Page 33 of The Toymaker's Son

“Be careful,” he said under his breath as we approached the club’s steps. “Not all is as it seems in places such as this.”

“Oh, I am aware how the genteel can be duplicitous behind closed doors.”

He cast me a side-long glance. “Massalia was eye-opening, I assume?”

“In many ways. You’d like it there.” I knocked, hoping I’d made enough of an impression during my previous visit for Minerva’s wealthiest to allow us entry without the lord accompanying us. “I dare say there’s a different kind of magic in Massalia.”

Devere studied my expression, trying to read the meaning in my smile.

“One of freedom,” I said.

The door opened, and we stepped into stifling heat, leaving the cold behind as we entered a world of brilliantly lit rooms brimming with opulence and wealth. Cigarette smoke hung in the air. Drinks flowed, glasses chinked together, and laughter tittered.

The doorman took my coat, then offered to take Devere’s. He froze, and it seemed as though he might refuse to give it up. With a quick glance at me, he let go of his stubbornness and allowed the valet to sweep the coat from his shoulders. Beneath, he wore a dark purple silk waistcoat, embellished with silver lace, over a black shirt, accentuating his lithe physique. The rest of him was clothed in black, the waistcoat his statement. And quite the statement it was.

It pained me how beautiful he was, even when scowling. The striking purple highlighted the same flare of color in his arresting eyes, bringing them to life, and under the play of the club’s countless oil lamps and roaring fireplaces, he was easily the most handsome man here.

“Good lord, the toymaker’s son,” someone exclaimed.

Devere stiffened. Had this been another time, another place, I’d have taken his hand and whispered in his ear how devastatingly beautiful he was, and how these men were nothing compared to him. They were jealous and wished they were as entrancing as he.

“Ignore them,” I said instead.

But he’d wilted under the weight of countless gazes. He hadn’t wanted to come, and I’d made him. He’d said he did not belong, and he was right, but not for the reasons he believed.

“Devere, you have nothing to fear from these people,” I muttered, not wanting anyone to hear my attempts to rally him. “None are better than you.”

He lifted his chin, tightened the top button on his waistcoat, and made for the nearest server to collect two glasses of wine. He handed me one and raised his to his lips. “Are they staring?”

“Oh, they’re staring.” I smirked. Those who didn’t want to look like him wanted tohavehim. An illicit thrill skittered down my spine.

This evening would be interesting.

“Come, I’ll introduce you,” I said.

Many of the men were older than us by several decades. They scowled at our passing and muttered Jacapo’s name. I’d successfully thrown the fox among the hens by bringing Devere. And what a fox he was.

I approached the same men I’d spent the evening with alongside Rochefort. “My condolences,” I offered for the loss of their friend. Once the typical round of thoughts for the deceased was over with, I introduced Devere Barella, deliberately making no mention of his father. As they began to discuss Rochefort’s untimely passing, it seemed as though our reception would be a welcome one.

How wrong I was.

* * *

Devere retreated from a conversation about stocks and shares, his excuse to refill our glasses, leaving me to half listen while observing those around me. I’d infiltrated the club, but there was still some way to go before the older gentlemen would speak with me.

“Ah, Russo!” Jacobi, one of Rochefort’s circle, exclaimed at the arrival of a new guest through the front door.

Jeremy Russo was almost unrecognizable out of his uniform. He entered with two other men, faces I recognized from long ago. Boys back then, men now. The three of them made up a large percentage of my old friends, who had beaten Devere behind the bike shed after I’d lied to save myself.

Russo nodded a greeting. “Good evening, Val. I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”

“Oh?” I glanced about for Devere, but he must have slipped into another room.

“How is your investigation into Jacapo’s death proceeding?” Russo asked.

“I’ve been somewhat derailed by recent events, but hope to be back on track tomorrow, actually.”

“With Rochefort gone, it all seems rather superfluous, don’t you think?”

---