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Dante looks both ways down the street, then hooks my hand around his elbow. In silence, we stroll to the next corner at a less conspicuous pace. A few figures approach, sending panic rising to my throat, but as they draw near, I see no sign of the brass pin the dead men were wearing or anything else to suggest that they’re Durrely Boys. From the sway of their steps, I take it they’ve just come from drinking. Dante tips his hat like a proper gentleman, and I try to act as casual as I can. It takes all my restraint to keep the flurry of questions from bursting from my lips. We approach the next street, which—thank the All of All—is illuminated by an open tavern.
Just as we’re about to reach the intersection, Dante turns me to face him. Framing my shoulders with his hands, he looks me up and down.
I shake myself from his grip. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for blood,” he says, tone matter-of-fact.
“Blood?”
“You might have been spattered during the brawl, and I’d rather our ruffled state didn’t give away the fact that we were just assaulted by a gang. Ah. There, on your chin.”
I bite back a repulsed squeal and fling my gloved hand over my lower face, rubbing furiously. As I lower my hand, Dante shakes his head.
“Allow me.” He takes a step closer, but I flinch back.
“I can do it myself.” I rub my chin again, but Dante pulls my hand away.
“You’re missing it completely. Hold still.” This time, when he reaches for me, I freeze. He braces one hand gently on my shoulder and brings the tip of his gloved thumb to the corner of my mouth. Brow furrowed in concentration, he swipes his finger in soft strokes over my skin. He makes to step away, then shakes his head. “On your neck too.”
“Disgusting,” I say, wondering which of the dead men’s blood now graces my flesh.
With clinical precision, Dante places a finger under my chin and angles my head to the side. Like he did with my chin, he begins to brush his fingers over the side of my neck. I inhale a sharp breath, my neck far more sensitive than my face. I try to hide my reaction by clearing my throat. “Are you going to answer my questions yet?”
He says nothing at first, just continues wiping at my neck. When he speaks, his voice is low. “I’m Prince Albert’s decoy.”
“His…decoy?”
“Every one of King Grigory’s children has one, not to mention the king himself. I’ve served Bretton’s military since I was a boy, and it wasn’t long before I was recruited as Albert’s decoy. We are not twins, of course, but we do have similar features. The same gold hair and blue eyes. Similar facial structure. No one who truly knew the prince would mistake us, but in public events where safety was required, I often stood in Albert’s place.”
He steps back and gives a nod to indicate he’s finished.
“So your mission had you serving as his decoy since arriving here?” I ask.
“Yes, and while we never expected to fool you, we fully intended to escape the detection of the press. Albert and I look similar enough that a few drunken photographs and in-person encounters with common pub-goers wouldn’t reveal the truth. Like me, Albert cleans up well. It would be easy for unwitting strangers to believe we were one and the same.”
It makes sense, I suppose. There’s little chance the real prince would ever interact with those who saw Dante at the pub. And photographs—while far more damning than a simple sketch—can still be deceiving.
“What about the tour?” I ask.
He gives me a withering look. “Your tour certainly threw a wrench in our plans. Now check me over.”
I frown, trying to reconcile the two statements. Then I realize the latter was a request for me to assess him the same way he did me. My eyes fall to his white shirt and tie, which are no longer white at all. I wrinkle my nose. “You’re covered in blood.”
As he works the knot in his tie, he casts a glance down the street, then at the pub. Two men loiter outside the doors, talking loudly, but they don’t seem to notice us huddled at the corner. He removes his tie and begins loosening the buttons of his collar. “Albert declined your engagement tour at first because we knew it would complicate my mission.”
“Then why did you—or he—agree to it when I came to the Salty Satyr?”
“Because I realized what a mess my actions had made for you. The apology I gave you was genuine. I never meant to harm your reputation with my mission.” He finishes unbuttoning his shirt and asks, “Blood?”
My eyes widen when I take in how much of his chest he’s exposed. Although I suppose it suits the prince’s reputedly rakish character. I point to the left side where his open collar remains saturated with evidence. He flips it this way and that, which does no good. With a roll of my eyes, I step forward and take matters into my own hands. My cheeks burn with heat as I tuck his filthy collar beneath his frock coat, which happens to give me a strong sense of the firm musculature beneath his flesh. Then, patting the collar in place, I say, “You’re good now.”
I lift my eyes to his and find his lips are curled into a smug smirk. “You’ve got quite nimble fingers,” he says.
Flinching, I pull my hand from his torso. “I’m a dressmaker. Of course I have…nimble fingers.” Why he found it necessary to comment upon them or flash me that stupid dimpled smirk is beyond me. Before I can think much of it, I whirl away from him and march around the corner.
He follows, keeping close to my side. “Do you wish to continue?”
“Continue what?” I say without looking at him.
