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“Company?” I lift my chin slightly. “Are you suggesting a room full of vacuous conversation is worth my time?”
He raises his hands in a plea for truce, but his smile doesn’t waver. If anything, it deepens.
“You complain, yet here you are. A few words won’t kill you.”
I shift away.
“Perhaps someone in there will even manage to crack that composure of yours.”
“My balance requires no further shaking, Richard.”
“Twenty minutes. Then you’ll be free. You’ll appear, leave a trail and vanish like a polite ghost.”
“If I am truly to vanish,” I mutter with a hint of irony, “ensure my ashes aren’t trapped inside this place.”
“With all my devotion,” he replies, laughing softly.
We cross the threshold. Crystals and velvet everywhere, illuminated by chandeliers that leave no room for shadows. The voices merge into a single, constant hum that is difficult to ignore.
“Lord Richard, Viscount Rochefort.”
I turn. Idris Nabil is moving toward us. His short jacket and sharply tailored trousers give him an impeccable air, though a few rogue locks fall over his hazel eyes.
“Mr. Nabil,” I say with a nod.
“Idris,” Richard exclaims, surprised. “You here as well.”
He smiles, resting a hand on Richard’s shoulder. “Aren’t you glad to see me, my lord?”
Richard shakes him off with a quick motion. “Not particularly.”
He moves ahead, leaving him behind. I follow, hearing Idris’s laughter slip through the crowd behind us.
“You don’t like this Nabil, do you?”
“I wouldn’t put it exactly like that.”
Liar.
“Then what is the problem?” I insist, noting how his eyes dart among the guests.
“No problem, Evander. Truly.” He stops for a moment and gestures toward the room. “Look, a larger crowd than usual.”
“Wonderful...”
He grabs a flute of champagne and offers it to me.
“No, better...” I respond, tilting my head toward the brandy on a nearby tray.
Richard brings the flute to his lips, sips, and shoots me a look. “Going in heavy today.”
“Don’t you overdo it.”
“Never happened, Viscount.”
He shifts his gaze toward a corner of the room. “Count Nádasdy is conversing with Lord Dorian.”
I follow his gaze. The Count’s dark, slicked-back hair—almost wet in appearance—contrasts sharply with the ivory streaks in the hair of Lord Presumption.
