Chapter 45
A week after their return to London, Evander found himself standing in the foyer of his Mayfair townhouse, tugging at his white gloves and trying to ignore the argument unfolding behind him.
“I specifically said medium heat, Mr. Hargrove.” Mrs. Sinclair’s voice carried from the direction of the kitchen, sharp with indignation. “Medium! Not the fires of perdition!”
“The recipe called for a hot oven, Mrs. S,” Hargrove protested. “How was I to know your scones would combust?”
“They did not combust. They carbonised. There is a difference!”
“Is there?” Hargrove said in a deadpan voice. “Because from where I was standing, they looked distinctly on fire.”
Evander swallowed a smile and wondered, not for the first time, how his household had survived this long without burning to the ground. In truth, he’d sorely missed his housekeeper and his manservant’s friendly bickering while he’d been away in Europe.
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Sinclair said with icy dignity, “if you hadn’t been regaling poor Rosie with tales of your naval exploits instead of watching the oven—”
“She asked! Was I supposed to ignore the lass?”
“You were supposed to prevent my scones from becoming charcoal briquettes!”
The kitchen door banged open. Hargrove emerged from the corridor, his usually immaculate appearance somewhat dishevelled and a smudge of what might have been soot decorating his cheek. He spotted Evander and had the decency to look slightly abashed.
“Your Grace. You look very fine this evening.”
“Thank you, Jasper.” Evander arched an eyebrow. “Dare I ask about the scones?”
“A minor culinary incident. Nothing to concern yourself with.” Hargrove straightened his coat with as much dignity as he could muster. “Mrs. S is perhaps being slightly dramatic.”
“I heard that!” came the outraged cry from the kitchen.
“You were meant to!” Hargrove retorted.
Evander sighed and turned his attention to the mirror, checking his appearance one final time. His evening dress was impeccable. Black tailcoat, white waistcoat, perfectly tied cravat. The opera demanded nothing less.
It was Fairbridge who’d sent him the tickets to that evening’s performance of La Traviata at the Royal Opera House. No one had been more surprised than Evander at the unexpected gift. Viggo’s reaction, on the other hand, had been perfectly predictable.
Footsteps on the stairs drew Evander’s attention. His breath caught in his throat when he turned.
The Brute looked like something out of a dream as he descended the staircase.
The evening clothes Hargrove had procured for him fit his powerful frame perfectly, the black wool emphasising the breadth of his shoulders and the stark white of his shirt a striking contrast against his tanned skin.
His dark hair had been tamed into something approaching respectability and he had even shaved.
He was magnificent. He also appeared to be contemplating murder.
“I feel ridiculous,” Viggo growled as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
“You look—” Evander had to stop and swallow hard. “You look nice.”
Hargrove scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Nice is an understatement, my Lord. I believe you mean to say he looks like a Greek god who shall ravish you later tonight.”
Evander narrowed his eyes at his manservant.
Hargrove shrugged. “I speak no lies, my Lord.”
“I look like a stuffed peacock,” Viggo said sulkily.
“A very handsome stuffed peacock,” Hargrove offered helpfully.
Viggo’s glare could have curdled milk.
“Might I suggest,” Hargrove continued, apparently immune to self-preservation instincts, “that if the gentleman finds the evening’s entertainment not to his liking, he could always remain here?
I’m sure his Grace wouldn’t mind attending alone.
The opera is rather long, after all. Three acts. Consumption. Tragic death. Weeping.”
Evander shot his manservant another quelling look.
Hargrove smiled at him with studied innocence.
“I’m going,” Viggo said flatly. He adjusted his cuffs with short, irritated movements.
“There’s no knowing what kind of leech will attach himself to him if I let him go out looking like that.
” He indicated Evander’s splendidly attired form, his eyes burning possessively as he raked Evander from head to toe with his gaze.
Evander’s belly clenched.
“How wonderfully martyred of you,” he murmured.
He moved closer to straighten the Brute’s already-straight cravat. It was merely an excuse to touch him.
From the way Viggo’s expression smouldered, he knew it too.
Hargrove cleared his throat, interrupting the intimate moment.
“The carriage is ready,” the man servant declared, mercifully choosing not to comment on the attraction sizzling between the mage and the Brute.
They made their way outside, where Graham sat waiting in the driver’s seat and Samuel held the door open. The evening air was crisp and cold, winter’s grip firm on the city.
The journey to Covent Garden passed in comfortable silence. Evander watched the city roll past through the window. Gaslit streets, milling crowds, and the grand facades of townhouses unfolded before giving way to the bustle of the theatre district.
London felt different since their return. Safer, somehow, despite the knowledge that their enemy was still out there, still plotting.
Or perhaps it was simply the relief of being home.
The Royal Opera House blazed with light as they arrived, its classical columns illuminated by dozens of gas lamps and enchanted orbs.
Carriages queued along the street, disgorging gentlemen in evening dress and ladies in silk and jewels.
Evander caught more than a few curious glances as he and Viggo made their way inside.
Some admiring, some seemingly scandalised, all quickly averted when they realised they’d been noticed.
“They’re staring,” Viggo muttered.
“Let them.” Evander placed his hand briefly on the small of Viggo’s back as he guided him through the crowd. “I find I care less about society’s opinion than I once did.”
Viggo arched an eyebrow. “That’s new.”
“A great many things are new.” Evander smiled drily. “Come. Our box awaits.”
The private box Fairbridge had secured was one of the finest in the house, positioned perfectly to see both the stage and the glittering assembly below.
Red velvet curtains framed the space, heavy enough to muffle sound from the corridor outside.
The seats were plush and comfortable, arranged to provide an excellent view while maintaining privacy from neighbouring boxes.
Viggo surveyed the surroundings with the eye of a man accustomed to assessing potential threats. Apparently satisfied, he lowered himself into one of the chairs with a grunt.
“Wine?” Evander asked, gesturing to the bottle that had been left chilling in a silver bucket.
“God, yes.”
Evander poured two glasses and handed one to Viggo before settling into the seat beside him.
Below them, the auditorium continued to fill, a swirl of colour and movement and the low murmur of hundreds of conversations.
The orchestra was tuning up in the pit, producing the familiar cacophony that always preceded a performance.
“Thank you,” Evander said quietly. “For agreeing to come tonight.”
Viggo’s hand found his in the shadows between their seats. “You know I can never refuse you.”
“I remember several instances in the last week when you did, in fact, refuse me,” Evander said tartly.
Viggo blinked. Realisation dawned. A seductive smile curved his lips.
He lifted Evander’s hand and kissed his knuckles. “You always tell me to stop, but your body nevertheless always says otherwise.” He leaned closer and whispered in Evander’s ear, “Especially that pretty cock of yours. Never mind your sweet, hot, ho—”
Evander muzzled him with a hand, heat creeping up his neck even as his cock twitched. “Will you behave?!”
Viggo chuckled, his breath tickling Evander’s palm.
The lights began to dim. The audience quieted. The first notes of the overture swelled through the auditorium.