Chapter 18 #2
She should have felt relief. Joy, even. She was home, whole, alive. But an uneasiness clung to her, as stubborn as the dirt beneath her nails.
The gown slipped from her shoulders and pooled at her feet. She stepped out of it and moved towards the warmth waiting near the fire.
She placed her hand on the rim of the basin and inhaled deeply, the steam enveloping her like a protective cloak. But the words echoed in her head.
You escaped.
But from what—and for how long?
She closed her eyes.
Let me have this moment, she thought. Let me believe—for a little while—that I’m safe.
But deep down, Olivia knew the real danger had only just begun.
Evander’s hands were balled into fists, so tight that his knuckles ached with the strain.
He sat rigid at the coach window, his gaze fixed on the blurred, soot-stained buildings of London streaming past. His thoughts—sharp and burning—refused to be stilled.
If Lord Luca had anything to do with Olivia’s abduction, if he had dared to touch her, frighten her, use her—then no rank nor title would save him.
Not even a duke for a father would shield him from the consequences.
The very idea sent a fresh wave of fury through him.
Warwicke’s voice was a thin intrusion into the storm. “You need to calm down.”
Evander turned his head sharply. “How can you ask that of me? Olivia was abducted and you want me to be calm?”
“We don’t know Lord Luca was behind it,” Warwicke said calmly. “Not for certain.”
“Then who?” Evander demanded. “Who else had motive? Who else threatened my family, had an interest in the plantation, and now dares suggest I sell?”
Warwicke raised a hand, placating. “Let me do the talking when we get there. We’ll get to the truth—but not if you storm in like a man possessed.”
Evander didn’t answer. He knew Warwicke was right. He just didn’t care. The threats against him were one thing. But Olivia? That had crossed a line. A man only had so much restraint and his had already been stretched past breaking.
The coach slowed, then stopped before a squat red-brick building with faded shutters. A sign over the door read The London Gazette. Evander was out before the footman reached the step, striding forward with grim purpose.
Inside, a young clerk rose awkwardly from behind a desk, his quill still in hand. “May I help—”
“I need to speak to Lord Luca. Now,” Evander demanded.
The clerk blinked, caught off guard. “I’m afraid that’s not possible since he’s in a meeting at the moment—”
“I don’t care,” Evander snapped, advancing. “Tell him Lord Westmere is here, and I will not wait.”
The clerk hesitated, but Evander didn’t. He swept past him, pushing open the main door and stepping into the heart of the newsroom. The clatter of low conversation filled the space. Desks lined the floor in long, chaotic rows, and at the far end, a closed door marked a private office.
Footsteps pounded behind him. “Sir—you can’t go back there!”
“I’m not asking permission,” Evander responded.
Warwicke caught up beside him, matching his stride. “Westmere, I’m warning you not to go in half-cocked.”
He couldn’t promise that. Not when he still saw Olivia’s pale face in his mind, her eyes haunted from whatever she had endured. No. He wouldn’t be calm. Not for this.
He reached the back office, grasped the handle, and threw open the door.
Lord Luca looked up from behind his desk, clearly startled. “Lord Westmere,” he said, rising slightly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Evander stepped forward, his words hard. “We need to talk.”
Behind him, the clerk stammered, “Should I send for the constable?”
“No,” Lord Luca said quickly, smoothing his expression. “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure Lord Westmere and Lord Warwicke are merely… passionate. Gentlemen, shall we proceed civilly?”
Warwicke interjected. “That depends on how honest you’re prepared to be.”
Lord Luca’s brow furrowed slightly as he leaned back. “And what would I have to lie about?”
Warwicke shut the door behind them. “What we’re about to say is off the record. Do we have an understanding?”
“That depends entirely on the subject.” Lord Luca’s tone remained composed, but Evander saw the flicker of wariness beneath.
“The abduction of Lady Westmere,” Warwicke said bluntly.
Lord Luca’s head turned towards Evander. “Your wife was abducted?”
Evander folded his arms across his chest, his voice like steel. “She was. She escaped.” And he would never forgive himself for not preventing it.
“That’s… troubling,” Lord Luca remarked. “Do you believe it was connected to the threats made against your family?”
Evander’s gaze narrowed. “That’s the assumption.”
“Well then, given everything, perhaps it’s time to sell the indigo plantation. That would be the reasonable course, wouldn’t it?”
Evander stepped closer to the desk. “Is that what you want? For me to sell?”
Lord Luca eyed him curiously. “Why would my opinion matter?”
Leaning forward, Evander planted his palms on the polished surface. “Because I think this was your aim all along. So I’ll ask again—what do you gain if I sell?”
“Nothing,” Lord Luca responded.
Warwicke’s voice cut in, sharp. “How long have you been working with the reformers who want Britain out of India?”
“I beg your pardon?” Lord Luca asked, his eyes widening.
“You heard me,” Warwicke said. “I don’t know how to make the question any simpler.”
“I am not aligned with reformers,” Lord Luca insisted.
Warwicke crossed his arms. “Yet you attend their meetings.”
Lord Luca’s composure slipped a fraction. “How would you know that?”
“I have my ways.”
Standing, Lord Luca replied, “The only way you’d know that is if you were there yourself.”
Warwicke smirked. “Correct. I’m assisting Westmere in investigating the threats against his family.”
Lord Luca turned to Evander again. “So it wasn’t only your father—you were threatened as well?”
Evander held his stare. “Yes. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“I swear I didn’t,” Lord Luca replied, lifting his hands. “I had no part in it. Nor in Lady Westmere’s abduction.”
“I don’t believe you,” Evander said flatly.
“You’re welcome not to,” Lord Luca remarked. “But I’ve been here all morning. Ask my staff. I couldn’t have orchestrated anything.”
“You could have hired someone.”
“I could have,” Lord Luca agreed, “but I didn’t. I’ve been investigating the truth behind the plantation dealings. I’ve found some troubling things.”
Warwicke stepped forward, skeptical. “Such as?”
Lord Luca lifted a stack of papers from his desk. “You’re not the only one who’s been pressured to sell. Two others were also threatened and all their plantations were bought by the same company. Walter Textiles.”
“I’ve heard of them,” Evander remarked.
“They now control the majority of British-held indigo plantations in India,” Lord Luca said. “And no one noticed. It was done quietly.”
Warwicke grew solemn. “Who owns Walter Textiles?”
“No one really knows,” Lord Luca admitted.
“Although it’s a business that exists on paper, it doesn’t actually do any real work.
I suspect it is a dummy corporation to disguise ownership or shift funds around.
I’ve been attending the reformers’ meetings hoping to get a lead, but they’re just as in the dark. ”
Evander took a step back, his pulse pounding. If Lord Luca was telling the truth, they were no closer to unmasking the one responsible.
He turned to Warwicke. “What do you think?”
But inwardly, the question twisted: Was Luca telling the truth? Or was he simply a better liar than Evander had given him credit for?
Warwicke stared at Lord Luca for a long moment, his mouth drawn into a tight line. At last, he spoke. “I believe him,” he said. “But I don’t trust him. Not entirely.”
Lord Luca gave a faint shrug, utterly unruffled. “I can live with that,” he responded before shifting his attention to Evander. “What do you intend to do with your indigo plantation?”
The question struck like a blow to the chest.
Evander exhaled hard and dragged a hand through his hair, still trying to collect the pieces of everything that had been said. “It isn’t my decision to make,” he muttered. “My father owns the plantation.”
But Lord Luca’s expression sharpened. His brows lifted as if Evander had said something na?ve. “You don’t know, do you?”
Evander’s gut tensed. “Don’t know what?”
“Your brother left the indigo plantation to you in his will.”
For a moment, Evander just stared at him. The words didn’t make sense. They couldn’t make sense. “That’s impossible,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “Bryon wouldn’t do that. He would’ve left it to the estate.”
Lord Luca lowered himself back into his chair, folding his hands atop a stack of papers. “His will was filed with the probate court. I reviewed it last week, with full permission. It was a clear directive. The indigo plantation was left to you. Solely.”
Evander’s breath caught as a chill spread through his chest. Why would Bryon do that? Why would he put him in charge, bypassing their father entirely? And why hadn’t his father said anything about that?
He spoke more to himself than to the others. “Why would he leave it to me and not the estate?”
Luca gave a small shake of his head. “I can’t say. Perhaps he didn’t trust your father to manage it. Or perhaps… he knew what was coming.” He held Evander’s gaze. “Whatever the reason, the decision is yours now. To keep it. Or sell it.”
Evander turned away, unable to answer. His steps carried him to the narrow window, the glass smeared with dust. Outside, the city pulsed with life as carts rattled over cobblestones and pedestrians weaved through crowded streets. Yet everything in him had gone still.
The weight of the decision settled heavily on his shoulders.
Could he sell it? Walk away from the land his brother had entrusted to him?
But if he kept it, if he refused to sell, would that put Olivia in danger again?
Warwicke’s voice drew him back. “What we do know is that Olivia was taken to The Dragon’s Head,” he said. “But she escaped before more harm could befall her.”
Evander turned back, his mouth drawn in a tight line. Even now, the idea that she had endured something so harrowing while he was miles away still made his blood boil.
Lord Luca’s brows furrowed. “I heard nothing about the reformers planning to abduct Lady Westmere.”
“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t done by one of them,” Warwicke replied. “Or someone acting in their interest.”
Luca nodded slowly. “There’s a meeting in an hour. I could ask around and see if anyone knows something. If I hear anything useful, I’ll report back.”
Warwicke offered a brief nod of approval. “That would be appreciated.”
Lord Luca’s lips curled faintly. “I’m relieved we’ve come to some sort of understanding.”
Evander didn’t bother responding. He turned on his heel and followed Warwicke out of the cramped office and into the bustle of the newsroom. The hushed conversations and rustle of paper faded behind him as they stepped back into the corridor, then out into the waiting coach.
Only once the door shut behind them did Evander let out a long, frustrated breath. He dragged a hand over his face and slumped back into the seat.
“We’re no closer,” he muttered. “No closer to knowing who took Olivia. Or who’s behind the threats.”
Warwicke adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves and leaned back. “We did gain a potential ally.”
Evander stared out the window as the coach began to move again, but he didn’t respond right away. The streets of London blurred past, but his thoughts were rooted elsewhere—on his brother’s will, on the plantation, on Olivia’s haunted eyes.
“A reluctant one,” he said at last. “And we still don’t know if we can trust him.”
Warwicke grew silent. “True. But it’s more than we had yesterday.”
Evander’s fingers curled into his gloves. That may have been true. But it still wasn’t enough.
Not until he had answers.
Not until Olivia was safe.