Page 22 of Arcane Entanglement

“Just because I’m not interested in matrimony doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a dance once in a while,” Evander said, barely masking his irritation.

“Pardon the crudeness my Lord, but everyone in this room knows you prefer bollocks to tits,” Hargrove said bluntly.

Mrs. Sinclair dropped the cup she’d been gathering from the tea table. It hit the Persian rug and bounced.

Evander groaned.

Ginny bit her lip hard, shoulders quaking.

“I mean, not that we even know what kind of bollocks you like, since you never bring them home,” Hargrove prattled on, oblivious to the unhealthy shade of red rising in Mrs. Sinclair’s face. The manservant rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he observed Evander. “You should visit that club soon, my Lord. You could do with blowing off some steam.”

“That’s what I said!” Ginny exclaimed in a vindicated tone.

“Jesus,” Rufus muttered under his breath.

“That’s it!” Mrs. Sinclair roared. She pointed imperiously at the door. “Mr. Hargrove,out!Inspector Grayson, please be so kind as to take Lady Hartley home. Master Evander, to bed with you.”

Rufus and Ginny protested as she shooed them towards the exit, Hargrove wearing a martyred expression ahead of them.

“Mrs. Sinclair,” Evander called out as the housekeeper prepared to step out of the room.

She paused on the threshold and turned. “Yes, my Lord?”

“How are Samuel and Graham?”

Her expression softened at his concerned tone. “They are not any worse for the wear, my Lord. Young Samuel was all fired up after witnessing Lady Hartley in…action,” she said diplomatically. “I gave him a toddy and sent him to bed.”

Relief loosened Evander’s shoulders. “Good. Please grant them the day off. I shall get a hansom cab in the morning.”

Mrs. Sinclair dipped her head. “As you wish, my Lord.”

It wasn’t until Evander was slipping under the plush, goose-down comforter of his four-poster mahogany bed that the Brute the Met had arrested came to his mind.

The man had appeared utterly terrified and befuddled when he’d emerged from the melting ice block he’d been encased in. The blood had drained from his face upon realising his whereabouts and seeing the officers surrounding him, truncheons at the ready in case he made an attempt to escape. No one had been more shocked than Evander when he’d fallen to his knees instead and begged them not to kill him.

Evander frowned at the underside of the green velvet canopy.

He was like a different creature altogether from when he attacked us.

Brutes were a rare breed among the magicless. Gifted with Herculean builds and extraordinary strength, they were renowned for their remarkable resilience, their immunity to pain, and their resistance to all but the strongest magic. Though the first mention of a Brute was made in historical records in the late 1600s, their origins were still unclear to this day. Only one thing was certain about them. They were exclusively men.

After Evander learned of the War of Subjugation and the Brutes who played a crucial role against the zealot mages howling for the blood of innocents, he’d thought their existence a miracle borne of nature.

Like he’d said to his brother John before the latter’s untimely death, it was as if the world had decided to lend a helping hand to the powerless thralls by granting them monstrous beings who could defend them.

Brutes considered mages their archenemy. Which made the situation Evander had found himself in tonight the more puzzling.

His last thought before sleep claimed him was the mysterious message Ophelia Miller had imparted to him before he’d left Ashbrooke House. One that seemed even more prophetic now than it had appeared at the time.

Chapter11

“His name is Alastair Millbrook,”Rufus said sombrely. “He was a talented Charm Weaver and renowned craftsman known for his ability to create powerful magical artefacts.”

Evander frowned at the body of the dead man on the examination block of the morgue. He had heard of Millbrook.

Heavy rain drops struck the imposing arched windows of the special wing of Scotland Yard that housed the Arcane Division. Even the dreary daylight seeping inside the chamber could not mask the marked lividity of Millbrook’s body.

A tall, gaunt man with a pale complexion and a shock of white hair was deftly incising the corpse, scalpel slicing through skin and fat with a proficiency that spoke of years of experience.