Chapter 9
The cavernous interior of Charing Cross Station echoed with the hiss of steam and the rumble of departing trains.
Evander stood near Platform Seven, one hand on his leather travel bag whilst the other gripped the handle of a walking stick—a necessary affectation for a duke travelling abroad, except the silver raven’s head representing his family crest concealed a blade he hoped he wouldn’t need.
The weapon was in addition to the magical reinforced folding cane strapped to the inside of his right forearm.
The station smelled of coal smoke, damp wool, the tang of sweat that accompanied large gatherings of people, and the peculiar metallic scent of ozone coming from the arcane magic running through the engines of the locomotives and the enchanted lamps suspended from the vaulted iron and glass ceiling.
Weak morning sunlight filtered down from above, casting geometric shadows across the platform where porters hustled luggage and families bid tearful farewells.
Evander checked his pocket watch. Eight-forty.
Fifty minutes until departure.
His team assembled gradually. Rufus arrived first, the inspector carrying a bulging, battered satchel that undoubtedly contained enough paperwork to clobber someone senseless, and dragging along a small trunk of personal belongings behind him.
He greeted Evander and watched a porter take his luggage on board before scanning the crowd with the habitual wariness of a man who’d spent nearly a decade in law enforcement.
A familiar figure came into view at the opposite end of the platform next.
Rufus’s expression grew pinched. “Didn’t you warn her we were travelling light?”
Evander swallowed a sigh as they watched a porter heave a cart stacked with three trunks behind Lyra Shaw.
“She said she was bringing necessary equipment.”
Shaw spotted them and waved enthusiastically, nearly knocking over an elderly gentleman in the process.
“Your Grace!” The forensic mage threaded through the crowd with remarkable agility for someone dragging a bag that seemed to be full of lead.
“Isn’t this thrilling? I’ve never been abroad before.
Well, except for that one time in Edinburgh, but Scotland hardly counts as—oh, is that our train?
Cor blimey, it’s magnificent!” The forensic mage’s eyes gleamed excitedly as she examined the imposing steam engine beside them.
“Good morning, Shaw.” Evander’s lips quirked despite his tension. “Did you manage to pack everything you wanted?”
Shaw missed his obvious sarcasm.
“Well, most things.” She gestured at her trunks, which were being loaded on board the train by the long-suffering porter.
“Shaw,” Rufus interrupted with a scowl. “Please tell me at least one of those trunks contains actual clothing.”
“One of them does,” Shaw said defensively. “The third is entirely practical supplies.”
“Practical,” Rufus muttered with ill-concealed disgust. “Right.
“You know we may have to attend formal social functions, correct?” Evander asked a tad sharply.
Shaw stared at him like he’d suggested she perform a sexual act in the middle of Charing Cross. “What? But—no one told me anything about that, your Grace!” she protested.
Evander sighed. “It was in the briefing packet.”
Guilt danced across the forensic mage’s face. “It was?” Her eyes brightened when she spotted something over Evander’s shoulder. “Oh. Maybe I can borrow a dress from Lady Hartley.”
Evander turned toward the sound of a commotion near the station entrance.
Ginny Hartley swept onto the platform in a swirl of burgundy velvet, her travel ensemble somehow managing to be both elegant and practical.
Solomon followed a half-step behind, carrying both their bags with the careful attention of a man who knew better than to complain.
A porter brought up the rear with a sizeable trunk.
“Why is it that nobody listened to the travelling light advice?” Rufus grumbled.
Shaw leaned close to Evander.
“Is it me or is the Inspector being a bit of a killjoy, your Grace?” she hissed out of the corner of her mouth.
Evander swallowed a sigh at Rufus’s deepening scowl.
The inspector had finally worked up the courage to ask Baron Miller for his daughter Ophelia’s hand in marriage.
Evander suspected the Institute raid was what had prompted his friend to act.
They had all had a close brush with death during the Musgrave case; nothing sharpened the mind quite like an encounter with the Grim Reaper.
Now that the two lovebirds were officially engaged, their separation must be even more bittersweet. Evander felt a twinge of sympathy for his friend.
Ginny approached, oblivious to the admiring stares of the gentlemen around her as she wove through the crowd.
“I hope we aren’t late,” she said with a smile.
“You aren’t,” Evander said drily. “I’m impressed you convinced Solomon to porter your luggage.”
“I didn’t convince him of anything.” Ginny’s eyes glinted with amusement. “He volunteered.”
Though Solomon’s expression remained carefully neutral, Evander caught the faint colour creeping up his neck.
“Where’s Viggo?” Ginny asked, glancing around.
“On his way, I expect,” Evander said, trying to keep his tone casual.
“By the way, your Grace,” Shaw asked curiously, “what’s with the walking stick? Did you hurt your back?”
Solomon choked on air. Ginny grinned salaciously. Rufus looked heavenward and muttered something under his breath about patience.
Shaw studied them with a confused look.
Evander sighed. “No, I did not.”
His back was in fact still sore from Viggo’s ardent attention these past three nights. The Brute seemed determined to make up for the fact that they wouldn’t be able to share many intimate moments in Europe.
The man is a beast.
Heat warmed Evander’s cheeks as he recalled their intense lovemaking. To be truthful, he hadn’t minded being repeatedly devoured by said beast.
As if summoned by thought alone, Viggo emerged from the crowd.
Evander’s breath caught despite himself.
The Brute cut an imposing figure in his dark travelling coat, a large duffel bag slung over one shoulder and his characteristic scowl firmly in place as he navigated the press of bodies.
The crowd parted before him, people making way instinctively as they sensed his intimidating aura.
Viggo’s gaze found Evander. Something warm flickered in his dark eyes before his expression grew shuttered.
“Stonewall,” Evander said formally as his lover approached.
“Your Grace.” Viggo’s voice was equally formal.
“It’s good to see you, Mr. Stonewall,” Shaw chirped brightly, rocking back on her heels.
“I am pretty certain I told you to call me by my first name a dozen times already, Miss Shaw,” Viggo grunted. He scanned their group. “Aren’t we missing someone?”
“We are.” Rufus checked his pocket watch and frowned. “Where is this damn Ministry observer?”
“I believe I am the gentleman you’re waiting for.”
The voice came from behind them, low and measured. They turned.
Surprise shot through Evander. Rufus stiffened slightly, recognition flaring briefly in his eyes.
It was the tall man they’d seen talking to Hartwick outside the Parliamentary committee chamber in Westminster. He wore black from head to toe, the only colour on his person a small silver pin on his lapel marking him as a War Office official.
Evander smoothed his face into an impassive expression.
“Hector Fairbridge, I presume?”
Fairbridge didn’t miss the coolness of his words. “You presume correctly, your Grace.”
Evander could feel animosity radiating from Viggo in waves as he observed the stranger with an aloof look.
Up close, Hector Fairbridge was even more austere than Evander remembered.
He stood a couple of inches taller than him, his rigid bearing likely a leftover from his military days.
His face was all sharp angles, with prominent cheekbones, a blade of a nose, and a jaw that looked carved from granite.
His dark hair was shot through with grey and his eyes the colour of storm clouds.
Fairbridge looked like someone who could easily blend into a crowded room or on a busy street. Yet, the man still managed to project the same kind of danger as a venomous snake.
It confirmed what both Evander and Winterbourne had suspected.
Fairbridge was dangerous.
“A pleasure to officially make your acquaintance, Mr. Fairbridge,” Evander said politely. “I’m Duke Ravenwood. These are my associates.”
Fairbridge nodded civilly as Evander made introductions, his gaze sweeping over the assembled team with methodical precision. The man’s eyes lingered on Viggo.
“I wasn’t aware the owner of Nightshade would be accompanying us on this mission.”
Evander’s shoulders knotted. There was little chance in Hell Fairbridge hadn’t already investigated the background of every member who would form part of the investigation team. This was a subtle warning, one of likely many to come he feared.
“Nightshade has been instrumental in helping the Met track down Renwick and Musgrave,” Viggo said coldly before Evander could come up with a suitable riposte.
“I believe that more than justifies my presence here.” His voice carried a subtle challenge that had Solomon tensing and Ginny narrowing her eyes faintly.
“Shame you didn’t capture them alive,” Fairbridge said levelly.
Viggo lowered his brows.
Evander pinned Fairbridge with a cold stare.
“Right then,” Ginny said brightly in the fraught hush. “Shall we board? I believe our train is about to depart.”
The call for final passengers came from up the platform. Fairbridge fell into step beside Evander as they began moving towards their private carriage.
“You’re displeased with my presence,” he said quietly.
The statement surprised Evander as much as the frankness of the man’s tone.
“An astute observation.”
Fairbridge’s lips quirked in a brief smile at his reluctant admission. “I can’t say I blame you. I wouldn’t want a Ministry observer breathing down my neck either.” His voice dropped further. “But I’m not your enemy, your Grace. Whatever you may believe.”
Evander looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Consider me someone doing his job.” Fairbridge’s expression remained unreadable. “Which, at present, involves ensuring this investigation succeeds. We may have different masters, but our goal is the same—stop whatever conspiracy is brewing in Europe before more people die.”
Before Evander could respond, a porter opened the door to their private carriage.