“Your Grace.” The spy’s voice was quiet enough that only Evander and Viggo could hear. “What you did in that monastery—in the convergence and afterwards. It was an extraordinary feat of magic.”
Evander met his gaze steadily. “Will that be in your report?”
Fairbridge was silent for a long moment. “My report will state that Duke Ravenwood and his team conducted themselves with courage and professionalism throughout an extremely dangerous mission, successfully achieving their primaryobjectives despite significant obstacles.” He paused, a wry smile stretching his mouth. “Some details are best left unwritten.”
Evander offered the spy his hand. Fairbridge shook it.
“Safe travels, Mr. Fairbridge.”
“Your Grace.”
The spy melted into the night, leaving Evander alone with Viggo.
“Home?” Viggo asked.
Evander studied the Brute.
His lover was tired, his clothes rumpled, his dark hair in desperate need of a wash. Yet, he was the most beautiful thing Evander had ever seen.
“Home,” he agreed.
CHAPTER 45
A weekafter 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 ofLa Traviataat 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.
