“It seems we have a busy evening ahead,” Rufus observed worriedly.
Evander could tell he was not overly enthused at the prospect of attending a royal reception.
“I’ve never been to a royal reception,” Shaw croaked. “What does one wear to one?” The blood gradually drained from her face as she stared at Evander. “Your Grace, I don’t think I packed anything suitable.”
“Breathe, Shaw,” Rufus said wearily.
“I have contacts with several excellent Brussels modistes,” Ginny said briskly. “We can have something suitable arranged within a few hours.”
“For all of us?” Solomon asked with undisguised dread.
Ginny’s smile held a hint of mischief. “Don’t worry, Mr. Barden. I remember your measurements.”
Solomon’s expression suggested he found this less reassuring than intended.
Relief flooded Shaw’s face. She grabbed Ginny’s hand. “You’re a lifesaver! Also, I need some kind of lesson on royal etiquette. I am certain I shall put my foot in it, otherwise.”
“At least you have insight,” Rufus muttered.
Willems had been watching this exchange with apparent amusement. “A reception at the Royal Palace. How marvellous.”
Evander rose, signalling the end of their meeting. “Inspector Willems, we appreciate your assistance. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow to discuss your findings regarding the Institute?”
“Of course!” Willems heaved himself to his feet, scattering crumbs in his wake. “I shall make the arrangements. Discreetly.” He winked.
Willems departed, leaving a trail of coffee drips and cheerful farewells in his wake.
Evander turned to find Fairbridge watching him with a speculative expression.
“Thoughts?” Evander asked quietly.
“He’s smarter than he appears,” the spy said.
“Agreed.” Evander moved to the window and gazed out at Willems’s figure disappearing in the rain-slicked streets of Brussels. “The question is whether that makes him useful or dangerous.”
CHAPTER 27
Viggo tuggedat his collar for the fifth time in as many minutes and wondered if it was possible to be strangled by one’s own cravat.
The Royal Palace of Brussels glittered like a jewel box in the evening light, its neoclassical façade ablaze with gas lamps and magical illumination. Carriages queued along the Rue Royale, disgorging guests in silk and velvet and enough diamonds to ransom a small country.
“Stop fidgeting,” Solomon muttered beside him. “You’re making me nervous.”
“I’m not fidgeting.”
“You’ve adjusted your cravat six times since we got out of the carriage.”
“Seven,” Rufus corrected glumly from Viggo’s other side. The inspector looked about as comfortable as Viggo felt, which was to say not at all. “I counted.”
The three of them stood in the grand entrance hall, waiting for the assembled guests to finish whatever mysterious rituals were required before entering a royal reception. Ginny had disappeared with Shaw to “assess the room,” which Viggo suspected meant finding the best vantage points foreavesdropping. Fairbridge had melted into the crowd with his usual unnerving ability to become invisible in plain sight.
Viggo’s gaze found Evander across the hall, deep in conversation with Princess Victoria and a cluster of German dignitaries. He looked every inch the duke in his formal evening attire, his black tailcoat, white waistcoat, and the subtle glint of the Ravenwood signet ring adding to the aristocratic elegance he projected.
His lover seemed utterly at home in his surroundings whereas Viggo felt like a bull in a china shop.
“He cleans up well, doesn’t he?” Solomon observed quietly.
Viggo grunted.
