I am not here for an apology. Simon turned fully to face her. The cynical, bored facade he had worn the night before was completely gone. In its place was a sharp, calculating intensity.
I came because I require a service. Margaret raised an eyebrow. I'm afraid I do not hire out as a dancing instructor, my lord. Your French vowels are entirely beyond saving.
A muscle ticked in Simon's cheek. He actually let out a short, harsh breath that might have been a laugh if it hadn't sounded so entirely humorless. You have a venomous tongue, Miss Lindfield, he said softly. I have a survival instinct, Lord Kelsall.
They're often mistaken for the same thing. Simon reached into the inner pocket of his heavy coat. He withdrew a thick stack of folded vellum tied together with a dark leather ribbon. He tossed it onto the small, wobbly tea table between them.
The papers landed with a heavy thud. "What is that? Margaret asked, refusing to lean forward to inspect it. Correspondence, Simon said."
He pulled off his leather gloves one finger at a time, his eyes fixed on her. For the past 6 months, a consortium of shipping merchants operating out of Naples and St. Petersburg has been attempting to undercut my coal exports to the Mediterranean. They are succeeding. They are doing so by bypassing my agents and dealing directly with the harbor masters.
Margaret stared at him utterly bewildered. Fascinating. And what exactly does this have to do with me? These letters were intercepted by one of my captains last week.
They detail the exact bribes, the schedules, and the names of the port officials involved in the squeeze. Then, have your clerks translate them and take the matter to the trade authorities. My clerks, Simon said, his voice dropping to a low dangerous register, are currently under suspicion of being paid off by the very consortium trying to ruin my routes. The letters are in a ciphered dialect.
A mix of Neapolitan street slang, maritime shorthand, and Russian Cyrillic. Margaret glanced down at the stack of vellum. A slow terrifying realization began to dawn on her. Simon stepped closer to the table.
I took them to a professor at Oxford. He managed one paragraph before admitting the syntax was a bastardized mess he couldn't unravel. He said it required someone who hadn't just studied the languages in a classroom, but someone who had lived in the gutters of those cities. Someone who understood the rhythm of the slang.
He looked directly into Margaret's eyes. "Sei un uomo piccolo vestito di velluto. Simon repeated. His Italian was atrocious, mangled by his English tongue, but the words were accurate."
He had memorized her insult. "I believe that is what you called me. Margaret's breath hitched. She fought to keep her face impassive."
"You want me to translate your stolen mail?" she said slowly. "I want you to decode the destruction of my competitors. Simon corrected. "I need someone completely disconnected from my business.
Someone my enemies do not know exists. And more importantly, someone whose absolute ruthlessness I have experienced firsthand. "I am not a clerk. "No, you're a woman with no dowry, no prospects, and an aunt who is entirely reliant on your ability to catch a husband before the butcher stops extending credit.
The blunt truth of it hit Margaret like a physical blow. She flinched, her nails digging into her palms. The sheer arrogance of him to walk into her home, strip away her dignity, and lay her poverty bare on the table. "Get out."
Margaret whispered. Simon didn't move. "I will pay you. "I said get out.
"£3,000. The number hung in the damp air of the parlor. It was absurd. It was staggering."
£3,000 was not just money. It was freedom. It was enough to pay off her father's remaining hidden debts. It was enough to buy a cottage in Somerset away from Lady Agatha, away from the suffocating sneers of the town.
It was independence. Margaret swallowed hard. She looked at the door. She looked at the letters.
She hated him. She hated the severe cut of his coat, the unyielding line of his mouth, the fact that he could throw around a sum of money that would alter the entire trajectory of her life as if he were tipping a stable boy. "Why me? Margaret asked, her voice tight."
"You have endless resources. You could find another linguist. "Because you hate me. Simon said simply.
Margaret blinked. "If I hire someone who likes me or someone who fears my title, they will tell me what they think I want to hear. Simon explained. His eyes were dark, serious."
There was a weariness in him that she hadn't noticed at the ball. "They will soften the blows in the text. You, Miss Lindfield, would gladly tell me the ship is sinking while handing me an anvil. I need the unvarnished truth of these documents."
I need a translator who won't hesitate to give me bad news. Margaret stared at him. It was a bizarre, twisted logic. It was also entirely correct.
She stood up. She smoothed the skirt of her plain morning dress. She walked over to the tea table and picked up the stack of letters. The vellum felt thick and expensive.
She untied the leather ribbon and unfolded the first page. The handwriting was a cramped, frantic scrawl. She scanned the first few lines. It was exactly as he said, a chaotic blend of Cyrillic characters spelling out Italian maritime slang.
It was a linguistic nightmare. It was also brilliant. "They are operating out of the Bay of Naples. Margaret murmured, her eyes darting across the page."
"But the backing is Russian. "Orlov most likely. "The syntax in the second paragraph implies a winter harbor. Simon stood perfectly still."
He watched her face change. The stoic bitter mask melted away, replaced by an intense razor-sharp focus. Her eyes flicked back and forth, her lips moving silently as she pieced together the puzzle. "Can you do it?" he asked.
Margaret folded the letter and tapped it against her palm. She looked at him. The fire was back in her eyes. "Yes."