Chapter 13
Two and a half hours later found Viggo beginning to wish he were in a dinghy too.
The Royal suite assigned to Princess Victoria—or rather, the future German Empress, as he had to keep reminding himself—was more opulent than any room he’d ever set foot in, including Evander’s townhouse in Mayfair.
Gilt-edged mirrors reflected the afternoon light streaming through polished brass-framed windows, the foam-tipped waves breaking the surface of the grey sea beyond glinting under the sun.
The furniture was upholstered in deep crimson velvet that matched the silk damask adorning the walls.
A Persian carpet thick enough to swallow his boots covered the floor and the air smelled faintly of roses and expensive tea.
Viggo perched on the edge of a delicate chair that looked like it might collapse under his weight and tried not to touch anything.
Evander sat beside him with the easy grace of someone born to such surroundings, his posture relaxed despite the tension Viggo could sense thrumming beneath his composed exterior.
The duke had changed into fresh clothes after they’d boarded and now wore a dark blue coat that brought out his eyes and made Viggo want to do decidedly inappropriate things to him.
Princess Victoria poured tea with her own hands, having dismissed her lady-in-waiting with a gracious smile and a wave. She’d shed the formal bearing she’d displayed on the dock, her movements easy and unguarded as she prepared their cups.
“Sugar, Mr. Stonewall?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Two lumps, please, Your Imperial Highness,” Viggo said stiffly.
Fairbridge and Evander had given him a ten-minute lesson on royal etiquette when the invitation for tea with the Crown Princess had been delivered to their cabin the moment the ship had left Dover.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Victoria set down the sugar tongs and fixed him with an amused look. “We’re not at court, Mr. Stonewall. You may call me Princess Victoria. Or Vicky, if you prefer, though I suspect that might be a step too far for you at present.”
Viggo blinked. He glanced at Evander, who was pressing his lips together as if suppressing a smile.
“Princess Victoria it is,” Viggo said carefully.
“Much better.” She handed him his tea, the China cup absurdly dainty in his large hands. “Now then, I’ve been dying to meet you properly ever since I spotted you on the dock, what with you being Evander’s lover and all.”
Viggo nearly dropped the cup. “I—I beg your pardon?!”
Victoria smiled slyly. “Those are the very words Evander spoke when I questioned him about the matter.”
Viggo looked at Evander and nearly fell off his chair.
The duke was pinning Victoria with a scowl that Viggo was pretty certain was against royal protocol. What happened next shocked him even more.
Victoria rolled her eyes at Evander with a familiarity that indicated they had danced this verbal dance a thousand times before.
“Alright, I shall stop teasing, so please lose the glower.”
Viggo’s stomach sank as he registered a daunting truth. Evander and the princess were more than mere acquaintances.
“The two of you appear to be quite close.” He couldn’t help the trace of accusation that coloured his words.
Victoria’s expression grew amused.
“Duke Ravenwood was chosen to be one of the royal children’s companions from an early age,” she said lightly. “We grew up with one another.”
Viggo knew there was more to the story. Just as he was aware neither Evander nor Victoria could or would willingly talk about it.
Tension knotted his shoulders as he recalled the incident when Evander had been summarily summoned to the palace weeks ago.
His lover had never gone into details about what had happened that day.
It seemed Evander’s connection to the royal family was more complex than he’d initially thought.
Victoria sighed. “Come now, you are wound up as tight as a spring, Mr. Stonewall. And if Evander grips that teacup any harder, he will smash the handle. I honestly just want to converse with the pair of you casually.”
Viggo’s gaze shifted from Evander’s white knuckles to the muscle jumping in his cheek.
“Your Imperial Highness,”—Evander started stiffly—“Princess Victoria—”
“Drink your tea, Evander,” Victoria said pleasantly. “I’m having a conversation with Mr. Stonewall. You’ll get your turn to fret later.”
Viggo felt his lips twitch despite himself. There was something refreshing about Victoria’s directness, even if it still made him uncomfortable.
“So.” Victoria settled back in her chair with her own cup and studied Viggo with pale blue eyes that were far too shrewd for his liking. “Nightshade. Quite the enterprise you’ve built there.”
Viggo’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on his cup. “You know about Nightshade?”
“My dear Mr. Stonewall, modesty does not suit you,” Victoria said tartly.
“Your guild’s reputation extends well beyond London, as you are no doubt well aware.
We hear whispers of it even in Berlin.” Her expression grew thoughtful.
“An information network run by thralls, for thralls. Helping those society has cast aside whilst simultaneously gathering intelligence that even governments struggle to obtain. It’s rather remarkable, actually.
” She glanced at Evander. “I can see why the duke’s interest was piqued. ”
“Someone has to look out for the people the nobility would rather forget exist,” Viggo said flatly.
Victoria’s gaze sharpened. “Indeed. That that someone is a man who, by all accounts, should have perished in the streets as a child but instead built an empire from nothing is something that fascinates me.” She tilted her head. “Tell me, how did you manage it?”
Viggo shot Evander a wary look. The duke’s expression had grown pinched, but he remained silent, apparently unwilling to defy Victoria’s earlier command.
“I had help,” Viggo admitted slowly. “My uncle took me in after”—he stopped and swallowed hard—“after my family died. He gave me a chance when no one else would.”
“Your village was massacred during the zealot purges following the War of Subjugation,” Victoria stated quietly. “You were six years old at the time.”
A ringing sounded in Viggo’s ears. The room tilted slightly. He realised he was holding his breath and forced himself to inhale.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I made it my business to know.” Victoria’s voice had lost its playful edge.
“After the War of Subjugation ended, my mother and grandfather attempted to document the atrocities committed by the zealots. Some records were destroyed by those intent on burying the truth, but most survived. Your village was among those recorded.” Her gaze held sympathy.
“I’m sorry for what happened to you, Mr. Stonewall.
And I’m sorry it took so long for justice to find Marquess Grimm. ”
Viggo’s throat constricted.
Marquess Ezra Grimm was the leader of the Archmages behind the War of Subjugation and the man who had personally destroyed Viggo’s village and branded him with a signet ring bearing the initial of the name he had gone by in those days.
The fact that the man was long dead, murdered by a mob of thralls in the prison where he had been incarcerated, was of little comfort to Viggo even after all these years.
He was dimly aware of Evander’s hand moving as if to reach for him before the duke caught himself and returned it to his lap.
“Thank you,” Viggo murmured in the fraught hush. “For apologising for something you weren’t directly responsible for.”