The plan was working perfectly. That should have been the first warning sign.
Viscount Harlow's salon was a sea of velvet, silk, and polite hypocrisy.
Nobles stood in tight clusters, sipping wine and exchanging barbed compliments.
Marcus and Damien moved through the room like a two-headed hydra of masculine friendship. They stayed within arm's reach of each other at all times.
"Excellent point about the Second Era cavalry tactics," Marcus said loudly.
He nodded with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Truly, your insight into military history is fascinating, Lord Blackthorn."
"Please, call me Damien," Damien replied, his voice projecting to the back of the room.
"And I must say, your analysis of supply lines is revolutionary. It reminds me of your brother's strategic potential."
They clinked their glasses. It was a performance worthy of the Royal Theater.
Marcus scanned the room. No heroines in sight. The "Interceptor" strategy was holding.
