"Then we have an agreement. "We do. Margaret said, "but on my terms. Simon's eyebrows rose."
"You are in no position to negotiate terms, Miss Lindfield. I am the only one who can read the lock on your competitor's vault, Lord Kelsall. I am in the only position to negotiate. She dropped the letters back onto the table."
"I will not work here. The light is terrible and my aunt will hover. Furthermore, I will not be treated as a servant. I am a linguistic consultant."
You will address me with respect and you will stay out of my way while I work. Simon stared at her. He was used to being obeyed instantly. He was not used to being dictated to by a woman standing on a moth-eaten rug.
A slow terrifying realization washed over him. He wasn't annoyed. He was intrigued. "My carriage will collect you tomorrow morning at 8:00."
Simon said. "You will work in my study at Danvers House. You will have all the light and quiet you require and I will pay you half the sum up front. "I expect the draft drawn on the Bank of England.
Margaret countered. "Done. Simon turned toward the door. He paused his hand on the brass knob and looked back at her over his shoulder."
"Do dress warmly, Miss Lindfield. He said a faint, dangerous smirk finally touching the corner of his mouth. "My house is large. It tends to be cold.
"I am quite accustomed to the cold, my lord. Margaret replied. "I survived your company last night, didn't I? The smirk vanished.
Simon opened the door and walked out. Danvers House was not a home. It was a fortress of mahogany marble and silence. Margaret sat at a massive oak desk in the corner of the Earl's private library.
The room smelled of old paper, pipe tobacco, and beeswax. Two entire walls were lined with books behind brass latticed glass. The windows were towering panes of glass that looked out onto a dreary rain-soaked London square. She had been working for 4 hours.
Her fingers were stained with black ink and a dull ache throbbed at the base of her skull. The cipher was incredibly complex. The authors used trade goods as metaphors for bribes. Silk meant gold bullion, grain meant political favors, and iron meant physical violence.
Simon sat on the opposite side of the room sunk into a deep leather wingback chair near the roaring fireplace. He had not spoken a word in 2 hours. He was reviewing ledger books, his brow furrowed, a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. The silence between them was thick, but it had shifted.
It was no longer the aggressive heavy silence of the parlor. It was the hum of two gears grinding away in the same machine. "He's going to burn your ships. Margaret said suddenly, her voice shattering the quiet."
Simon's head snapped up. He pulled off his glasses. "What? Margaret tapped the parchment in front of her."
"The Russian, Volkov. He's writing to his Neapolitan counterpart. He says the Yorkshire coal is too heavy. Let the iron sink it in the harbor before the tariffs are paid."
Simon stood up and crossed the room in three long strides. He came around the desk standing just behind her shoulder. He leaned down to look at the letter. The scent of sandalwood and clean soap washed over her.
Margaret stiffened, acutely aware of his proximity. "Show me." he demanded. Margaret pointed the feather of her quill at a line of jagged Cyrillic script. "Here."
"Let the iron sink it. "In the context of this dialect, iron is force. Sabotage. They aren't trying to outbid your port masters anymore.
They are going to scuttle your merchant vessels while they sit at anchor in Naples. Simon stared at the paper. He didn't read Russian, but he traced the line she pointed to with his index finger. His jaw clenched.
"When he doesn't give a date, but he mentions the feast of San Gennaro. That's next month. Simon swore under his breath a sharp, ugly curse. He straightened up pacing away from the desk toward the window, dragging a hand through his dark hair."
"Three ships." he muttered staring out at the rain. "I have three heavily laden brigs due in Naples in 3 weeks. If they go down, the loss of cargo is one thing. The loss of the crews."
He stopped. He closed his eyes. Margaret watched him. It was the first time she'd seen a crack in his aristocratic armor.
He wasn't thinking about the money. He was thinking about the sailors. "You can send riders to intercept them at Gibraltar. Margaret said quietly."
"Divert them to Genoa. Volkov's men don't control the Genoese ports. Simon turned around. He looked at her."
Truly looked at her for a long moment. "Genoa tariffs will eat the profits. "Better to lose the profit than the ships and the men. Margaret replied without hesitation.
Simon walked back to the desk. He didn't look angry anymore. He looked incredibly tired. He pulled a chair over and sat opposite her, their knees inches apart beneath the heavy wood.
You have a quick mind, Miss Lindfield, he said. It wasn't a compliment designed to flatter. It was a factual observation. A necessity, my lord.
Slow minds starve. He leaned his elbows on the desk, steepling his fingers. Tell me about your father. The man who taught you how to read the language of thieves and diplomats.
Margaret paused. Her pen hovered over the inkwell. She usually deflected questions about her father, wrapping her grief in a thick layer of sarcasm. But staring into Simon's exhausted eyes, the sarcasm felt too heavy to lift.