Fickle promises?

Vincent barely had time to step through the grand entrance of his mansion when Orson appeared before him, his usual composure frayed with urgency. The steward moved swiftly, reaching to take Vincent's coat and hat, but his eyes scanned behind him expectantly, as if searching for someone.

"Your Grace," Orson began, his voice composed like that of a good butler. "Did Lady Prudence leave the mansion on your orders?"

Before Vincent could respond, his eyes caught something that only deepened his growing unease—blood stained the sleeve of Orson's coat. He was already trying to piece today together. Either one of his old rivals was back or there was a new challenge out there.

His brows furrowed. "Was there an attack? Is Prudence in danger?"