“A message?” Sebastian said in surprise.
“Yes,” said the innkeeper. “It’s from your friend, Lord Fine.”
Sebastian let out a breath of relief. “What did he say?”
“He said he’s afraid he’s going to be detained longer than expected, and to meet him at the masquerade tonight.”
Sebastian blinked. “Lord Fine saidmasquerade?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re sure?”
“Absolutely,” the woman said, with certainty. “I saidoh, you mean the one for the governor’s son—he lives around here and it’s been in the papers—and he saidthat’s the one. Tell Mr. de Leon I’ll make sure he’s been added to the guest list.”
“Oh.” Sebastian sat back in his chair. “Okay. Thank you.”
She handed him the piece of paper and then went back out through the restaurant into the lobby.
Sebastian looked at the paper, but it didn’t say anything more than the woman had said. He set the note down on the table.
Had Wesley found evidence of poisoning? Evidence of Alasdair at the Hartman home, or maybe a connection to the others, and he needed a reason for Sebastian to join him?
Whatever the reason, Wesley wouldn’t be at a masquerade unless it was important. Apparently Sebastian was going to need a tuxedo.
Wesley glanced around the factory, from Langford with the gun to Alasdair with his bouncer bodyguards. “Just to be clear, you do know Alasdair is a murderer?” he said to Langford.
“Oh come now, I’ve heard Langford’s stories about the two of you in the war,” Alasdair said pleasantly. “We’re all murderers here.”
“If you think a transparent attempt to throw the past in my face will solicit some sort of emotional response, you’re sorely mistaken,” Wesley said coldly. “Langford, I demand an explanation.”
Langford gestured with the gun. “Do you have any idea what you’ve gotten mixed up in?”
“Doyou?” Wesley said incredulously.
“Your friend.” Langford spat the word. “Sebastian de Leon. And Alasdair here. They have magic.”
“Magic?” Wesley forced every ounce of derision he could muster into the word. “Did you just hear yourself? Has Alasdair been plying you with his wares?”
“Do I seem drunk or drugged?” Langford said.
No. He didn’t. Neither did the large men standing behind Alasdair, who were staring at Wesley with unfriendly expressions.
Wesley took a breath. “Magic isn’t real, major.”
“I suppose you think Sebastian carried a bit of antique Spanish jewelry on him for sentimental reasons, then?” Alasdair said.
Wesley shrugged. “He said he inherited it from his grandfather.”
“Shut up, Fine,” said Langford. “It’s pointless to lie to me, I remember your tells. And I know why you’re nothing like the old Captain Collins. You’re under de Leon’s enchantment; that much has been obvious since Manhattan.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Wesley said, ignoring how his pulse had picked up speed. He turned to the men behind Alasdair. “You two are just going to stand there and listen to this lunacy?”
“We’ve seen it,” the bigger one said. “It’s a lot scarier than the whining of a fancy lord.”
“Don’t underestimate Fine,” Langford said warningly. “He might be under a spell, but he’s quick. Inventive. Ruthless. And if things go south, he’s got an iron stomach for other people’s pain.”
The men exchanged a glance.
