,” he corrected.
She rolled her eyes. “It’s astonishing that I tolerate you.”
“You do more than tolerate me,” he said with a grin that made her chest ache in a most disconcerting way.
She looked back to her breakfast with purpose and picked up her fork. “Can we not simply eat?”
“An excellent idea,” Evander said agreeably, turning to his own plate. “I do love food.”
Olivia began eating, grateful for the momentary silence.
Yet beneath her calm facade, her thoughts tumbled.
She loved bantering with him and treasured the easy rhythm of their conversations.
But she couldn’t deny it any longer—her feelings for Evander were changing, deepening.
They were no longer simply friendly affections.
No. These were not the emotions one had for a best friend.
These were the quiet beginnings of something far more dangerous—and that is what scared her the most.
Evander strode down the corridor, each step fueled by dread and urgency. His jaw clenched as he reached for the study door, knowing full well this would be one of the most difficult conversations he’d ever have with his father. But as he stepped inside, all thoughts of confrontation scattered.
His father was slumped over the desk, motionless, and a trail of blood trickled down from his temple. The drapes blew in the breeze of the open window behind him.
No.
Evander’s heart seized as he rushed forward. “Father!” he called, already reaching out. The back of his father’s silver hair was darkened with blood—matted, sticky. He had been struck, hard.
“Gillingham!” Evander roared. “Send for the doctor, now!”
Dropping to one knee beside the chair, he grasped his father’s sleeve and gave a gentle shake. “Father—can you hear me?” His own voice shook with panic. The coolness of the skin beneath his fingers made his stomach twist.
“Evander…”
He turned at the sound of Olivia’s voice. She stood in the doorway, face pale, eyes wide with disbelief. Her gaze dropped to the still form at the desk. “Is he… dead?”
Evander leaned in, willing himself to detect something—anything. Relief flooded his chest as he saw the faint but steady rise and fall of his father’s breathing. “No,” he murmured. “He’s alive.”
Olivia moved closer, bending down beside the chair. She reached down and lifted a large rock streaked with blood from the carpet. “There’s a paper,” she said, pulling it loose and handing it to him.
Evander untied the rough string with trembling fingers. The paper was crumpled, stained, but the words were unmistakable: This is your last warning.
He closed his eyes briefly, fury and fear coiling together in his gut. This had been intentional. This was a message—and it had nearly cost his father his life.
“This is about the indigo plantation,” he said bitterly. “Whoever threw this meant to harm him. Possibly kill him.”
Olivia laid a steadying hand on his sleeve. “Are you all right?”
He turned to her, met her gaze, and showed her the paper. “No,” he said flatly. “If we don’t sell the plantation, one of us is going to die.”
A low groan came from the desk. Evander leaned in quickly. “Father?”
The older man stirred, eyes fluttering open before squinting in pain. “What in the blazes happened?”
“You were struck in the head,” Evander said, keeping his voice calm. “A rock came through the window. You lost consciousness.”
His father touched the back of his skull, pulling back fingers slick with blood. He stared at them, dazed. “Who would throw a rock at me?”
Evander set the rock on the desk with a dull thud. “The same people who threatened me. The same people who may have killed Bryon.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” his father snapped. “Bryon died from illness.”
“No,” Evander said. “Lord Warwicke saw his ship docked on the Thames yesterday and spoke to the crew. No one seems to recall Bryon even being amongst the passengers.”
The color drained from the earl’s face. “That’s… impossible.”
“Who told you Bryon was dead?” Evander pressed.
“Lord Harwood’s brother.” His father blinked, as though trying to remember. “Joseph. He assumed the title after his brother died.”
Olivia’s voice was careful. “You don’t think Joseph had anything to do with his brother’s death, do you?”
Evander shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. But someone tried to kill me. And now they’ve attacked my father.”
His father scoffed. “It’s those blasted reformers. They want the indigo for themselves. But I won’t bend. That plantation will make us rich.”
Evander frowned. “Even if it kills you?”
His father straightened. “Yes.”
“And what about me?”
There was a pause. Just long enough. “It won’t come to that,” his father said, but his tone was less certain.
“It might,” Evander replied. “They won’t stop.”
Before the argument could spiral further, Gillingham reappeared in the doorway. “The doctor has been summoned, my lord.”
His father scowled. “For what purpose?”
Evander stared at him, incredulous. “To examine you. You were bleeding and unconscious when I arrived.”
“I’ve had worse,” the earl muttered, waving a dismissive hand.
Olivia stepped around the desk and inspected the back of his head. “You likely need stitches.”
“And you need to mind your own business,” he snapped.
Evander opened his mouth to defend Olivia, but she cut him off.
“I hardly think we need to worry about you dying,” she said dryly. “You’re far too cantankerous.”
The earl actually snorted. “For once, we are in agreement.”
Olivia crossed her arms. “You’re a fool. No business is worth your life.”
“You have the luxury of believing that,” the earl replied curtly.
“Perhaps,” Olivia said, lifting her chin, “but I am not going to let you endanger Evander’s life.”
His father narrowed his gaze. “Is that so?”
“It is,” she said, stepping forward. There was steel in her posture, fire in her voice—and Evander had never been more proud of her.
“And you speak for Evander now?” his father asked.
“No,” she said simply. “He speaks for himself. But it’s time someone spoke to you. I’ve held my tongue out of respect for your wife’s condition, but no more. I have a voice, and I will use it.”
The earl turned to his son. “Are you going to let a woman fight your battles?”
Evander drew Olivia closer, his arm sliding around her waist. “I would like to think that we fight them together.”
Olivia smiled up at him. “I like that thought.”
Whatever retort his father had died on his lips. His face turned ashen, and he slumped back into his chair. “I don’t have time for this nonsense.”
Evander moved quickly to his side. “You need a doctor.”
The fight seemed to drain from the older man. His shoulders sagged. “Fine. I suppose I can make the time.”
“Can I get you something? Tea?” Olivia offered as the earl now sat slumped, pressing a handkerchief to his bloodied head.
His father scowled. “You do not need to fuss over me, Woman,” he growled, though the faint rasp in his voice betrayed his exhaustion.
Evander shot Olivia a rueful glance and gave a subtle shake of his head. “I think he’ll live,” he said. “Perhaps we should give him a moment to recover his... temperament.”
“Thank you,” the earl muttered without meeting either of their eyes.
Evander took Olivia’s hand and gently guided her towards the door. As soon as they crossed the threshold and the door shut behind them, his tone softened. “You were remarkable in there.”
Olivia’s lips tightened. “I’m tired of the way your father speaks to me, as though I ought to stay silent. I hope I didn’t upset you by speaking up.”
“Not in the least bit,” he said, pausing to turn towards her. “Quite the opposite. I’ve never been more proud of you.”
She gave him a wry smile. “I suspect your father didn’t share the sentiment.”
Evander chuckled. “Well, I find it rather comforting knowing you’re capable of standing your ground. It saves me a great deal of trouble.”
Olivia’s amusement faded. “What are you going to do about the plantation?”
His expression turned grave. “I need to persuade my father to sell it. No business venture is worth this level of danger. And I refuse to watch him bleed—or worse—because of his pride.”
“Why is he so resistant?” she asked, clearly baffled.
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Because he sees only the profit. The promise of legacy. The power. He refuses to see the risk. Or he does—and believes himself invincible.”
“Well,” Olivia said pointedly, “in my humble opinion, it’s maddening. He’s clinging to something that might destroy him. Or you.”
Evander smirked. “You know, you and my father might have more in common than you think.”
She reared back slightly, playfully. “Did you just compare me to your father? My nemesis?”
“My father is your nemesis?”
“Everyone needs a nemesis or two,” she joked. “It keeps things interesting.”
They reached the entry hall. Evander slowed his pace, then stopped altogether, letting the quiet weight of the moment settle between them. “I need to speak with Warwicke. He must be told. My father’s life was threatened, and whoever is behind this has gone too far.”
Olivia looked uneasy. “Are you sure Warwicke is the right person to handle this?”
“I do,” Evander said, his voice firm. “He has a particular set of skills, and I trust him.”
Still, she bit her lower lip, hesitating. “Do you really think it’s safe to leave the townhouse?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I just—” Her voice faltered slightly. “I just worry.”
He stepped closer, his voice low. “I will always come back to you.”
She lifted her chin and searched his face. “You promise?”
He leaned in, brushing a tender kiss against her cheek, his lips lingering longer than they should. “That is the easiest promise I’ve ever made.”
Olivia’s eyes shimmered. “I can’t lose you, Evander.”
“You won’t,” he said, with quiet certainty. “You’re stuck with me. Now and forever.”
Her lips curved into a faint smile. “There are worse fates,” she murmured, the words light, almost teasing—but Evander saw beyond them. Beneath the levity, there was something sincere in her gaze. Warmth. Affection. A glimmer of something more.
His chest tightened with the possibility. Was she beginning to care for him, truly? The thought sent a quiet thrill through him, softening the heavy weight of the morning.
Before he could respond, a sharp knock echoed through the front hall. Moments later, Gillingham appeared, emerging from a side passage with his usual silent efficiency. He moved to the door and opened it to reveal Doctor Wentworth, who entered with brisk steps and an earnest expression.
“Where is his lordship?” the doctor asked without preamble.
Gillingham gestured down the corridor. “This way, Doctor. He’s in the study.”
The two men disappeared down the hallway, leaving Evander and Olivia alone once more.
With a sigh and a glance towards the upper landing, Olivia said, “I think I should go sit with your mother. I don’t want her to be alone, especially not now.”
Evander reached for her hand briefly, letting his fingers close around hers in gratitude. “Thank you,” he said, and hoped his voice carried the depth of appreciation he struggled to express aloud.
Olivia leaned closer, placing a gentle hand over his chest. Her touch was steady and precisely what he needed in the moment. “Go. Do what you must. I’ll be here when you return.”
He smiled, warmth stirring in spite of the circumstances. “I’m rather glad I married you.”
Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Obviously.”
“I’ll come back as soon as I’m able,” he promised.
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.