Chapter 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?”
“Nothing.” Warwicke’s answer was firm. “Stay at your townhouse. Keep yourself and your father protected. I’ll start making inquiries. Discreetly.”
Evander sank deeper into the chair. “He has Parliament tomorrow.”
“Then try to persuade him to stay home.”
Evander gave a dry laugh. “You haven’t met my father. Once he’s made up his mind, he is not one to back down.”
Warwicke stood, tugging down the ends of his finely cut waistcoat. “Then I best change before I go out. I’ll stand out far too much where I’m headed.”
Evander looked up at his friend. “If I haven’t said it already—thank you.”
Warwicke gave him a curt nod and disappeared into the crowd.
Left alone with Alcott, Evander reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. The pressure there did nothing to ease the pounding in his head.
Alcott studied him over the rim of his glass. “How are you faring?”
Evander gave a huff. “You mean besides the fact that someone is trying to kill me and my father? I’ve had better days.”
Alcott signaled to a passing server. “Let me buy you a drink.”
“A drink won’t fix this.”
“No,” Alcott agreed, “but it’s a start.”
Evander gave a half-smile, though there was no humor in it. “Life wasn’t supposed to be this complicated. I had it all figured out, and then Bryon died. Everything shifted.”
Alcott tilted his head. “Some men would be grateful to inherit a title.”
“Not like this.” Evander’s voice turned quiet. “I’d give it all back if it meant my brother could walk through that door. I miss my life in academia. Quiet. Predictable. Safe.”
Alcott swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “And what of your wife? Any regrets there?”
Evander didn’t hesitate. “None. Olivia is… the one good thing in all of this.”
Alcott chuckled. “A wife shackles a man.”
“Not Olivia,” Evander said. “Loving her isn’t a decision I made. It is instinctive. I couldn’t stop if I tried.”
Alcott smirked. “You’re smitten. It’s far too late for you, old boy.”
Before Evander could offer a rebuttal, a tall shadow stretched across the table.
“Evander.”
He looked up and immediately recognized the voice. Joseph. The newly minted Earl of Harwood.
“Harwood,” he acknowledged, rising halfway.
Joseph gave an awkward grimace. “I’m afraid I am still getting used to being called that.”
“I know the feeling,” Evander said, gesturing towards the empty air beside him. “I keep expecting my brother to walk in behind me.”
Joseph inclined his head towards Alcott. “Lord Alcott.”
“My condolences,” Alcott said. “Would you care to join us?”
Harwood hesitated only a moment before pulling out a chair. “I don’t wish to intrude.”
“Nonsense,” Alcott replied, waving him in. “You are always welcome.”
Joseph settled in with a rueful smile, then turned to Evander. “Has anything unusual happened to you recently?”
Evander stiffened. “Define unusual.”
Lowering his voice, Joseph said, “I’ve been receiving threats. Demands to sell our indigo plantations.”
Evander’s heart thudded in his chest. “You have?”
“Yes. And frankly, I’m beginning to think I ought to take them seriously.”
Evander met his gaze. “Then you should know that we’ve been receiving threats, too.”
Joseph’s eyes widened, the color draining slightly from his already pale face. “So it isn’t just me?”
“No,” Evander responded. The truth had a strange weight to it when spoken aloud. “Someone threw a rock through an open window at our townhouse this morning. Hit my father in the head and knocked him unconscious.”
Joseph stared at him for a moment. “What are you going to do?”
Evander’s jaw tightened. What was he going to do? “I want to sell the indigo plantation. That seems the only sensible path. But my father refuses.”
Joseph's brow furrowed. Then, unexpectedly, he asked, “What if I bought it from you?”
“Why would you want to do that?”
Harwood gave a shrug. “It’s merely a business decision. Nothing more. Our plantations border each other. If I owned both, they’d make a far more appealing package for the right buyer. Twice the land, twice the return.”
Evander leaned back slightly in his chair, considering him. “Are you anticipating difficulty selling yours?”
“Not especially,” Harwood said, “but the value increases with scale. It’s easier to market a vast, uninterrupted expanse than two smaller, adjacent ones. Buyers want simplicity and control.”
“I’ll think about it,” he said. “Truthfully, I haven’t stopped thinking about any of this since the first threat came. And now...”
Harwood’s tone shifted, lower, tighter. “I know what you mean. I’ve been haunted lately. Not just by the threats, but by the whispers. The things people said about my brother, and how he treated the workers. The cruelty.”
Evander bobbed his head. “My brother wasn’t much better.” The admission left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Sometimes I wonder what we inherited, besides their titles.”
Harwood gave a quiet laugh, sharp and without joy. “That doesn’t make me feel better.” He stood then, brushing invisible dust from his trousers. There was a stiffness in his movements, a hollowness behind his eyes. “I should go. My brother’s funeral is this afternoon.”
Evander stood with him. “I wish you luck.”
Harwood closed his eyes, just for a moment. But it was long enough for Evander to catch the glimmer of moisture clinging to his lashes. Grief etched itself across his face, as raw and unguarded as a wound.
“I keep hoping I’ll wake up from this nightmare,” Harwood murmured.
Evander reached out and rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. There were no clever words, no solutions. Only solidarity. “You’re not alone in this.”
Harwood’s eyes opened again. “That’s kind of you to say. But you’re wrong.”
With that, he turned and walked away, shoulders hunched, as if carrying the weight of far more than grief.
Evander watched him go, the echo of Joseph’s words clinging to him like fog. He understood the pain of how isolating grief could be, even when surrounded by people who claimed to understand.
“He’ll be all right,” Alcott said beside him, breaking the silence.
Evander didn’t answer at first. He just watched the door where Harwood had vanished. “I hope so,” he said quietly. “I should go, as well.”
“Are you sure you don’t want that drink?”
Turning towards his friend, he replied, “No, I should return home. Olivia will be waiting, and my mother… well, I don’t like to be gone too long.”
“How is your mother?”
Evander rubbed a hand down his face, trying to wipe away the exhaustion that clung to him. “She has her good days and her bad. The doctor says she doesn’t have long, but he’s been saying that for months now.”
Alcott’s expression shifted, his usual mask of levity giving way to something more sincere. “I know what it’s like to lose a mother. It’s not for the faint of heart.”
Evander swallowed against the lump forming in his throat.
“She’s always been the center of everything.
The glue that held the family together. Even when my father grew distant.
Even when Bryon—” He broke off, shaking his head.
“I don’t know what we’ll do when she’s gone. I’m not sure we’ll hold it together.”
“Fortunately, you have Olivia to help you through all of this.”