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 hairhad 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 likethat.” 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 façades 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.
