Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Hector lifted the crystal tumbler to his lips, letting the burn of the whiskey settle across his tongue before swallowing. The drawing room of White’s had begun to empty as the hour grew late.
Earlier, the room had hummed with conversations about parliament, racing, investments, and the latest scandals circulating through Mayfair. Now, only a handful of gentlemen remained, speaking in quieter tones beneath the mellow glow of the candles.
He stared into the amber liquid. His mind was nowhere near the club.
“You’re brooding again.”
Hector did not bother looking up. “I wasn’t aware you had become an authority on my moods.”
“I’ve had twenty years to study them.”
Ambrose settled into the leather chair opposite him, carrying two fresh glasses and a bottle he had clearly charmed from a steward.
“I came prepared.”
“You usually do.”
“I learned long ago that if I intend to spend an evening with you, alcohol is a necessity.”
Hector snorted. “I hardly drink.”
“No.” Ambrose poured them each another measure. “You simply stare into one glass for an hour while pretending you’re solving Britain’s problems.”
“I’ve never pretended any such thing.”
“You don’t have to pretend.” Ambrose slid the fresh glass toward him. “You wear responsibility like an old military coat.”
Hector accepted the drink with a resigned sigh.
They drank in companionable silence for a minute, the crackling fire filling the pauses without making them uncomfortable.
It had always been that way between them.
They had met as boys at Cambridge, when Ambrose had decided the perpetually serious Hector Lockwood needed rescuing from his own solitude.
Somehow, despite Hector’s repeated attempts to discourage him, Ambrose had remained.
He had never left.
“Are we going to talk about Lady Jane?” Ambrose asked.
Hector’s eyes remained on the fire. “I expected that subject to arise eventually.”
“I nearly brought it up before the soup.”
“You displayed remarkable restraint.”
“I was distracted by the pheasant.”
Hector huffed a quiet laugh. “You truly are hopeless.”
“I prefer optimistic.”
Ambrose leaned back comfortably. “So…”
“So what?”
“Lady Jane.”
Hector pinched the bridge of his nose. “I knew you wouldn’t let the matter go.”
“We’ve barely begun.” Ambrose had a wicked gleam of delight in his eyes.
“There is nothing to discuss,” Hector insisted.
“There rarely is, until there suddenly is.”
Hector took another swallow of whiskey. His thoughts drifted to his lessons with her, the way she listened to everything he said, and adapted his teachings to fit what she could do.
It should have pleased him that she was doing so well.
“You have that look on your face. Do you disapprove of her for some reason?”
Hector looked up. “I never said that.”
“You are frowning as if you cannot stand the thought of her.”
“I am doing no such thing.”
“I counted four separate frowns during this conversation alone.”
“You were counting?” Hector smirked in spite of himself.
“I become bored when you lie to me.”
Hector rubbed a weary hand across his jaw. “I have no objection to Lady Jane.”
“No?” Ambrose raised an eyebrow.
“I enjoy her company. In fact, I have been giving her self-defense lessons.”
“Have you?” Ambrose asked.
“I have,” Hector affirmed. “But I cannot think of her in any other way while Evan is missing. And her brother for that matter.”
Ambrose watched him carefully over the rim of his glass. “And yet, you are upset over her.”
Hector remained silent. The fire cracked softly. Finally, he said, “She deserves stability, protection, and a husband who can give her peace.”
Ambrose nodded. “I agree with all of that.”
Hector stared into the flames. “I cannot offer those things.”
The admission escaped him before he had intended it to. Ambrose’s expression softened almost imperceptibly. “You’ve already decided that for her?”
“I’ve decided it for myself.”
“They are not the same thing.”
“They must be.”
Silence settled between them again. This time it carried more weight. Ambrose swirled the whiskey in his glass.
“You know,” he said quietly. “When we were at Cambridge, every man wanted something.”
Hector arched an eyebrow. “What an astonishing observation.”
“Allow me to finish. Some wanted titles, others wanted fortunes.”
“Or mistresses,” Hector added.
“Or political careers,” Ambrose retorted.
Hector nodded. “And you?”
Ambrose smiled. “I wanted all four.”
“I’ve no doubt.”
“But you…” Ambrose’s smile faded. “…you only ever wanted one thing: to take care of Evan, to ensure his happiness. You’ve spent your entire adult life making certain your brother had opportunities you never believed you deserved.”
“He deserved them.”
“I never said he didn’t,” Ambrose said.
Hector looked away. He remembered their father. The impossible expectations. The relentless discipline. The certainty that failure was weakness.
He had accepted responsibility before he’d properly understood what it meant. Then their parents had died. And suddenly, responsibility had become everything.
“I made a promise.”
“I know,” Ambrose said gently.
“I intended to keep it.”
“You have.”
“No.” His voice came out quieter than before. “I lost him. I failed to protect him.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I should have seen something.”
“Hector—”
“I taught him to fight.” He stared at the amber liquid. “I taught him to read people. To defend himself. And somehow…” His grip tightened around the glass. “…he still disappeared.”
Ambrose leaned forward. “You know what I think?”
“I’m certain you’re about to tell me.”
“I think you’re trying to carry responsibility for every decision Evan ever made.”
“I am responsible for him.”
“You were responsible for loving him.”
The distinction lingered. Hector said nothing.
Ambrose continued gently. “You cannot follow a grown man every hour of every day. You couldn’t stop him from gambling. You couldn’t choose his friends. You couldn’t prevent every danger.”
Hector closed his eyes briefly. “I should have tried harder.”
“You always do.”
Another silence. Then Ambrose smiled again, deliberately lightening the mood. “Besides.”
“What now?”
“If Lady Jane eventually marries someone else, you’ll never forgive yourself.”
Hector blinked. “What?”
“The regret will follow you everywhere, my friend.”
Before Hector could respond, a server approached and cleared his throat.
“Your Grace. Lord Redforth. Pardon the interruption.”
“Yes?” Hector replied.
“This came for you, Your Grace,” the servant replied.
Hector and Ambrose exchanged a glance.
Hector barely waited for the footman to close the front door before he broke the seal on the folded note.
The familiar handwriting belonged to Edward Hale, the parliament member who had become one of the government’s quiet investigators into London’s criminal underworld.
The note was brief.
Strachan has been seen. One of his warehouses near the eastern docks has drawn unusual attention these past three evenings. Guards rotating twice nightly. Deliveries at irregular hours.
My men cannot investigate without alerting him. If you intend to act, do so quickly.
Hector read it twice. Then a third time. The warehouse. His pulse quickened despite years of training himself never to betray emotion. Evan.
He folded the letter carefully before feeding it into the fire. Within seconds, only curling ash remained.
“I must go,” he told Ambrose.
“Do you need me?”
“No. I’ll handle it, but thank you.”
“Good luck, my friend.”
And with that, Hector left.
Nearly an hour later, the familiar nondescript carriage rolled into the quiet street behind Wynten House. The lamps had been extinguished along much of the lane, leaving only scattered pools of moonlight.
Anna appeared exactly as expected beside the servants’ entrance. She offered a quick curtsy. “My lady will be here directly.”
“You have my thanks.”
Anna disappeared inside. Moments later, the back door opened again.
Jane hurried toward the carriage, her dark cloak concealing the pale blue of her evening gown. She climbed inside before the driver urged the horses onward. The door shut. For a heartbeat they simply looked at one another.
She was the first to speak. “You sent for me. What happened?”
“I’ve received information.”
She leaned forward. “About Colin?”
“About Strachan.”
Her eyes widened. “What sort of information?”
“My acquaintance has identified one of Strachan’s warehouses. Outside the city.”
“Do they believe Colin is there?”
“They do not know,” Hector said. “But there is some unusual activity there.”
Hope flickered across her face so quickly it almost hurt to witness. “Then we must go.”
“We?”
Jane nodded. “Of course.”
“No.” The answer came instantly. “My lady, I felt the need to inform you before I went there myself. I cannot endanger you—”
“I will not stay behind.” The words struck harder than she’d intended. Her voice softened. “Hector… If Colin is inside that building… how could you possibly ask me to remain at home?”
His resolve wavered. “If anything happened to you…” He could not bring himself to finish the thought.
“You taught me to defend myself.”
“You are still not prepared,” Hector insisted.
“I may never be.” She leaned closer. “But that cannot mean I stop trying.”
He looked away. She was infuriating. Because she was right. She sounded exactly like him.
“You once told me,” she continued, “that I learn quickly, that I was courageous. Were you lying when you said that?”
“No. I meant that,” he said quietly.
“Then trust me.” She reached across the narrow space between them. Her fingers rested lightly against his sleeve. “Please, Hector.”
He looked down at her hand. Then back into her eyes.
“I cannot stay behind while someone else searches for my brother.”
His shoulders slowly relaxed. He had known from the moment he received Hale’s letter that this argument would end only one way.
He simply disliked admitting it. “You will remain beside me.”
“I will.”
“If I tell you to leave,” he said.
“I’ll leave,” she said.
“You swear it?”
“I swear.”
“You will do exactly as I say.”
“I shall try.”
“Jane.”
She smiled faintly. “I shall.”
He held her gaze another moment. Then nodded once. “Very well.”
Relief flooded her expression. He felt both guilt at making her worry that she should not be allowed to go and guilt that he was allowing her to accompany him.
“Thank you.”
He inclined his head and signaled for the carriage to move. They rode in silence for a long way. The carriage turned west instead of east.
Jane frowned. “I thought the warehouses were near the docks.”
“They are.”
“Then why?” She let her voice trail off, but he understood her question.
“We’re making one stop.”
She looked puzzled but asked no further questions. Only when the carriage slowed outside a handsome townhouse did she glance through the window.
“Lord Redforth’s residence.”
“Yes,” Hector said.
“What are we doing here?”
“I require insurance.”
Before she could ask what that meant, Hector stepped down from the carriage. The street stood quiet. Only one lamp burned beside the entrance.
He climbed the front steps and knocked. A sleepy footman answered almost immediately. “Your Grace.”
“I need this delivered to Lord Redforth at once.”
The folded note disappeared into the servant’s hand. “Immediately?”
“Immediately.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
After that, Hector returned to the carriage.
“I asked him to meet us at the warehouse. He’ll bring men he trusts.”
“You think we’ll need them.”
Hector paused. “I hope we won’t.”
“But you expect we might.”
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked out toward the dark streets stretching ahead. “If Strachan truly is inside… I would rather have help arriving too early than too late.”
Jane nodded solemnly. “I agree.”
The carriage lurched forward once more. This time, toward the eastern edge of London. Neither spoke for several minutes. Outside, the city gradually changed. Elegant terraces gave way to narrower streets.
Together they fell silent again as the carriage disappeared into the darkness, carrying them toward the first real chance they had ever had of finding the men they had been searching for.