"Oh, I don't know," Rupert says with a shrug. "Leprosy. Scarlet Fever. The plague."

But Rupert knows that none of these assurances are going to get him a handshake anytime soon. He turns the extended hand into a flick, dusting off a speck of something from the lapel of Victor's rather lovely black trenchcoat. There's a hint of a smirk to Rupert's expression; he still gets to achieve that silent, insistent touch that Victor seems to determined to evade. Speck removed, he gives the taller man an absent, breezy smile.

"And yes, I'm rather difficult to scandalise. It'll take more than pretending not to know what 'at your service' means, I'm afraid."