She did not curtsy deeper than protocol demanded. Lord Peter, standing slightly behind the earl, shifted uncomfortably. "Stifling in here, isn't it?" he offered, trying to smooth over the awkward heavy tension. "Indeed."
Simon said. He didn't look away from Margaret. There was a spark of irritation in him now. He was tired of the game.
He was tired of being hunted. He wanted to shatter the polite facade of this grasping old woman and her stoic tragic-looking niece. He leaned slightly toward Lord Peter. He kept his face perfectly composed, a polite aristocratic smile painted on his lips, as if he were delivering a charming compliment about the music.
When he spoke, his voice was conversational, meant entirely for Peter, but loud enough for Margaret and her aunt to hear. "Dieu qui ne s'arrête jamais. Simon murmured in French. "God, it never stops.
Margaret blinked. The blood roared in her ears, rushing so fast it sounded like ocean surf. Simon continued, his Parisian accent crisp, though slightly stiff. "Regardez-la."
Ses vêtements tombent en lambeaux. Une autre fille sans dot, silencieuse et stupide, qui espère qu'un titre la sauvera de la misère. C'est pathétique. Disons une banalité et fuyons.
"Look at her. Her clothes are falling to rags. Another doweless girl, silent and stupid, hoping a title will save her from poverty. It is pathetic."
Let us offer a platitude and flee. Lord Peter choked on his own saliva. He coughed into his hand, his eyes widening in horror as he darted a glance at Margaret and Lady Agatha. He knew they couldn't understand, but the sheer cruelty of saying it to their faces was a line Simon rarely crossed.
Lady Agatha, recognizing the foreign cadence and assuming it was a mark of highbred sophistication, plastered a wide simpering smile on her face. Oh, French. How delightfully continental, my lord. I have always said the French language is the very soul of romance.
Simon smiled back at Lady Agatha. It was a cold, empty smile. Quite right, madam. The very soul.
He turned to Margaret, ready to deliver a brief dismissive nod and walk away forever. He expected her to be looking at the floor. He expected a blank, uncomprehending stare. He did not expect her to be smiling.
It was a small, dangerous smile. It did not reach her eyes. Her eyes were hard, glittering like shards of flint in the candlelight. The stoic, pathetic country mouse was gone.
Margaret took half a step forward. The distance between them closed. She did not look at Lord Peter. She did not look at her aunt.
She locked her gaze squarely onto the dark, arrogant eyes of the Earl of Kelsall. The silence around them seemed to drop an octave. The clatter of the ballroom faded into a dull, distant hum. When she spoke, her voice was not quiet anymore.
It was clear, resonant, and pitched to carry exactly between the three of them. "Votre accent," Margaret said in French. Simon froze. The polite smile died on his lips instantly.
Margaret tilted her head, her expression one of mild, clinical pity. Your accent is passable, my lord, though a bit dated. You pronounce your vowels like an aging tutor from the last century. And one does not say falling to rags for silk.
It is a peasant's metaphor. But I suppose one cannot expect a Yorkshireman to understand the nuance of high fashion. Lord Peter let out a sound that was half gasp, half whimper. Simon stood paralyzed.
For a full 3 seconds, the Earl of Kelsall looked completely and utterly stripped bare. The color drained from his face, leaving his skin stark white against his black cravat. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked visibly beneath his cheekbone. He had aimed a musket at a rabbit and the rabbit had fired back with a cannon.
Lady Agatha looked between them, her smile freezing into a mask of confused panic. Margaret, what are you saying? Margaret ignored her. The French had corrected his arrogance.
Now she needed to address his manners. She shifted her weight rolling her shoulders back. The Italian language, when spoken correctly, is music. But Neapolitan Italian spoken with the rapid sharp staccato of the streets is a knife.
Sei un uomo piccolo vestito di velluto. She fired at him in a rapid fiery Italian, the syllables clipping against his ego like hail on a tin roof. Pensi che il tuo denaro ti dia il diritto di sputare sulle persone che consideri inferiori. Non sei annoiato, mio signore.
Sei vuoto. Hai l'anima di un banchiere e i modi di un cane randagio. You are a small man dressed in velvet. You think your money gives you the right to spit on people you consider beneath you.
You are not bored, my lord. You are empty. You have the soul of a banker and the manners of a stray dog. Simon's breath hitched.
He didn't understand the words. His Italian was limited to musical terms and bad wine, but he understood the tone. It was a verbal flaying. He was being undressed, dissected, and found entirely lacking by a woman wearing yesterday's silk.
He opened his mouth to speak, to apologize, to defend himself, he didn't even know. Margaret didn't give him the chance. She was not finished. Her father had taught her that if you must strike a man down, you make sure he does not get back up.
She drew in a final breath. The air in her lungs felt like ice, sharp and exhilarating. She dropped her voice. The Russian language rolled out of her heavy, guttural, and deeply resonant.
It sounded like winter. Svin'ya v zolotoi korone ostayetsya svin'ye. A pig in a golden crown remains a pig. She let the final brutal syllable hang in the air between them.
Margaret took a step back. She smoothed the frayed skirt of her amber gown with perfectly steady hands. The fire in her chest was burning bright, consuming the humiliation, and leaving only a strange cold peace. "It has been an absolute pleasure making your acquaintance, Lord Kelsall," Margaret said in flawless, unaccented English.
"I will leave you to your lemonade. Do try not to drown in it. She turned on her heel. "Aunt Agatha," Margaret said," passing the completely bewildered Lady Agatha without breaking stride. "I am going to the carriage."
You may follow when you are done fawning. Margaret walked away. She did not rush. She kept her spine rigidly straight, parting the crowd of debutantes and dowagers like a ship cutting through dark water.