“Viggo.” Solomon’s voice was low and warning.
“What?”
“You’re crushing your glass.”
Viggo looked down. His fingers had tightened around the champagne flute until his knuckles went white. He forced himself to relax his grip.
“He’s only following protocol,” Fairbridge said quietly. “He has to dance with her. She’s royalty.”
“I know that.”
Rufus blew out a sigh. “Then stop looking like you want to tear the princess’s arms off.”
Viggo didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he made himself watch with forced detachment as Evander and theprincess completed their waltz. She was laughing now, one gloved hand resting on his arm as they left the dance floor. Her body language was warm, familiar—the easy intimacy of old friends.
Viggo gnashed his teeth.
This was politics, nothing more. The complicated ritual of aristocratic obligation that Evander had been born into and Viggo would never fully understand.
But knowing that didn’t make it easier to watch.
The princess was gazing up at Evander with what looked disturbingly like adoration, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. Evander said something that made her laugh again. They disappeared into the crowd.
Viggo’s jaw tightened.
“He’s playing a role, Viggo,” Solomon said. “Same as Ginny. Same as all of them.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Viggo finally tore his gaze away to meet Solomon’s steady stare. There was understanding there and perhaps a hint of his own pain. Solomon evidently knew what it was like to watch someone you cared about perform for a crowd, to smile and flirt and charm whilst you stood on the sidelines, invisible.
“It doesn’t get easier,” Solomon said quietly. “But you learn to trust what happens when the mask comes off.”
Before Viggo could respond, a footman appeared at his elbow.
“Mr. Stonewall, Mr. Fairbridge? Her Imperial Highness Princess Victoria requests your presence in the east gallery.”
Viggo exchanged a quick glance with Solomon and Rufus.
“Go,” Rufus said. “We’ll keep watch here.”
Viggo and Fairbridge followed the footman through a series of increasingly private corridors until they reached a doorguarded by two German soldiers in ceremonial uniform. They stepped aside at the footman’s nod and entered a long gallery lined with paintings and lit by softly glowing magical sconces.
Victoria stood near one of the tall windows, her expression serious. Evander was beside her. And facing them, her earlier coquettish manner entirely absent, was Princess Eloïse.
Viggo blinked. Gone was the simpering, besotted young royal from the ballroom. In her place stood a woman with sharp eyes that seemed to catalogue everything they landed on and a hard edge to her jaw, her posture that of someone accustomed to command rather than merely charm.
“Mr. Stonewall, Mr. Fairbridge,” Eloïse said, her voice cool and businesslike. “Thank you for joining us. I believe we have much to discuss.”
Viggo looked at Evander.
“Princess Eloïse is Leon’s informant,” Evander explained quietly. “She’s been investigating the same conspiracy we have. For weeks.”
Viggo turned back to the princess, reassessing everything he’d observed in the ballroom.
“That was a deliberate act,” he said slowly.
