Chapter 21
“Let me see if I understand correctly,” Rufus said stiffly as they stepped down from their carriages around the corner from Brassard’s residence in the Faubourg Saint-Germain that evening.
“We’re about to walk into a gathering hosted by a man probably connected to dark mages and murderers.
Without police backup. Based on information from a woman who admits her sources keep dying. ”
“That’s about the size of it, yes,” Ginny said. “And that’s the third time you’ve said that in the last hour. It’s starting to get old.”
Rufus scowled.
Evander couldn’t exactly blame him. It was a dangerous plan. Even though he was the one who’d approved it after they’d shared their findings that afternoon, he couldn’t completely contain his misgivings.
“Leon is going to have our balls when he finds out about this.”
Viggo flashed a frown his way. “We’ve established that your ex is rather well known in the city and maybe even to Brassard. We couldn’t exactly let him prance in there, even with an Illusion Amulet. Besides, he’ll be too busy analysing the notebook I gave him.”
Evander felt a chill at the thought of the dead man from Brussels. Leon had been particularly upset about the news.
Solomon adjusted his cravat awkwardly. “Speaking of prancing, I feel like a peacock about to waltz into a nest of vipers.”
Evander eyed Viggo and Solomon’s evening attire. Ginny had outdone herself; the two men looked every inch the bodyguards of wealthy foreign industrialists, their jackets expertly tailored to accommodate their muscular frames.
“The two of you look fine,” Ginny reassured as they approached the residence.
“We look like we’re about to attend a funeral,” Viggo muttered.
“Hopefully not one of ours,” Shaw said with sobering honesty. The forensic mage squinted at Evander. “I must say, your Grace. That Illusion Amulet is doing a banging job. You seem positively ordinary, as does Mr. Stonewall.”
Evander swallowed a sigh. He’d barely recognised himself when he’d looked in the mirror that evening.
Even Viggo had seemed shocked when he’d come out of his room.
The Brute’s fearsome figure had shrunk considerably under the effect of his own Illusion Amulet and he now appeared to be of a similar build to Solomon.
Shaw shifted her attention to Fairbridge. “As for Mr. Fairbridge, he looks, well—”
“Like someone you could pass in the street a dozen times and still not recognise,” Rufus murmured.
Fairbridge appeared pleased at that. No one had the heart to tell the man he gave that impression even without the amulet.
The Brassard mansion was an imposing edifice of pale stone and tall windows that blazed with golden light. Carriages lined the street outside it, depositing guests in glittering evening wear. Laughter and the strains of a string quartet drifted through the open doors.
“Everyone has their Anti-Shadow Magic ring?” Evander muttered as they neared the entrance.
There was a chorus of murmured “Yes.”
The crystal amulet Philippa Scarborough and Elias McAndrew had created for them a few weeks ago to help alert them to the presence of shadow creatures and combat the vile monsters they’d encountered during the Royal Institute incident had been refined to a narrow silver ring set with a small opal stone.
With the scope of their enemy’s plans becoming evident, Winterbourne had commanded McAndrew and the Artificer’s Lab to mass-produce the device for Met officers.
A liveried footman checked their invitations, hastily procured through Brassard’s secretary after Ginny had sent a message to the viscount, and admitted them into a marble foyer that could easily have graced one of the royal residences in England.
“Showtime.” Ginny’s expression transformed into one of languid sophistication as she glided forward on Evander’s arm, Fairbridge beside them.
They’d agreed on their cover stories that afternoon.
Evander and Fairbridge were American industrialists with interests in Franco-British trade—vague enough to resist scrutiny, yet specific enough to explain their presence.
Viggo and Solomon were their bodyguards.
Rufus would be playing Evander’s English secretary, whilst Shaw was Fairbridge’s new and bumbling assistant.
“Remember,” Evander murmured as they followed the flow of guests and moved deeper into the mansion, “we’re here to gather information. Nothing more.”
“Unless we find evidence of dark magic activity,” Viggo said quietly.
Evander exchanged a guarded glance with the Brute.
“Unless that, yes.”
The ballroom they entered could have swallowed Evander’s Mayfair townhouse.
It was a cathedral of excess, with gilded mirrors, silk wallpaper, and enough crystal chandeliers and candles to illuminate a small village.
A hundred or so guests mingled beneath frescoed ceilings depicting scenes from Greek mythology, their conversation a constant hum punctuated by bright laughter and the clink of glasses where they’d concentrated near an immense table packed with expensive delicacies and dominated by a glittering champagne tower.
The air was thick with perfume, cigar smoke, and the subtle undercurrent of magic that accompanied any gathering of the wealthy and powerful.
Evander’s senses immediately prickled.
There was something else beneath the expected magical signatures he was sensing. A faint taint, barely perceptible, that made the hairs on his nape stand on end.
Dark magic. Old and carefully concealed, but unmistakably present.
He caught Viggo’s eye and gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Viggo’s face hardened at the subtle signal. The others registered it too.
It was the code they’d agreed upon if he so much as breathed even a hint of corrupt magic inside the residence.
Evander accepted a glass from a passing servant and used the moment to scan the room.
He recognised several faces from the descriptions in Clementine’s dossier—minor nobility, wealthy merchants, a handful of individuals whose fortunes had mysterious origins.
Nothing overtly sinister if you didn’t dig too deep.
But the dark magic residue was still present, clinging to the walls like old smoke.
Brassard was either a dark magic user or had had dark magic rituals performed in his mansion. From Clementine’s sources, it was probably the latter.
“There,” Fairbridge said softly, inclining his head toward a portly man holding court near the fireplace. “Our host.”
Viscount Alphonse Brassard was smaller than Evander had expected, with thinning hair pomaded across a sweating scalp and eyes that darted constantly around the room.
He wore his wealth like armour. A diamond stickpin, gold watch chain, rings on every finger.
But there was something nervous in his manner. Something almost brittle.
Ginny let go of Evander’s arm and headed toward Brassard, her blue gown and glittering jewellery drawing admiring glances as she moved through the crowd.
The viscount’s face lit up when he spotted her.
He excused himself from his guests and met her halfway across the ballroom.
Ginny extended her gloved hand with a dazzling smile.
Brassard bowed and kissed the back of her hand with fawning delight.
Ginny removed a fan from her reticule and moved it coquettishly in front of her face while she spoke to the man in a low voice. She indicated Evander and his entourage where they stood a short distance away.
Brassard pinned them with a curious stare before raising his glass and acknowledging them with a polite smile.
Evander and Fairbridge nodded in return.
They had passed the first test.
Ginny had Brassard laughing within moments, the man utterly captivated as he leaned close to her.
“She’s good,” Fairbridge observed.
“She’s the best,” Evander concurred. “Now, let’s work the room.”
Solomon’s face tightened, his gaze lingering on Ginny as he followed Fairbridge.
The next hour passed in a blur of vapid conversation and understated information gathering.
Evander played his role impeccably, discussing trade routes and shipping costs with men who had no idea they were speaking to a duke, his American accent flawless.
Fairbridge proved equally adept at social manoeuvring as he conversed a short distance away, his dry wit charming several guests who might otherwise have questioned their presence at the soirée.
Viggo and Solomon stayed close to them, ever the watchful bodyguards.
Beneath his exemplary performance, Evander’s attention remained fixed on the dark magic signature permeating the house. He’d sent out several weak pulses of elemental power and determined that it was strongest near the back of the mansion.
He was about to suggest to the others that they regroup near the hors d’oeuvres table when he realised Shaw was missing.
Evander excused himself from the group of men he was conferring with and discretely beckoned Rufus, Viggo close on his steps.
“Where’s Lyra?” Evander murmured.
“She went to the powder room.” The inspector frowned. “Though that was a little while ago.”
Evander’s shoulders knotted. He scanned the chamber, searching for the forensic mage’s mousy brown hair and petite figure. Relief flooded him when he spied her slipping into the ballroom via a back door.
She made her way swiftly through the crowd toward them.
Evander straightened when he recognised the familiar gleam in her eyes.
“She’s found something,” he said quietly.
They regrouped discreetly near a pillar.
“There’s a door at the end of the servants’ corridor,” Shaw murmured urgently. “It’s guarded. I found traces of Noctis Bloom on the floor nearby.”
Tension radiated off Viggo. “The cellar.”
Evander’s pulse had quickened. “You’re certain?”
“I’d stake my reputation on it. The residue was fresh—no more than a day old.” Shaw’s gaze was bright with barely suppressed excitement. “Whatever they’re hiding, it’s down there. It might be that shipment the Nightshade operatives mentioned.”
Evander caught Fairbridge’s eye across the room and gave a slight nod.