Thursday night, and with it Arkwright's gala, was fast approaching, and Lestrade was beginning to get very uncomfortable with this whole thing. Perhaps it was just his being 'shockingly conventional', as Holmes had supposedly put it, but the more he thought about it the more the plan seemed utterly absurd and doomed to failure. He'd tried to focus on his other casework, but his mind seemed determined to distract him by conjuring the worst possible scenarios, and then making them even worse every time he had a second to himself and his imagination could get out. It didn't help that Hopkins hadn't shown the least signs of preparation - he hadn't even shaved his moustache yet, for crissakes!
By the time Thursday evening finally rolled around, Lestrade had nearly worked himself into a fit over the matter. His fidgeting was almost worse than Hinchley's - Hinchley being the unfortunate constable that Gregson had roped into escorting Hopkins - who was trying valiantly to not look uncomfortable in an evening coat tailored for someone not-quite his size.
"Stop fidgeting with your cufflinks," Gregson scolded the constable, straightening his tie for him. "There, you look downright respectable. Doesn't he?" Lestrade nodded noncommittally. Hinchley was probably the most respectable-looking of the men that hadn't garnered public attention, and, admittedly, he had demonstrated some improvisational skill in the past, but there was a reason that the man was still a Constable despite being Gregson's peer and a good deal more grey.
"Nobody'll notice," Jones added from the corner he'd settled into. It was not exactly a secret about the Yard what they were getting up to, and though most of the other Inspectors were busy and the Constables didn't dare be so bold where their superiors were concerned, Jones had appeared about an hour ago and announced his intentions to stay and 'see the boys off'. He had also given the other three men a rather mischievous smile and informed them that he had worked with Hopkins as a Constable, though he would say no more on the subject. Lestrade had strongly considered throttling him, but he'd been largely silent since.
"All the better. Now we just need the lady," said Gregson. There was another thing to fray Lestrade's nerves. The party started in a half-hour, where the deuce was Hopkins?
There came a knock at the door despite it being ajar, and a young constable - Foyle, if Lestrade's memory served him - peered in. "Inspector Lestrade? There's a - uh?" He disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with a sheepish look and a slight flush to his cheeks. "Th-there's someone to see you," he said quickly, before disappearing again.
The door swung open, the nervous young Constable being replaced entirely by a tall, slender young woman. Suddenly the constable's blushing and stammering was made clear - the woman was, to put it plainly, stunning. Almond eyes, defined cheekbones and a delicate nose were framed by deliberate cascades of curls the dark, rich color of italian chocolate, caught up with a jeweled comb and not-quite spilling onto the gold-and-green silk shawl that covered her shoulders. Her olive-green satin evening gown was low-cut and draped with a jeweled broach, leaving her arms bare but for the delicate suede gloves pulled over them, and about her neck was caught a green silk ribbon draped with delicate gold chains and an emerald teardrop. She smiled sweetly as she stepped into the room with the bearing of a noblewoman, her gaze sweeping over each of the men in turn and lingering a moment on Jones.
"Good evening," she said, fluttering her long eyelashes at her audience. "And which of you dashing gentlemen is to be my escort?"
"Evening, Hopkins. Looking lovely as ever," Jones remarked, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.
Lestrade would have gaped, but belatedly realized that he already was. Gregson let out a strangled sound and choked. Hinchley blushed straight to the roots of his grizzled hair.
Lestrade was, surprisingly, the first one to recover. "H-Hopkins?" he managed.
Hopkins - or, rather, the stunning woman that he had somehow transformed into in the last four hours - rolled her - his, dammit, his! - eyes at Jones and let out a distressingly feminine giggle. "There's a reason I was promoted for this."
Lestrade nearly sighed in relief, only holding back because he was sure it would be taken poorly given the context. For the first time that day, he had a glimmer of hope that this wouldn't be a total disaster. "Lestrade, your revolver?" Hopkins prompted, holding out one white suede glove. Lestrade wordlessly handed over the weapon. Hopkins hiked his skirts up to his hip, revealing layers of crinoline, silky feminine undergarments, and a garter on his upper thigh that he slipped the gun into.
When he looked back, all four men had their backs turned, and the tips of even Jones' ears were an impressive shade of red. Hopkins let a most unladylike smirk curl on his lips.
"Something wrong, gentlemen?"
Hopkins knows exactly what he is doing. Hopkins is kind of evil that way.