Evie’s face brightened. “Splendid. That gives us enough time to get things settled.”
“Settle what?” her brother asked, but she did not answer.
Evie sat up. “Oh! Which reminds me.” She turned to Georg. “You work in the Imperial War Council, don’t you?”
The sudden change of topic took him aback. “We have some of our meetings there, indeed.”
She tilted her head aside. “Can you show it to me, please?”
Her brother snorted. “Why on earth would you want to visit that place?”
Her head tilted to the other side. “Because I am, naturally, curious to see where my bridegroom and future husband works.”
She put on her bonnet, tied it, and took several steps towards the door. “Aren’t you coming?”
She looked directly at Georg.
“Me?” He pointed a finger at his stomach.
“Why yes? Who else?”
Julius slapped his shoulder. “Good luck, my friend, you will need it.”
Georg drank up his whiskey and set the empty glass down carefully. Dealing with one Stafford-Hill was a matter of diplomacy. Dealing with two, it appeared, required a full defensive mobilisation.
“Where are we going?”
She’d taken him firmly by his arm and almost dragged him out to the street. Heaven forbid if she wanted to take him bonnet shopping.
“You didn’t seem at all surprised when you saw me,” she said instead of answering. She searched his face. “When did you figure out that Miss Honeywell is Miss Honeywell and I am me?”
“Far too late, to my eternal shame.”
“At the inn?” she pressed. “As soon as we arrived at Wolfsthal? Oh. It must have been at the hunt.”
“During the card game that first night. You shuffle the cards the same way as Aldingbourne.”
“Bother and botheration. I suppose I would make a terrible spy if Metternich ever did manage to recruit me. Something silly like card shuffling would give me away.”
“On the contrary. You are too good at it, which is why I did not see it sooner. But the moments when you forget yourself, every emotion is on your face. Now, back to my original question. Where are we going?”
She drew him across the street.
“Do you have a pistol on you?”
He came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the street. “A pistol?”
“You know. That device that one commonly uses to shoot people.”
“Not on my person, no.” He drew out his words and looked at her through half-closed eyes.
“Lawks.” She chewed on her lower lip, deep in thought.
“When in civilian clothes, I do not normally go about armed. And when I am in uniform, I wear my sabre.”
“Which is entirely useless. More for decoration than anything else.”
“I beg your pardon?” His nostrils flared with outrage. “It is certainly not decorative. It is a fully functioning weapon with a sharp blade, crafted of the best steel the empire can produce.”
