Her chair scraped violently against the wooden floorboards. She didn't bother to wipe the ink from her fingers. She didn't bother to smooth her hair. She crossed the library, threw open the door, and stepped out into the grand echoing corridor of Danvers House.
The foyer was a cavernous space of black and white marble dominated by a sweeping staircase. Simon stood near the front doors, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid. Lord Peter hovered nervously near a potted fern. Opposite Simon stood a man in a sharply tailored coat.
He was entirely too calm. He held a silver-topped walking stick and was speaking in a smooth, practiced cadence. Margaret walked quietly down the corridor, stopping just behind the shadow of a marble pillar. I assure you, Lord Kelsall, Thornton was saying, his voice oozing an oily, professional sympathy.
The rumors of sabotage in Naples are vastly exaggerated. The harbor masters are merely enforcing new temporary tariffs. If you route your fleet through the designated customs channels, which I can personally expedite for a modest administrative fee, your cargo will be perfectly safe. Simon's face was a mask of cold stone.
An administrative fee? I see. It is the cost of doing business in the Mediterranean, my lord. Thornton said, offering a small, tight smile.
As he turned his head, the light from the chandelier caught the side of his face. Margaret saw it clearly. A cluster of old, pitted smallpox scars ran along his jawline. The hound who guards the English gate.
Margaret stepped out from behind the pillar. Her soft leather slippers made no sound on the marble, but the sudden movement drew Lord Peter's eye. He opened his mouth to speak, but Margaret shot him a look so sharp he snapped his jaw shut. She walked directly into the center of the foyer.
Lord Kelsall, Margaret said. Her voice rang out clear and entirely out of place in the masculine business-like tension of the room. Simon turned. A flash of irritation crossed his features, quickly replaced by confusion.
Miss Lindfield, I told you to remain in the library. Thornton turned as well, looking at Margaret with the polite, dismissive superiority of a man who considers women entirely decorative. He took in her ink-stained fingers and plain dress. I apologize, my lord.
I was unaware you were entertaining the domestic staff. Margaret didn't look at Thornton. She kept her eyes locked on Simon. I found the translation you requested, my lord.
Margaret said, her voice dropping into a flat conversational tone. Specifically, the passage regarding the grain. Simon's eyes narrowed slightly. He caught the slight emphasis she placed on the word grain.
Go on. Margaret turned her head. She looked directly at Thornton. She smiled.
It was the exact same terrifying smile she had given Simon in the ballroom. Margaret said to Thornton. Her Italian was slow, deliberate, and perfectly pitched. Thornton froze.
Margaret took a step toward him. The dog with the scar. Thornton's smooth, oily composure shattered. It didn't happen slowly.
It cracked like a pane of glass. His eyes widened, his pupils dilating in sudden visceral panic. The color completely drained from his face, leaving the smallpox scars on his jaw standing out in stark white relief. His hand tightened on his walking stick so hard his knuckles popped.
He understood her. He didn't speak Italian perfectly, but he knew the street slang of his paymasters. He knew the word for dog. He knew the word for grain.
And he knew he had just been exposed. Simon didn't need to speak Italian to read the sheer terror on Thornton's face. The Earl's demeanor changed in a fraction of a second. The aristocratic stiffness vanished, replaced by the lethal, hard-edged danger of a man who had grown up fighting in the cockpits.
Simon took one step forward. The distance between him and Thornton vanished. Peter, Simon said. His voice was very quiet, very low, and absolutely terrifying.
Lock the front doors. Lord Peter didn't hesitate. He practically dove for the heavy brass bolts, slamming them home with a loud metallic clack. Thornton stumbled back raising his hands.
My lord, I I do not understand what this woman is saying. This is an outrage. I am a representative of the crown. You are a thief, Simon interrupted softly.
He reached out his large hands snapping out to grip the lapels of Thornton's immaculate coat. He forced the man backward against the heavy oak front door. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the foyer. You are taking Russian coin to drown my sailors.
No, my lord, please. Thornton gasped his walking stick clattering to the marble floor. Simon leaned in his face inches from Thornton's. Who is the contact in Naples?
Give me the name, Thornton, or I swear I will have you hauled before the authorities in Yorkshire myself. Margaret watched. Her heart pounded violently against her ribs, but she didn't look away. This was the reality of the world she had grown up in.
Power wasn't just titles and ballrooms. It was leverage. It was violence. It was survival.
Castillo. Thornton choked out his eyes rolling in panic. His name is Castillo. He runs the South Docks.
He takes the shipments from Volkov. I just approve the manifests here. That's all I do. I swear it.
Simon stared at him for a long heavy moment. Then he let go. Thornton sagged against the door gasping for breath. Peter.
Simon said brushing off his own hands as if he had just handled something rotting. Take Mr. Thornton to the magistrate. Tell them the Earl of Kelsall is pressing charges for treason, fraud, and corporate sabotage. Use my carriage.
Right away, Simon. Peter said his voice surprisingly steady. He grabbed Thornton by the arm hauling the trembling man away from the door. Simon didn't watch them leave.
He stood in the center of the foyer, his chest heaving slightly, his dark hair falling over his forehead. Slowly, he turned to look at Margaret. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a heavy charged silence in its wake. He understood you, Simon said.