Page 107

Chapter 27

Art arrived at Rivendale’s townhouse the morning after his arrival in London. He wanted to settle this business as soon as possible. It infuriated him that his peer—much less his former friend—was threatening him and the woman he loved.

Rivendale’s townhouse was dark, dank, and imposing. Its corridors were drafty, empty—no portraits, no decorations. Hell, barely any furniture.

Rivendale’s butler, a thin, almost skeletal man with hollow cheeks, led him down the dimly lit hall.

If Art hadn’t known the owner of the house, he might have been genuinely unnerved. A draft blew past him, the chill making it feel as though the house was haunted by ghosts.

How does Rivendale live here?

The butler stopped before a large oak door and knocked twice.

“Come,” a harsh, low voice growled from within.

The butler opened the door and announced, “Lord Wakefield for you, my lord.”

Then he bowed and disappeared, leaving Art alone in the darkness. Or at least, it felt like he was alone.

He swallowed hard and stepped inside.

Across the room, a fire blazed, casting a golden glow over a small patch of space. To the right stood a desk, behind which sat an imposing figure, engulfed in shadow.

The firelight didn’t reach far enough to illuminate his face. For a fleeting moment, Art felt as though he had walked into one of those gothic stories he used to read to Lydia.

He almost expected a beast to lunge at him from the darkness. Instead, a man leaned forward—revealing a familiar face.

Lord Nathaniel Eugene Blake, the Marquess of Rivendale.

“Nathaniel,” Art greeted. “I received a rather rude missive from you a few days ago. Must have been a mistake.”

Rivendale frowned. “If you thought it was a mistake, then why are you here?”

Art stepped closer. “Because I won’t have anyone threaten the woman I love. Even in jest.”

“Would you mind stepping into the light?” Rivendale cocked his head, studying him. “Or better yet, take a seat.”

Art sat across from him, leaning forward.

“Arthur,” Rivendale said, puzzled. “My people told me I’d be dealing with a marquess.” He grimaced. “They did say the new Marquess of Wakefield… I should have made the connection. But it’s been so long since we last saw each other.”

“You’ve been quite the recluse.”

“So have you,” Rivendale agreed. A pause. “I suppose congratulations are in order for your new title?” Rivendale mused. “The old bastard has finally left this world.”

Art cleared his throat. “He did.”

“Hm.” Rivendale sniffed. “So? What’s this business about the woman you love?”

Art exhaled slowly. “Ah. Well. She is not a thief. You are mistaken,” he said earnestly—if not truthfully.

Rivendale’s eyes narrowed. “Then why isn’t she here?”

“Why would I bring her here and risk you intimidating her?” Art countered. Then he waved his hand in Rivendale’s general direction. “Look at you, frightening anyone who dares to enter your den.”

Rivendale didn’t answer.

“Listen, Nathaniel… we’ve known each other a long time,” Art pressed on. “And yes, we’ve drifted apart. But if this is still about that blasted locket—why don’t I help you find it instead?”