CHAPTER 121: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND TWENTY ONE

The sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and angry orange. The light was dying, casting long, stretching shadows across the gravel driveway of Carcel’s manor.

The carriage rattled to a halt. The wheels crunched on the stones, a harsh sound in the quiet evening. The horses blew air from their noses, their breath visible in the cooling twilight air.

The door opened.

Carcel stepped down.

He did not wait for the footman to help him. He moved with a heavy, dangerous grace. His boots hit the ground with a solid, decisive thud.

He stood there for a moment, looking up at the stone façade of his house. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves of the oak trees that lined the drive. It tugged at the hem of his riding coat. Carcel didn’t feel the cold. He felt only the heat of the anger that had been simmering in his gut ever since Ines had cried in his arms.

She was shaking, he thought, his jaw tightening until his teeth ached. She was terrified.

He remembered the way she had clutched his coat. He remembered the red rims of her eyes.

Someone was hunting her. Someone was trying to take the one thing she had for herself—her writing, her voice—and turn it into a weapon against her.

Not while I breathe, he vowed silently to the darkening sky.

He turned and walked up the steps.

The front door opened before he could reach for the handle.

Lloyd stood there. He was dressed in his usual immaculate black suit. His face was calm, but his eyes were sharp. He knew the difference between a Duke returning from a pleasant afternoon tea, and a Duke returning from a war.

Carcel walked into the foyer. The gas lamps had already been lit, casting a warm, yellow glow on the marble floor.

He stopped in the center of the hall.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t say hello. He simply began to peel off his riding gloves. He pulled them off, finger by finger, with a slow, deliberate violence.

Lloyd stepped forward. He held out his hands.

Carcel dropped the leather gloves into Lloyd’s waiting palms. Then, he reached up and removed his hat. He handed that over as well.

"Your Grace," Lloyd said softly. It was a greeting, but also a question.

Carcel didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His mind was too full. It was focused entirely on one thing.

The study.

He needed a pen. He needed ink. He needed to unleash the hounds.

He walked past Lloyd, ignoring the offer of refreshments, ignoring the comfort of the fire in the drawing room. He walked straight down the hallway, his heels striking the floor with a rhythmic, military cadence.

Click. Click. Click.

He reached the heavy oak door of his study. He pushed it open.

The room was dark. The curtains were drawn.

Carcel walked in. He didn’t bother to light the main chandelier. He walked straight to his desk. He struck a match, the sudden flare of light illuminating his hard, set face. He lit the single, green-shaded lamp on his desk.

He sat down.

The leather chair creaked under his weight. He pulled a sheet of heavy, cream-colored paper from the drawer. He uncorked the inkwell. He picked up his favorite quill.

He stared at the blank white page.

For a second, he hesitated. He thought about what he was about to do. He was about to involve a dangerous man. A man who lived in the shadows. A man who found things that did not want to be found.

Mr. Vance.

Vance was not a gentleman. He was a spy. He was a man Carcel had used during the war to find enemy supply lines. He was expensive. He was ruthless. And he was very, very good.

Carcel dipped the quill into the black ink.

He began to write.

Vance,

The letters were sharp and jagged.

I have a job for you. It requires discretion, speed, and absolute thoroughness.

Carcel paused. He thought of the clue Ines had given him. The only thread they had to pull on.

Find a broker, he wrote. A man operating near the printing district. He has been buying bulk copies of a specific set of novels.

He wrote down the titles. The Duke’s Nightly Routine. The pen scratched loudly against the paper.

He is looking for the author. He is offering money for handwriting samples.

Carcel’s hand tightened on the quill. He remembered Ines’s fear. "He smelled of expensive lavender water."

Find him, Carcel commanded on the page. Find who pays him. The broker is a tool. I want the hand that holds the tool.

He dipped the quill again.

The patron is likely a woman. A woman of high standing. She uses a specific scent. Parisian Lavender.

He stared at the words. Parisian Lavender. It was a popular scent. But Vance... Vance could find a needle in a haystack if the needle had a scent.

Do not approach the broker, Carcel wrote. Do not alert him. Follow him. Find the money trail. Find the name.

He signed the letter.

Anderson.

He didn’t add pleasantries. He didn’t add a date. Vance would know.

He put the quill down. He reached for the stick of red sealing wax. He held it over the flame of the lamp. The wax melted, dripping hot and red onto the folded paper.

Carcel took the heavy gold ring from his finger—the signet ring of his house. He pressed it into the soft, hot wax.

He held it there for a moment, sealing the order with the weight of his title.

He lifted the ring. The crest of the Wolf stood out clearly in the red hardened pool.

It was done. The hunt had begun.

Carcel sat back. He felt a cold satisfaction. He had promised Ines he would handle it. And he would.

He reached for the small brass bell on his desk. He rang it.

Ding.

The sound was sharp and clear.

The door opened almost instantly. Lloyd had been waiting. He had been standing just outside the door, knowing he would be needed.

"Your Grace?" Lloyd asked, stepping into the pool of lamplight.

Carcel picked up the letter. He held it out.

"Mail this," Carcel ordered.

His voice was low. It was rough. It was the voice of a man giving an order that could change lives.

"To Mr. Vance," Carcel clarified.

Lloyd’s eyes widened slightly. He knew the name. He knew what kind of man Vance was. He knew that if the Duke was contacting Vance, the situation was not just serious; it was critical.

Lloyd stepped forward and took the letter. He held it carefully by the edges.

"Mr. Vance," Lloyd repeated, his voice serious. "I understand."

Carcel looked at his aide. He leaned forward into the light, his dark eyes burning.

"Make it known," Carcel said, emphasizing every syllable, "that it is urgent."

"Urgent," Lloyd nodded. "I will take it to the courier myself, Your Grace. Tonight."

"Yes. Tomight," Carcel agreed. "He must receive it by morning."

Lloyd bowed deep. He understood the gravity. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t ask why the Duke was hunting someone. He simply served.

"Consider it done, Your Grace."

Lloyd turned on his heel. He walked to the door, his steps silent. He slipped out, closing the door behind him.