“I don’t think he’d be in here,” I said. “You’re sure he’s coming?”
“I’m sure.”
I wanted to hound him, to ask how my father had been sure, to get the details of the singular “phone call” he’d made. But this wasn’t the time or the place.
“Champagne?” he asked as a waiter in black walked by with delicate flutes on a silver tray.
“No. I’d rather have my wits.”
“Fair point,” he said. “I think you’re right, and he’s not in here.”
“I don’t suppose that means you’re ready to return to the House?” The question was rhetorical, I knew, but my tone was cutting.
“No,” Ethan said, eyes flashing, a reminder that he hadn’t forgotten his mission.
“Are you up for a walk?”
I’d have preferred Pumas to the heels I was currently wearing for that particular activity, but I knew what I’d gotten into.
“Why not?” I said, and we made our way through the crowd.
• • •
The Chicago Botanic Garden was actually composed of several themed gardens with weaving paths between. Evening Island was on the opposite side of the basin pond and was linked to other gardens by paths and bridges. We passed a rose garden and a small walled garden before reaching the meadow that surrounded the basin.
The night was lovely and crisp, and there were plenty of people out for a stroll. It wasn’t often you could walk through the gardens after dark, which explained why so many people had donated a pretty penny for the opportunity. Unfortunately—or not—none of those people was Adrien Reed.
The lights on Evening Island made a glow, reflecting lights like stars across the dark water that surrounded it. On a different kind of night, with a different kind of purpose, it would have been incredibly romantic. The kind of spot I could imagine Ethan proposing in. He’d want some kind of production, had already hinted that he’d given thought to the how and where, although it certainly wouldn’t be on the agenda tonight.
We crossed a wooden bridge, passed beneath budding willow trees, and stepped onto the island’s footpath, took a moment to survey the humans who’d gathered there.
The first face I recognized didn’t belong to Adrien Reed. It was even more familiar.
My father stood at a crossroads where two paths met, chatting with two silver-haired gentlemen, all three of them in tuxedos that probably cost more than most Chicagoans made in a month. My father was gesturing to the building across the water, probably waxing poetic about architecture or development, two of his favorite subjects.
He looked up, realized we’d arrived. “Excuse me,” he said, and walked toward us. The expressions of the men he left mixed curiosity and hostility.
“Merit. Ethan.”
“Have you seen him?” Ethan asked.
“Not yet. Although I was assured he planned to attend.”
“Did it occur to you that gathering information about him might put you in danger?” I asked. My tone was as sharp with my father as it had been with Ethan.
“He’s dangerous whether I’m here or not,” my father said, straightening his jacket. “It’s better for me if I’m here, where I can at least keep an eye on him. And, frankly, it’s necessary.”
“Because being on the outs with Adrien Reed could put you in a pinch,” Ethan guessed.
“Financially and otherwise.” My father slipped his hands into his pockets. “Pinch or not, you have to be careful what you do here among these people. They are wealthy, and they are powerful.”
“As he’s threatened Merit in my own home, I believe I’m entitled to a conversation.”
My father’s brows lifted, his gaze shifting to me. “What kind of threat?”
“A note promising victory at any cost,” Ethan said. “I don’t tell you that to alarm you, as Merit is safe in the House, but to make you aware. Reed continues to play a game, and he won’t stop until he believes he’s won. You heard about Caleb Franklin’s death?”
That Ethan had to ask the question said he and my father weren’t working together that closely. That helped, at least a little.