Evan’s eyes drifted to the bottles of dark amber liquid next to his own water of life. He had to admit the dark blue and silver letters on her bottles contrasted well with his own green and gold. Something rather alarming bloomed inside him as he recalled that pert nose and strong chin staring him down, telling him she was living proof Scots and Dominicans could learn to get along.
Regret was not a feeling Evan indulged, but in that moment he wished his life and his plans allowed for the chance to find out for himself what Dominicans and Scots could do when they engaged in...relations.
“Get the table for her, please,” he told Raghav with finality. Attempting to explain what it was about this woman that had made him so conciliatory would require he think over things he simply had no time for. “And don’t expect me here this evening. I have to look in on my sisters and make sure Adalyn knows she can’t stay with me.” There was no way his widowed sister was going to stay in a flat with three bachelors, but she was reckless enough to expect that very thing.
Raghav quirked an eyebrow at that. “I would love to see how your sister takes to being told what to do.”
“I am cursed with strong-willed women.” His vision filled once again with that unflinching chocolate gaze and the delightfully raspy voice berating him for touching her rum. Before he could bite his tongue the words were out of his mouth. “Find out what you can about the rum maker. It sounded like she could use some help.”
“Are you offering to be her champion?” Raghav asked, annoyingly delighted by Evan’s newfound heroism. “Now I am truly looking forward to learning more about this rum heiress. I’m so impressed with her work already.” The corners of his friend’s lips turned up.
“I help people,” Evan said peevishly.
Raghav nodded in acknowledgment, a seriously irritating smile on his lips. “You are a very generous man, but you’re not usually distracted by a pretty face when you are in your business pursuits.” That was his best friend’s polite way of saying that Evan could be a ruthless bastard who would mow anyone down when he was after something.
All true, but he still wanted to extend a hand. He was serious about the fraternité spirit. His lips turned up on their own volition when he remembered what she’d told him what he could do with his brotherly love.
“I am serious, Raghav. Just let her know if she has any more trouble we can help her.”
“All right. Come see me at the office when you’re done with Adalyn. You’ll need a drink and some more affable company...after.”
Maybe it would do him good to search out a way to release some of this tension. The office Raghav was referring to was none other than Le Bureau, the most exclusive brothel in Paris, where they had spent a few evenings since their arrival in the city. If you desired it, Le Bureau would provide it, for a price. Raghav had been availing himself of the company of a couple of very amenable young men, and Evan couldn’t deny he had grown to appreciate the ease of getting what he needed without complications. He liked exchanges where everyone knew what was expected of them. Evan’s father’s penchant for setting the rules of a game and unilaterally changing them while everyone else ran around trying to fulfill his whims had helped him develop a true loathing for surprises. At places like Le Bureau, everyone knew their role and behaved accordingly.
“Fine,” he finally agreed, picking up his cane and hat. “You’re a terrible influence.”
“Yet here you are engaged in a business partnership with such a reprobate. Sédar has a special program tonight,” Raghav explained pleasantly, as if he were talking about a literary salon. “Live coitus, apparently. As per the request of some distinguished exhibitors.” Raghav lifted a shoulder in a uniquely Gallic expression. “When in Paris...”
The mention of a live coitus show was as good a time as any to end a conversation. With a tip of his hat, Evan turned toward the exit. It was getting late, and if he was to make his appointment, he had to make haste. Despite himself he took a fountain pen from his pocket and quickly scribbled a note. He handed it to Raghav before departing.
“Make sure she gets this.”
Who theshewas didn’t need to be voiced out loud.
Evan climbed the steps to the now-familiar private mansion on avenue Montaigne, marveling that it was only six months ago he’d been summoned to this address for the first time. Since then, he’d come here a dozen times to plot and plan. He’d known they’d been getting closer, and he hoped that tonight he’d finally have in his hands what he needed to set everything in motion. The last piece of the puzzle that would result in his father’s undoing. The thought was oddly calming. After all, Evan had been preparing for this end since the first night he’d come to this place...when he’d been made aware of a secret that cast his father’s past misdeeds into a new and far more sinister light.
What he and his coconspirator intended to do would not come without consequences. The ones for Evan were clear and irreversible, and beyond those there was no way to predict how his father would react when his secret was brought to light. Which was why no one, not Raghav nor Murdoch nor his sisters, had any idea with whom he had been working. Hehadrevealed to them that he was growing closer to some proof showing his mother had left a will, but they didn’t know the hows or whys.
The moment he stepped up to the black door, his host’s butler appeared on the threshold ushering him in.
“Bonsoir, monsieur. He is waiting for you.” Mr. Pasquet was an imposing man, with the height and presence one expected in a butler of a grand home. His skin was a deep brown that reminded Evan of ebony. It was impossible to pinpoint his age—not a young man, but certainly not old. His hair was very short, and he always dressed impeccably.
Being the son of a duke meant Evan had lived surrounded by opulence all his life, but the wealth and elegance in his family’s homes felt dated. Almost obsolete. Too much gold leaf and frescoes, wall hangings with the faces of ancestors he’d rather not think about.
This home was elegant, to be sure, but it felt modern. Almost involuntarily, his eyes went to a large painting on the wall. It was of a boy looking out a window, his torso erect, as he clutched the sill. He was smiling brightly, as though his eyes had finally landed on the person he’d been waiting at the window for. The figure seemed to jump out of the canvas. His delight at whatever he saw was hard to turn away from. When he’d inquired about the artist, Evan had been informed the painter was José Ferraz de Almeida Júnior, a Brazilian who’d trained at the École des Beaux-Arts.
Not far from that one was a landscape of a valley sunset with colors that fascinated Evan. There were cliffs made of red rock and green hills under a vast pink-and-purple sky. He’d been so distracted admiring it he almost crashed into the carved double doors which led to the studio where Evan usually conferred with the master of the house.
“Entrez.” Evan stiffened when he heard the baritone through the closed doors. He braced himself as Pasquet pushed them open. These meetings could be unpredictable. More than once Evan’s temper had slipped from his control.
“Welcome, brother.” Evan knew to at least expect that taunting greeting, and yet it still caught him by surprise. He found it disorienting to be confronted with the type of authoritative demeanor he typically commanded in this sort of exchange. Equally disorienting was encountering a face so undeniably similar to his and yet unknown for most of his life. Evan’s size was notable. Even in Scotland, where Highlanders were known for their considerable height and strength, he stood out. Iain—his older brother, now five years dead—had taken after their mother, as did his sisters. Lean and fine-boned where Evan was built like his father. So, apparently, was the other brother he’d never known existed, who tonight lounged in one of the room’s plush armchairs.
Apollo César Sinclair Robles, the son of a woman the Duke of Annan had married when he’d been nothing more than the second son of a duke hunting for a fortune in the Americas. Evan knew what that was like, the drive to secure a future. Except his father, instead of working, chose to marry a young heiress in Cartagena. When she died in childbirth, he’d abandoned the child and fled to back to Scotland with his newfound wealth. The son survived, and was raised by an aunt, his mother’s older sister. She, in turn, left the boy her sizable fortune, which Apollo would now use to destroy the man who had abandoned him on the day of his birth. The man who hadn’t even had the decency to give the wife he’d let die in her childbed a proper burial.
Evan hoped to be there when it happened.
“Evening.” Evan offered Apollo a nod and went to procure a drink. His older brother liked to play games, calling urgent meetings, then taking his time delivering the news, but Evan didn’t have patience for it tonight. “What do you have?” he asked, taking the armchair across from Apollo.
Without saying a word, the other man walked to his desk and picked up what looked like a bank-vault box. He noticed Apollo was not making light of what they were discussing tonight. He usually provoked Evan with something salacious or prodded until they came close to blows. It was like putting two tigers in a cage, but tonight he was subdued. He seemed almost somber when he sat down and gently set the box in front of Evan.
