The black carriage rolled to a smooth halt on the cobblestones of the Hamilton estate. The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant rain, but inside the carriage, Carcel felt nothing but a burning, focused heat.
He waited for the footman to open the door, his gloved hands resting calmly on his knees. When the door swung open, he stepped down onto the gravel driveway with the grace of a man who owned the very ground he walked on.
Carcel reached into his waistcoat pocket and retrieved his silver pocket watch. He pressed the catch, and the lid sprang open. The hands pointed exactly to the hour of seven.
A small, satisfied smile touched his lips.
Punctuality was a virtue, something Ines would really appreciate.
He walked up the stone steps to the heavy front door. He did not need to use the brass knocker. Before his hand could even rise, the door was pulled open from the inside.
