‘The ferrets! The ferrets are loose!’ someone screamed in tones of blind panic, and the circle of onlookers shattered in their desire to get away, see what was going on, or both. Irene took advantage of the distraction to return to circulating through the crowd, listening for comments relating to mind control, cerebral controllers or Doctor Brabasmus.

It was easy to drift from discussion to discussion. However, after half an hour of this she was beginning to think that the greatest invention of all would be an Automatic Listener, wound up and programmed to record conversation around key-words.

Then she heard the name Brabasmus over to her right, just a few feet away.

She nodded in agreement, as her latest cover complained about her funding – or lack thereof. Then she stole a glance to her right. Two men, both elderly, were chatting loudly. One had a German accent and both affected boiler suits and leather harnesses rather than evening dress. One wore a sleek black wig and a mask ornamented in amber and jet. The other was balding, sporting a plain mask and heavy canvas gauntlets. These were ill-considered, as they made it difficult for him to hold his wineglass.

‘Of course they said it was an accident,’ Black Wig was saying. ‘No doubt it was also an accident that someone cornered the market in radium and quap, just a few days before that. Not to mention what happened to Quantrelle.’

‘What about Quantrelle?’ That was Gauntlets. ‘I heard she published something last October. Was she was working on programming theory?’

‘Yes, that was the official story,’ Black Wig shot back. ‘But I had it from Pierre Gevenheim – you must know him, he’s at the Sorbonne – that she was focusing on brain patterning. Not programming theory at all. She was basing her work on Brabasmus’s theories. And she went missing last December. Or rather, they said she was hired by a private client.’ His snort made it clear what he thought of that.

‘I see you’re admiring my perfectly cyborged Siamese,’ someone directly in front of Irene said smugly.

Irene hastily refocused her attention on the man addressing her, while trying to keep up with the nearby conversation. The cat perched on his shoulder was a beautiful specimen of Siamese cat – or it had been, before someone inlaid wiring into its skull, added steel-tipped claws and replaced its eyes with gleaming red crystals. ‘Good heavens,’ she said diplomatically. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘Exactly.’ He offered her one of the glasses of wine he was carrying. ‘My dear, I could feel your gaze across the room. You must tell me your name.’

‘Whether or not Brabasmus was involved, you’re wrong about Quantrelle,’ Gauntlets said firmly. ‘She’s here tonight – I ran into her earlier, holding court by the ice rink.’

‘Yes, but did you see her scars?’ Black Wig demanded. ‘And her left leg?’

‘She didn’t have a left leg.’

‘Precisely!’

‘Anne Viltred,’ Irene said, taking the proffered glass of wine and trying to work out how to get rid of the man. ‘Timisoara University.’

‘Not the Professor Viltred?’ he said in surprise. The light glittered on the mica inlay of his mask. ‘What a delightful surprise.’

Irene noted, with the sour recognition of one fake for another, the way that he’d skilfully managed to imply he knew about her and her work without having to say what it was, while also complimenting her with the title of professor. ‘You’re far too kind,’ she parried. ‘And you are?’

‘Ruthven Davison.’ He clinked his glass against her own, the cat perching comfortably on his shoulder glaring at her with those crystalline eyes. ‘Bottoms up, my dear! Then you can tell me all about your work.’

Irene mentally scanned the list of famous scientists which Columbine had provided for tonight. The name didn’t appear. And she had suspicions about the glass she’d been handed. A deliberate attack on her, or opportunistic predatory behaviour towards a young woman on her own? ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I never drink wine.’

Meanwhile Gauntlets had been thinking. ‘Quantrelle isn’t on the speakers’ list for tonight,’ he said, ‘but Pieters is. And Pieters collaborated with Brabasmus on his cerebral work five years ago. If anyone knows about his work . . .’

‘Now don’t give me that,’ Ruthven Davison said, leaning in close. It was like being accosted by Lord Silver, but without the charm. ‘A woman as beautiful as you must be able to manage a glass of wine. And something more, perhaps.’ His gaze dipped from her eyes to her bodice.

Irene’s patience, already somewhat attenuated, snapped. She let herself smile sweetly. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said, lowering her voice for his ears only. ‘My field of research is geriatrics, you know, and I’m actually eighty years old. Would you like to go somewhere more private, so I can share some of my . . . secrets?’

He boggled at her, his uncertainty visible in spite of his mask. This was, after all, the sort of situation where she might well be speaking the truth. Irene stepped back as he hesitated, retreating with a faint smile towards the conversation she’d been monitoring.

Annoyingly the men were already moving away, still talking. She turned to pursue them, when a familiar posture caught her eye and she nearly spilled her drink.

That couldn’t be . . .

He turned a little, so that Irene could see his profile despite the mask, and she cursed silently. What in the name of sanity was Shan Yuan doing here, stalking through the assembly like a leopard and doing a remarkably bad job of being inconspicuous?

She reluctantly gave up on her two targets – she’d already gleaned some useful names. Perhaps Vale could follow up on those later. Shan Yuan was now assessing the people around him with a cold and imperious eye and snubbing the few who tried to speak to him.

‘Good evening,’ she said, insinuating herself next to him and sliding her arm through his before he could back away. Her mouth was curved in a smile, but her voice was very nearly a snarl as she murmured, ‘Your highness, what are you doing here?’

‘Your job, it would seem.’ He didn’t try to distance himself – no doubt because it would have looked undignified to try and shrug her off – but there was clear annoyance in his eyes. ‘This Brabasmus must be found and the technology investigated. I see no reason why I should not assist you. You may thank me later.’

If I don’t kill you first. ‘Have you worked undercover before?’ Irene demanded. Somehow the your highness failed to materialize.

His eyes glinted dragon-red. ‘You aren’t showing an appropriate degree of gratitude.’

Irene abandoned courtesy for plain speaking – although quietly, as anyone could be listening. ‘If you’d honestly wanted to assist, you’d have told us rather than sneaking in like this. How did you get inside, anyway?’ It wasn’t as if he knew this London, after all.

For a moment he seemed about to refuse to answer, but then he smirked. ‘Your apprentice assisted me.’

‘Catherine?’ Irene demanded, torn between fury, disbelief and horror. She’d been so relieved that the Fae girl was safe. If Shan Yuan had dragged her into trouble, being Kai’s brother wouldn’t save him.