11. The Party #2
Miles sat on the bed to pull on his boots, amused and a little besotted as Gabriel stepped away to line his eyes with kohl.
He truly loved his agent of chaos, with all his dramatic flair and penchant for mischief.
He suspected that if he let himself, he would find something deeply satisfying about watching Gabriel wreak havoc on the nobility of Averly.
He could even feign outrage afterward, all while secretly enjoying the destruction.
It could be fun.
If only the stakes weren’t so high.
Gabriel stepped back from the mirror, looked them both over, and nodded his approval. “Shall we?”
Miles rose, they locked the door behind them, and they made their way down the stairs and out of the inn.
The coach Miles had hired waited in the alley beside the Mourning Lark, a solid black monstrosity that smelled of damp wool and old tobacco. The driver, a man whose hat lived a precarious existence on a mop of wiry hair, tipped the brim as they emerged from the inn.
“Halebourne Hall?”
“Directly, if you please,” Miles said, ushering Gabriel into the cab’s interior.
The carriage lurched into motion, the iron-rimmed wheels clattering over the cobblestones as they wound through the Bent, over a bridge, and into the Spires. Miles settled back into the squabs, acutely aware of the magical arsenal pressing against his ribs beneath the velvet waistcoat.
Beside him, Gabriel was a study in relaxed arrogance, one leg crossed over the other to display the polished gleam of his boots. But when the carriage turned onto the wide, glistening avenues of the Spires, Gabriel’s hand found Miles’s.
“Are you ready, darling?” Gabriel asked, his voice light, ignoring the crushing weight of the air between them. “Ready to scandalize some lords and ladies?”
Miles swallowed the lump sitting in his throat. He hated scandal. Ideally, he preferred libraries, quiet study, and evenings that didn’t involve social combat with rapists. “I live to serve the narrative.” He squeezed Gabriel’s hand back.
Halebourne Hall emerged from the mist like a gilded tooth in a rotten jaw.
Unlike the brooding, fortress-like manors of the older families, Vellast’s estate was an exercise in limestone confectionery.
It was all curves and unnecessary statuary, lit by enough enchanted lamps to rival the Guild Quarter.
It screamed of money that hadn’t cured a fundamental insecurity.
The coach halted at the base of the long entry staircase. Miles paid the driver and stepped out, offering a hand to help Gabriel descend. They walked up the stairs, the sound of orchestral music bleeding out from the open doors above.
At the top, a phalanx of liveried footmen managed the ingress of Averdon’s elite. The nearest one, a young man with a face frozen in professional boredom, extended a white-gloved hand.
“Invitation, sirs?”
Miles produced the heavy cream envelope from his pocket.
As he handed it over, the tendons in Gabriel’s neck jumped against his collar.
The expression was fleeting—a flicker of repulsion—but Miles caught it.
The invitation was addressed to Lord Gabriel Goldmar .
In moments, the herald inside would boom that name across the ballroom, announcing Gabriel by the title of his abuser, forcing him to walk into the room wearing his abuser’s skin.
The footman opened the envelope, glancing at the name.
“And this,” Miles said smoothly, producing a second, smaller card before the man could speak.
The footman paused, blinking.
“An addendum regarding the formal address,” Miles said, his tone deliberately bored. “As filed with the Bureau of Noble Appellations. ”
It was a simple card, but Miles had spent twenty minutes on the calligraphy, ensuring the loops were suitably imperious. More importantly, he had stamped it with an official seal while he was out and about earlier. Averdonians loved their stamps and seals.
The footman scanned the card and bowed low.
“Understood, Lord Fairfield,” the footman murmured to Gabriel and then turned to lead them to the ballroom.
The tension in Gabriel’s jaw relaxed. He looked at Miles, his pale eyes bright.
“You think of everything,” Gabriel whispered, taking the arm Miles offered. “My brilliant, devious mage.”
The path into the beast’s belly was paved with an obscene amount of marble and plush rugs. Halebourne Hall smelled of hothouse lilies and other floral perfumes, a sickly, cloying scent that made Miles hope he wasn’t allergic to something here. A sneezing fit wouldn’t suit the moment.
They emerged onto a gallery overlooking the ballroom, a cavernous space where the air hung hot and heavy.
Below, the floor was a dizzying checkerboard of black and plum marble, polished to mirror shine.
Above, enormous chandeliers dripped amethyst crystals, casting a lurid, bruised light over the crowd.
The footman handed them off to the herald on the gallery, whispering the names and titles before excusing himself to return to his post. The herald cleared his throat, his voice magically amplified to cut through the orchestral swell.
“Lord Gabriel Fairfield of Rookgate,” the man boomed, “and Master Miles Beauchamp.”
The silencing of conversation that followed wasn’t total, but it was significant. It rippled outward from the grand staircase, a wave of suspended conversations and turned heads. Miles kept his face pleasantly blank, his eyes scanning the room.
He heard the whispers start, a hiss of sibilant gossip rising toward the gallery.
“Fairfield? I thought the Goldmar line was...”
“That’s him. The new lord of Rookgate.”
“Changed the name? Audacious.”
They descended the stairs with Gabriel’s hand delicately perched on Miles’s elbow. He didn’t look terrified; he looked curious, an eager innocent stepping into a new world. But Miles, watching the faces upturned toward them, saw the specific reactions Gabriel had predicted.
There were perhaps two hundred people in the room.
Most looked interested or bored by the new lord’s entrance.
But a half dozen or so—men with hard eyes, women who stood too still—went pale.
Miles saw a glass of wine tilt dangerously in the hand of a man near the bandstand.
He saw an older woman in teal silk abruptly turn her back, fanning herself with frantic, jerky motions.
They recognized Gabriel. Not as a peer, but as a rental.
His world seemed to devolve into a whirlwind of violent intent. He felt the sulfur bomb in his secret pocket burning a phantom hole against his ribs. He wanted to shatter the amethyst chandeliers. He wanted to turn the plum marble into a sinkhole and swallow them all.
Gabriel’s hand brushed from the crook of Miles’s elbow along his forearm and back.
No, Miles reminded himself. Fireballs were inappropriate at social gatherings, no matter how satisfying they might be. Tonight was about gathering information, not vigilante justice.
He controlled his breathing and hoped his thoughts hadn’t shown too clearly on his face. If Gabriel could do this, so could he.
They reached the floor, and Gabriel immediately deployed his weaponized charm. He didn’t wait to be shunned; he advanced.
“Lord Wrenvale!” Gabriel beamed at a man whose nose was a roadmap of broken capillaries. “I recognize you from the portraits in the Crown gallery. I must admit, the artist failed to capture the... vitality of your presence.”
Wrenvale, caught off guard by the compliment and clearly already three glasses of wine deep into his evening, flushed a deeper shade of red. “The portraits? Yes, well. You’ve... taken over the Rookgate district, then? Fairfield, was it?”
“A fresh start,” Gabriel said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“The old name felt so... heavy. I’m sure you understand the burden of history.
Being elevated so suddenly has left me at quite a loss.
It seemed easier to clear the slate of certain expectations.
Oh, but you must think me terribly provincial. ”
The performance was masterful. Gabriel had adopted a slightly breathier voice than usual, injecting a note of wide-eyed wonder into his expressions.
He appeared simultaneously overwhelmed by his newfound status and determined to embrace it, the perfect facade to disarm the suspicious and encourage the indiscreet .
“Nonsense,” Lord Wrenvale said. “I’d be delighted to introduce you to the right circles.”
Miles hovered as Gabriel wrapped up his chat with Wrenvale and moved on.
He did his best to play the dutiful companion, nodding politely as Gabriel wove through the throng.
He watched his partner work Lady Ashwyre of Moorgate, looking up at the imposing woman through his lashes and murmuring about how “daunting” the naval contracts were, asking if he might ever “impose upon her wisdom.” She melted, patting Gabriel’s hand with a maternal smile.
It was a masterclass. Gabriel was feeding them exactly what they wanted: a naive, pliable young man eager for guidance. He collected invitations to visit and offers of assistance as he went.
But then Gabriel stopped.
They were near the edge of the dance floor.
A tall man with iron-gray hair and a posture like a steel girder was attempting to edge away toward the stairs where the lady in teal had already made her escape.
Lord Thornwyck of Greycroft. Miles recognized the heraldry on his lapel, a pickaxe and mountain.
Gabriel stepped directly into his path.
“Lord Thornwyck,” Gabriel said. His voice was cloying and low. “It is a pleasure. I was just thinking about you. You attended so many of Madaze’s parties.”
Thornwyck froze. Sweat broke out instantly along his hairline. “I... I had little business with your father toward the end.”
Miles sighed to himself. Everyone seemed to know that Gabriel had been identified as Madaze’s son in the records. The Crown Offices must leak information freely.