Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
The fire in the study burned low, more smoke than flame now, casting long shadows across the polished wood panels. Hector stood near the mantel, one hand loosely behind his back, the other resting against the edge as though anchoring himself to something solid.
Ambrose, of course, looked entirely too comfortable for a man in a room where political consequences were being discussed.
He had already helped himself to brandy.
“And I told him,” Ambrose was saying, grinning at the man opposite them, “that if he thought the vote would pass without a scandal, he clearly hadn’t spent enough time in the Commons.”
Their acquaintance, Lord Edward Hale, laughed politely. The sound was careful, measured, the kind of laugh men in parliament learned early to deploy when they wanted to appear amused without committing to anything too honest.
Hector did not join in. He waited. Hale noticed eventually. They always did.
Ambrose, sensing the shift, tipped his glass slightly toward Hector. “Don’t look so grim, old friend. You’ll frighten the poor man into confessing to crimes he hasn’t even considered yet.”
“I doubt that,” Hale murmured, though his gaze flicked briefly to Hector’s face.
That was enough. Hector straightened. “I need information,” he said simply.
Ambrose sighed as though this were the most predictable outcome in the world. “There it is.”
Hale’s expression tightened slightly. “What?”
“Phineas Strachan,” Hector said.
The name did not echo in the room. It struck.
Hale’s posture changed instantly. Not dramatically, but subtly enough that Hector caught it. The shift of weight. The small pause in breath. The way his fingers tightened around the arm of his chair.
Ambrose noticed too, because Ambrose noticed everything when it suited him.
“Well,” Ambrose said lightly, “that went from pleasant to interesting rather quickly.”
Hale set his glass down. “Why are you asking about Strachan?” he asked carefully.
Hector did not move from the mantel. “Because I believe he is involved in my brother’s disappearance,” he said. Then, after a fraction of a pause, “and in the kidnapping of the Earl of Wynten.”
That last name made the room feel smaller.
Hale leaned back slightly, as though trying to put physical distance between himself and the implication. “That is a serious accusation.”
“It is an observation,” Hector replied.
Ambrose hummed softly into his drink. “A dangerous one.”
Hector ignored him.
Hale studied him for a long moment. Hector could almost see the man weighing loyalty against caution; old Cambridge ties against modern, political survival.
Finally, Hale exhaled. “Sit,” he said.
Hector did not.
Hale continued anyway. “Strachan is not a man who reacts well to humiliation,” he said slowly. “If Your Grace’s brother crossed him publicly, even once, that alone would be enough to earn his attention.”
Hector’s jaw tightened. “He did more than cross him,” Hector said.
Ambrose lifted a brow. “Do tell.”
Hector glanced at him once, warningly. Ambrose only smiled.
Hale, however, nodded for Hector to continue.
So Hector did. He told him what little the gaming hell dealer had revealed. Not in full detail, but enough.
Evan playing at advanced tables. Winning too often. Drawing attention he should not have drawn. The shift in his behavior afterward. The paranoia. The careful way he began avoiding certain rooms, certain corners, certain people.
And then Strachan.
The name again, like a bruise pressed too hard.
Hector’s voice remained steady, though something in his chest tightened as he spoke it aloud again.
“He was seen at the table with him,” Hector finished. “Shortly before Evan vanished.”
Hale’s expression darkened in thought. “And you believe Strachan followed him?”
“I believe he waited,” Hector corrected. “Stalked him. Watched him until Evan gave him a reason.”
Ambrose tilted his head. “That sounds like Strachan.”
Hale nodded slowly. “It does.”
A pause settled between them. Hector felt it like pressure under the ribs.
“Strachan does not tolerate loss,” he said. “Especially not public loss. If Evan Lockwood beat him at anything significant, it would not simply have been about money.”
Hector’s eyes sharpened. “What then?”
“Control,” Hale said. “Reputation. Power. Men like Strachan do not lose and walk away unchanged. They wait until they can correct the imbalance.”
Ambrose let out a low whistle. “How philosophical of you, Hale.”
Hale shot him a look. “It is not philosophy. It is pattern recognition.”
Hector finally moved, stepping away from the mantel. “And Wynten?” he asked.
That made Hale hesitate again. Hector did not miss it.
“You mentioned Lord Wynten,” Hale said carefully.
“Yes.”
Hale exhaled slowly. “There have been… rumors,” he admitted.
Ambrose perked up immediately. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Hector’s gaze narrowed. “What rumors?”
Hale looked between them both before speaking. “That Strachan has expanded his interests,” he said. “Beyond gambling. Beyond loans. Beyond the usual vices. He is beginning to involve himself in political leverage.”
Hector’s expression did not change. “And kidnapping?” Hector asked.
Hale did not answer immediately. That silence was answer enough. Ambrose set his glass down.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “That kind of leverage.”
Hale continued, carefully now. “If Lord Wynten is connected, even indirectly, Strachan would see him as a means to an end. A pressure point, a bargaining chip.”
Hector’s hands curled slightly at his sides. “I do not believe Wynten is involved in anything that would warrant that kind of attention,” he said.
Hale put his hands up. “I am not saying he is guilty,” he replied. “I am saying Strachan would not need guilt. Only opportunity.”
The room seemed colder after that. Ambrose leaned back in his chair, studying Hector with a quieter expression than usual. “And Evan?” he asked. “Where does he fit into all this?”
Hector clenched his jaw. “Collateral,” he said, the word tasting wrong.
Hale nodded again, slowly. “It is possible,” he said. “Or he may have been the initial spark. A loss Strachan could not accept. And Lord Wynten,” he paused, “may simply have been caught in the fallout.”
Hector absorbed that in silence. Fallout. He hated that word; it made everything feel accidental. Like Evan’s disappearance could be reduced to something messy and unintentional.
Hector did not believe in accidents anymore. Not when it came to Evan. Not when it came to Strachan.
Hale watched him carefully. “I will make inquiries,” he said. “Quietly. Through channels that do not connect back to you.”
Ambrose raised his glass. “How very reassuring.”
Hale ignored him. “If Strachan is involved,” he continued, “and if we can trace any part of this to him in a way that satisfies the right people, then yes, there is a path to making this… permanent.”
Hector’s gaze lifted slightly. “Permanent?”
“Prison,” Hale clarified. “Removal from influence. Possibly worse, depending on what is uncovered.”
Ambrose let out a soft laugh. “Worse than prison. How charmingly optimistic.”
Hale’s mouth tightened. Hector, however, heard only one thing.
Possibility. A line. A direction. Something that could be followed.
“I want proof,” Hector said.
Hale nodded immediately. “And you will have it, if it exists.”
Hector held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Then he inclined his head once. “Thank you.”
Hale stood as well, the conversation clearly reaching its end. “I will send word,” he said. “Discreetly. Do not move loudly on this, Your Grace. Strachan is not a man you corner without consequence.”
A faint edge entered Hector’s voice. “I am aware.”
Ambrose stood, stretching lazily. “We’re always aware. It is the acting on it that causes the trouble.”
Hale gave him a look that suggested he was not entirely wrong. Then he stepped back. “I will be in contact.”
And with that, he left. The door shut softly behind him.
“Well,” Ambrose said, swirling the last of his drink. “That was delightfully grim. I feel as though I’ve aged a year.”
Hector did not respond immediately. His mind was already elsewhere. Strachan’s name. Evan’s paranoia. Wynten. The pattern that Hale had described.
Ambrose stepped closer, watching him now with less humor than before. “Hector. Stop doing that,” he said.
Hector glanced at him. “Doing what?”
“Retreating so far into your head that I begin to suspect you’ve left your body entirely.”
Hector exhaled once, sharply. “I am thinking.”
“I gathered.” Ambrose’s tone softened slightly. “Tell me about what you’re thinking.”
“I think Strachan knows where he is,” Hector said finally.
Ambrose nodded slowly. “That’s worse.”
“Yes.”
Then Ambrose tilted his head. “And the Earl of Wynten?”
Hector’s gaze tightened. “I think Wynten is the reason we are all still circling this instead of ending it.”
Ambrose studied him for a long moment. “How so?”
Hector ran a hand over his face. “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but my brother and the earl have to be connected in some way.”
“How would they have known one another?” Ambrose mused.
“I do not know, and neither does Lady Jane, but I feel that the two are connected,” Hector said. “I have been reluctant to press the lady on this. It’s a delicate topic.”
Ambrose let out a low whistle. “You are getting personally involved.”
Hector shot him a warning look. “This is about my brother. It has nothing to do with Lady Jane.”
Ambrose held up a hand. “I’m not judging. Just observing. Dangerous territory for a man like you.”
Hector’s voice was quiet. “This is not personal.”
Ambrose raised a brow. Hector did not elaborate because he could not. Not in a way that would survive scrutiny.
The silence held for a moment between them.
Hector turned slightly toward the window instead of the room. Outside, London moved as it always did, unaware, unbothered, indifferent to men like Strachan, to missing brothers, or anything that mattered.
Ambrose watched him for a moment before speaking again, softer this time. “You were thinking of someone else when you learned all this, were you?”