Chapter 27
Viggo tugged at his collar for the fifth time in as many minutes and wondered if it was possible to be strangled by one’s own cravat.
The Royal Palace of Brussels glittered like a jewel box in the evening light, its neoclassical facade ablaze with gas lamps and magical illumination. Carriages queued along the Rue Royale, disgorging guests in silk and velvet and enough diamonds to ransom a small country.
“Stop fidgeting,” Solomon muttered beside him. “You’re making me nervous.”
“I’m not fidgeting.”
“You’ve adjusted your cravat six times since we got out of the carriage.”
“Seven,” Rufus corrected glumly from Viggo’s other side. The inspector looked about as comfortable as Viggo felt, which was to say not at all. “I counted.”
The three of them stood in the grand entrance hall, waiting for the assembled guests to finish whatever mysterious rituals were required before entering a royal reception.
Ginny had disappeared with Shaw to “assess the room,” which Viggo suspected meant finding the best vantage points for eavesdropping.
Fairbridge had melted into the crowd with his usual unnerving ability to become invisible in plain sight.
Viggo’s gaze found Evander across the hall, deep in conversation with Princess Victoria and a cluster of German dignitaries.
He looked every inch the duke in his formal evening attire, his black tailcoat, white waistcoat, and the subtle glint of the Ravenwood signet ring adding to the aristocratic elegance he projected.
His lover seemed utterly at home in his surroundings whereas Viggo felt like a bull in a china shop.
“He cleans up well, doesn’t he?” Solomon observed quietly.
Viggo grunted.
“You’re glaring.”
“I’m not glaring. I’m observing.”
Solomon rolled his eyes. “You’re glaring observantly, then.”
A footman with a tray of champagne materialised at Viggo’s elbow. Viggo took a glass more for something to do with his hands than any desire to drink. The last thing he needed tonight was dulled reflexes.
The ballroom they eventually entered was the definition of sumptuous, with ceilings painted in elaborate frescoes depicting what Viggo assumed were important moments in Belgian history and gilt and crystal everywhere he looked.
A string orchestra played something refined and forgettable in one corner.
The chamber quickly crowded with nobles and dignitaries already engaging in the peculiar dance of nobles socialising—all false smiles and hidden agendas.
Viggo hated every moment of it.
“Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Rufus said through a fixed smile.
“I am enjoying myself.”
Rufus shot him a warning glance. “You look like you’re contemplating murder.”
“That’s my enjoying myself face.”
Solomon snorted into his champagne.
Ginny swept past them in an opulent green gown, her arm linked with that of a silver-haired Belgian count who was gazing at her with besotted admiration. She laughed at something he’d said with convincing delight.
Solomon sobered beside Viggo.
“Where’s Shaw?” Rufus muttered.
Viggo swept the room with his gaze. “Over there.”
Shaw had cornered what appeared to be a Belgian court mage near the refreshment table.
Viggo could hear snatches of their conversation—something about “crystalline resonance patterns” and “thaumic field variations”—and watched the court mage’s expression shift from polite interest to genuine enthusiasm to what might have been alarm as Shaw’s questions grew increasingly technical.
“Should we rescue him?” Solomon asked.
“Give her five more minutes,” Viggo murmured. “She might learn something useful.”
“Or make the poor man faint from shock,” Rufus grumbled.
“Well, at least she’s not asking him about his sexual habits,” Solomon said laconically.
Rufus choked on his drink.
A stir near the entrance drew Viggo’s attention a short while later. A young woman accompanied by a retinue of ladies-in-waiting had entered the ballroom. The subtle shift in the crowd’s energy told him she was someone of importance.
She was striking rather than beautiful, with honey-brown hair arranged in an elaborate style and pale hazel eyes. Her gown was the blue of a winter sky, tasteful rather than ostentatious, and she moved through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to being watched.
Fairbridge appeared next to Viggo.
“Princess Elo?se of Belgium,” he murmured. “Niece of the King.”
Viggo filed this information away as the princess made her way through the room, pausing to exchange pleasantries with various guests.
It took but a moment for him to notice that there was something deliberate about her path.
He followed the line of her approach and realised she was working her way toward Princess Victoria and the cluster of German dignitaries.
And Evander.
The princess reached the duke just as the orchestra struck up a waltz. Whatever she said made Victoria smile and Evander bow formally. A moment later, he was leading Princess Elo?se onto the dance floor.
Something hot and sharp twisted in Viggo’s chest.
He watched them move together through the opening steps of the dance, Evander’s hand resting properly at the princess’s waist, their movements perfectly synchronised.
She was saying something that made him smile—that rare, genuine smile that Viggo had come to think of as his—and inclining her head close to his ear.
“Viggo.” Solomon’s voice was low and warning.
“What?”
“You’re crushing your glass.”
Viggo looked down. His fingers had tightened around the champagne flute until his knuckles went white. He forced himself to relax his grip.
“He’s only following protocol,” Fairbridge said quietly. “He has to dance with her. She’s royalty.”
“I know that.”
Rufus blew out a sigh. “Then stop looking like you want to tear the princess’s arms off.”
Viggo didn’t dignify that with a response.
Instead, he made himself watch with forced detachment as Evander and the princess completed their waltz.
She was laughing now, one gloved hand resting on his arm as they left the dance floor.
Her body language was warm, familiar—the easy intimacy of old friends.
Viggo gnashed his teeth.
This was politics, nothing more. The complicated ritual of aristocratic obligation that Evander had been born into and Viggo would never fully understand.
But knowing that didn’t make it easier to watch.
The princess was gazing up at Evander with what looked disturbingly like adoration, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. Evander said something that made her laugh again. They disappeared into the crowd.
Viggo’s jaw tightened.
“He’s playing a role, Viggo,” Solomon said. “Same as Ginny. Same as all of them.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Viggo finally tore his gaze away to meet Solomon’s steady stare. There was understanding there and perhaps a hint of his own pain. Solomon evidently knew what it was like to watch someone you cared about perform for a crowd, to smile and flirt and charm whilst you stood on the sidelines, invisible.
“It doesn’t get easier,” Solomon said quietly. “But you learn to trust what happens when the mask comes off.”
Before Viggo could respond, a footman appeared at his elbow.
“Mr. Stonewall, Mr. Fairbridge? Her Imperial Highness Princess Victoria requests your presence in the east gallery.”
Viggo exchanged a quick glance with Solomon and Rufus.
“Go,” Rufus said. “We’ll keep watch here.”
Viggo and Fairbridge followed the footman through a series of increasingly private corridors until they reached a door guarded by two German soldiers in ceremonial uniform.
They stepped aside at the footman’s nod and entered a long gallery lined with paintings and lit by softly glowing magical sconces.
Victoria stood near one of the tall windows, her expression serious. Evander was beside her. And facing them, her earlier coquettish manner entirely absent, was Princess Elo?se.
Viggo blinked. Gone was the simpering, besotted young royal from the ballroom. In her place stood a woman with sharp eyes that seemed to catalogue everything they landed on and a hard edge to her jaw, her posture that of someone accustomed to command rather than merely charm.
“Mr. Stonewall, Mr. Fairbridge,” Elo?se said, her voice cool and businesslike. “Thank you for joining us. I believe we have much to discuss.”
Viggo looked at Evander.
“Princess Elo?se is Leon’s informant,” Evander explained quietly. “She’s been investigating the same conspiracy we have. For weeks.”
Viggo turned back to the princess, reassessing everything he’d observed in the ballroom.
“That was a deliberate act,” he said slowly.
“It was necessary.” Elo?se’s mouth curved in a smile that held no warmth.
“A princess who appears foolish and romantic is far less threatening than one who asks uncomfortable questions. People talk freely around those they consider beneath their notice.” Her eyes glinted.
“I’ve learned a great deal by playing the fool. ”
Something in her tone resonated with what Viggo knew of Ginny’s own methods. Different approaches, perhaps, but the same fundamental principle: power lay in being underestimated.
“Your Highness,” Evander said formally, “perhaps you could share with us what you’ve learned from your investigation?”
Elo?se nodded curtly. “A few months ago, Lina Velghe, a woman I consider my closest friend and who also happens to be a researcher at the Brussels Institute for the Arcane, came to me with troubling news. She’d discovered evidence of something dangerous happening in the world of magic.
Experiments that violated every ethical principle our society holds dear.
” Her voice hardened. “She was frightened. She wanted to go to the authorities, but she feared the conspiracy reached too high.”
Viggo’s blood ran cold. “Something happened to her, didn’t it?”
“She disappeared.” Though her words were flat, Viggo caught the flash of pain beneath the princess’s controlled exterior. “Three weeks after she came to me. One day she was there, the next—gone. No trace, no witnesses, nothing.”
Victoria’s expression turned sympathetic. “You’ve been looking for her ever since.”
“I have resources. Connections. Access to places and people that others don’t.
” Elo?se’s chin lifted. “I’ve been gathering intelligence for weeks, following threads, building a picture of what we’re facing.
I finally came across Comte Beaulieu’s name during my enquiries about Les Prophètes Illuminés and contacted him when he returned from London.
When he told me about the events in England and the disappearances of mages and researchers across Europe, I knew we were dealing with something larger than any single country. ”
A muscle jumped in Evander’s jawline. “You sent someone to Paris. To investigate further.”
Surprise danced in Elo?se’s eyes for a moment.
“Yes. One of my most trusted aides, Pieter. He was like a brother to me. I sent him to follow a lead and then he—” She stopped, visibly gathering herself.
“He vanished too.” The princess pinned Evander with a hard stare.
“You know something about his disappearance, don’t you? ”
Viggo and Evander exchanged a troubled look.
“Your Highness,” Evander said gravely. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this. A young Belgian man was found dead in the Seine three weeks ago. He’d been investigating Les Prophètes Illuminés.”
The colour drained from Elo?se’s face, her composure finally cracking.