“A failure on the part of the Royal Institute’s oversight, perhaps,” St. Clare replied mildly, the minister’s heated protest washing over him like water off a duck’s back. “Not on the part of those who ended the criminal enterprise operating beneath it.”
“Indeed,” Ashbrooke agreed gravely. “The real question before us should not be whether the duke acted appropriately—the evidence clearly shows he did—but rather how such activities were able to flourish beneath one of our most prestigious institutions in the first place.”
The Minister looked as though he might suffer an apoplexy.
General Hartwick raised a placating hand. “I believe we have heard sufficient testimony from the duke for today. Your Grace, you may go. We will summon you again should we require further clarification on the evidence provided by the Met and the Arcane Division.”
Evander rose again, grateful for the dismissal yet unsettled by how abruptly it had come. He caught Lord Ashbrooke’s eye. The older man gave him the subtlest of nods, a gesture that conveyed both reassurance and a warning.
Evander bowed to the committee. “My Lords, my Ladies.”
He turned and headed for the exit, the constable closing the doors behind him with a decisive thud after he stepped out into the corridor.
A marble hallway stretched out on either side of him, the passage empty but for a few government officials rushing about and the portraits of past ministers and generals staring down at him with varying degrees of judgement. The tall casement windows sitting in bronze frames ahead offered a view down into one of the palace’s many courtyards. An icy rain pelted the glass with thin rivulets.
Evander closed his eyes and released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. His mind churned over the interrogation he’d just endured.
They were building a case against him. Not a legal one—they had no grounds for that. But a political one, designed to pressure Queen Victoria into removing him from the Met. Beckett and his ilk had never approved of a duke sullying himself with police work and they certainly didn’t trust an Archmage they couldn’t control.
The irony wasn’t lost on Evander. He’d spent years trying to prove that magic users and thralls could work together, that justice could be served without prejudice or tyranny. And now he was being persecuted for his efforts by the very people who claimed to uphold the law.
“Your Grace.”
Evander opened his eyes and turned to find Rufus Grayson approaching from his left. The Met inspector’s curly dark hair was slightly dishevelled where it kissed the collar of his coat and his slate blue eyes were clouded with concern.
“Rufus.” Evander stared at his close friend. “I thought you were at the Yard.”
“I was,” Rufus said guardedly. “Winterbourne sent me to collect you.”
They began walking, the inspector falling into step beside him.
“Dare I ask how it went?” Rufus asked softly.
Evander grimaced. “As well as could be expected, which is to say abominably.” He lowered his voice when they passed a pair of clerks. “They’re looking for a scapegoat and I appear to be their prime candidate.”
Rufus’s jaw tightened. “Those bastards!”
Evander blinked at the vehement hiss. His mouth quirked in mild amusement. “That’s strong language coming from you.”
“And perfectly warranted under the circumstances,” Rufus grumbled. “You saved all those people. You stopped Musgrave and what would probably have been a much bigger disaster. And this is how they repay you?!”
Evander couldn’t really blame Rufus for his reaction. But he had spent enough time among the nobility to know how they operated.
“Politicians rarely concern themselves with gratitude.” He slowed as they approached the top of a staircase. “Did Winterbourne say what he wanted?”
“Only that he wanted to speak to us about the European investigation.” Unease dawned on Rufus’s face. “He seemed cautious. More so than usual.”
A knot of apprehension formed in Evander’s stomach. “That doesn’t bode well.” He cast a final look over his shoulder toward the committee room, only to freeze in his tracks.
A tall man stood deep in conversation with Hartwick outside the Parliamentary committee. The stranger’s austere features were set in concentration, his dark eyes intent as he listened to whatever Hartwick was saying.
He had an easily forgettable face. Yet, something about him made Evander’s instincts prickle.
The man glanced up. Their eyes met for a brief moment.
There was a calculating quality to his gaze, like he’d just assessed Evander in the space of a heartbeat. He dismissed Evander as if he were of no consequence and returned his attention to the general.
Evander frowned.
