Chapter 2
Tension hummed through the chamber.
Evander’s jaw tightened. He could see the discontent on the faces of the committee members. They wanted answers he didn’t yet have. And, in the absence of them, it seemed they’d decided he would be the perfect outlet on which to vent their frustrations.
“With respect, my Lords, my Ladies, I was not the one conducting illegal experiments beneath the Institute.” His voice rang across the room like a pistol shot.
“Nor was I the one torturing innocents in pursuit of forbidden knowledge. I ended those atrocities, at considerable personal risk, alongside my colleagues in the Metropolitan Police and our associates in Nightshade.” Evander lowered his brows.
“And, lest you forget, the power that you all seem so focused on criticising during this meeting is what helped to avoid a disaster that would have killed hundreds at Charing Cross a few months ago.”
Someone drew a sharp breath at his obvious rebuke.
“Oh, I say,” an elderly lord mumbled in indignation.
“Noble words indeed,” Beckett sneered. “Yet one cannot help but wonder, your Grace, why such catastrophes seem to follow you. First, the incident with that Professor”—he consulted his notes with a snap of papers—“Renwick. Now this business with Musgrave. Why, some might suggest there is a certain pattern to your actions.”
Hartwick and Lady Farrington looked at Beckett like he’d lost his mind.
Alas, it was too late for the minister to take back his words.
The implication was clear and it ignited a spark of anger in Evander’s chest he could no longer contain. He rose stiffly, his movement causing the entire chamber to freeze and the clerk and remaining constable to practically clutch their non-existent pearls.
“If you are suggesting I am somehow complicit in these crimes,” Evander ground out, “I would ask you to state it plainly rather than hide behind insinuation.”
The air around him quivered as power poured out of his skin.
“We are suggesting no such thing, your Grace,” Hartwick said smoothly. He glanced at the chair rattling faintly behind Evander. “Merely observing that your presence seems to attract trouble, shall we say.”
“It raises questions about the wisdom of employing an Archmage in such a volatile capacity,” Lady Farrington added in a conciliatory tone. “Surely, you must acknowledge that our disquiet comes from a place of genuine concern.”
Evander’s hands were ice-cold despite the stuffy warmth of the chamber. He could feel his throat tightening and the walls of his gilded cage closing in around him, just like the time when he’d met the Queen several weeks ago and she’d demanded he hand in his badge.
They want me to resign. They’re positioning this entire inquiry to force me out of the Met.
“Gentlemen, ladies,” someone interjected from the far end of the committee table before panic could overwhelm him. “I believe we may be losing sight of the facts and indeed, the primary goal of this Parliamentary committee.”
Lord Percival Ashbrooke’s calm voice brought Evander back to his senses.
The older man’s distinguished bearing and measured tone commanded immediate attention where he sat, his back straight and his expression grave.
Not only was he a personal acquaintance of Evander, he was a well-respected earth mage known for his strategic mind and a trusted advisor to the Queen.
Evander briefly met his old friend’s gaze. Though he’d masked it well, he’d been somewhat taken aback at Ashbrooke’s presence on the committee when he’d entered the chamber.
His mouth grew dry. Now it all made perfect sense.
Ashbrooke was here to ensure the proceedings didn’t descend into a witch hunt. And he’d quite likely been sent by the Queen to defend Evander’s interests before the committee.
An intense wave of relief washed through Evander at that realisation. It seemed Queen Victoria would honour the promise she’d made to him in the privacy of her personal chambers. He sat back down, hoping no one noticed his trembling hands.
“The Duke acted within the parameters of his authority,” Ashbrooke said firmly.
“He coordinated with Commander Winterbourne, followed proper protocols, and successfully ended a criminal operation that posed a significant threat to public safety. Are we truly suggesting this warrants such baseless accusations and, quite frankly, uncalled for censure?”
“But the scale of destruction—“ Beckett protested.
“Was caused by the criminals, not by those who stopped them,” Ashbrooke finished smoothly. “Let us not forget that.”
“The Arcane Division has benefited greatly from the Duke’s service,” Lord St. Clare added from his position beside Ashbrooke.
Surprise danced through Evander. The elderly peer was known for his connections to the magical community and his generally progressive stance on thrall rights. His support was not unexpected, but it was nonetheless welcome.
“His Grace has solved cases that would have remained mysteries,” St. Clare continued.
His gaze held a warm light as he glanced at Evander.
“He has prevented disasters, saved lives, and demonstrated remarkable restraint in the use of his considerable power. To suggest otherwise is to ignore the facts in favour of political expediency.”
Beckett’s face purpled. “This committee is not engaged in politics, Lord St. Clare. We are investigating a failure of monumental proportions.”
“A failure on the part of the Royal Institute’s oversight, perhaps,” St. Clare replied mildly, the minister’s heated protest washing over him like water off a duck’s back. “Not on the part of those who ended the criminal enterprise operating beneath it.”
“Indeed,” Ashbrooke agreed gravely. “The real question before us should not be whether the duke acted appropriately—the evidence clearly shows he did—but rather how such activities were able to flourish beneath one of our most prestigious institutions in the first place.”
The Minister looked as though he might suffer an apoplexy.
General Hartwick raised a placating hand. “I believe we have heard sufficient testimony from the duke for today. Your Grace, you may go. We will summon you again should we require further clarification on the evidence provided by the Met and the Arcane Division.”
Evander rose again, grateful for the dismissal yet unsettled by how abruptly it had come. He caught Lord Ashbrooke’s eye. The older man gave him the subtlest of nods, a gesture that conveyed both reassurance and a warning.
Evander bowed to the committee. “My Lords, my Ladies.”
He turned and headed for the exit, the constable closing the doors behind him with a decisive thud after he stepped out into the corridor.
A marble hallway stretched out on either side of him, the passage empty but for a few government officials rushing about and the portraits of past ministers and generals staring down at him with varying degrees of judgement.
The tall casement windows sitting in bronze frames ahead offered a view down into one of the palace’s many courtyards.
An icy rain pelted the glass with thin rivulets.
Evander closed his eyes and released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. His mind churned over the interrogation he’d just endured.
They were building a case against him. Not a legal one—they had no grounds for that.
But a political one, designed to pressure Queen Victoria into removing him from the Met.
Beckett and his ilk had never approved of a duke sullying himself with police work and they certainly didn’t trust an Archmage they couldn’t control.
The irony wasn’t lost on Evander. He’d spent years trying to prove that magic users and thralls could work together, that justice could be served without prejudice or tyranny. And now he was being persecuted for his efforts by the very people who claimed to uphold the law.
“Your Grace.”
Evander opened his eyes and turned to find Rufus Grayson approaching from his left. The Met inspector’s curly dark hair was slightly dishevelled where it kissed the collar of his coat and his slate blue eyes were clouded with concern.
“Rufus.” Evander stared at his close friend. “I thought you were at the Yard.”
“I was,” Rufus said guardedly. “Winterbourne sent me to collect you.”
They began walking, the inspector falling into step beside him.
“Dare I ask how it went?” Rufus asked softly.
Evander grimaced. “As well as could be expected, which is to say abominably.” He lowered his voice when they passed a pair of clerks. “They’re looking for a scapegoat and I appear to be their prime candidate.”
Rufus’s jaw tightened. “Those bastards!”
Evander blinked at the vehement hiss. His mouth quirked in mild amusement. “That’s strong language coming from you.”
“And perfectly warranted under the circumstances,” Rufus grumbled. “You saved all those people. You stopped Musgrave and what would probably have been a much bigger disaster. And this is how they repay you?!”
Evander couldn’t really blame Rufus for his reaction. But he had spent enough time among the nobility to know how they operated.
“Politicians rarely concern themselves with gratitude.” He slowed as they approached the top of a staircase. “Did Winterbourne say what he wanted?”
“Only that he wanted to speak to us about the European investigation.” Unease dawned on Rufus’s face. “He seemed cautious. More so than usual.”
A knot of apprehension formed in Evander’s stomach. “That doesn’t bode well.” He cast a final look over his shoulder toward the committee room, only to freeze in his tracks.
A tall man stood deep in conversation with Hartwick outside the Parliamentary committee. The stranger’s austere features were set in concentration, his dark eyes intent as he listened to whatever Hartwick was saying.
He had an easily forgettable face. Yet, something about him made Evander’s instincts prickle.
The man glanced up. Their eyes met for a brief moment.
There was a calculating quality to his gaze, like he’d just assessed Evander in the space of a heartbeat. He dismissed Evander as if he were of no consequence and returned his attention to the general.
Evander frowned.
“Someone you know?” Rufus asked, casting a puzzled look at the stranger.
Evander hesitated. “I don’t believe so.”
He filed the encounter away as he descended the stairs with the inspector.
They emerged into the grey late morning light outside Westminster moments later.
Evander’s carriage waited at the kerb, Samuel holding the door open with his usual enthusiastic expression while Graham sat stoically in the box seat.
“Back to the Yard, your Grace?” the coachman asked quietly.
“We’re visiting Whitechapel first.”
Rufus gave Evander a puzzled look as he climbed inside the carriage after him. “Whitechapel?”
“You should come along for this,” Evander murmured evasively.
He glanced up at the imposing facade of Westminster as the carriage lurched into motion. For a moment, Evander thought he glimpsed the tall, thin man he’d seen with Hartwick at one of the windows.
He settled into his seat with a frown, Rufus’s expression equally troubled across from him.
“You look pale,” the inspector grunted.
Evander dropped his head back, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. “It’s been a long day.”
“It’s about to get longer.” Rufus’s tone turned bitter. “I heard Winterbourne mention something to his secretary about a Ministry observer tagging along on our European investigation as I was leaving his office.”
Evander’s eyes snapped open. He looked jerkily at the inspector. “What?!”
Rufus’s grim expression told him everything he needed to know.
Evander clenched his jaw until his teeth ached.
It seemed the Parliamentary committee wasn’t content with merely harassing him. They were going to saddle him with a watchdog too.