He did? Margaret replied. Her hands were shaking slightly. She clasped them together in front of her skirt, hiding them.
He is their man in London. If you bypass Castillo in Naples, your ships will be safe. Simon stared at her. He looked at her ink-stained fingers, her plain dress, her fierce, unwavering eyes.
He had hired a linguist. He had gotten a weapon. Come back to the library, Simon said quietly. We need to finish the translations.
It took them three more days to strip the letters bare. They worked in a strange, intimate rhythm. Margaret translated the chaos into clear, actionable intelligence. Simon drafted orders to his captains, his agents, and his bankers.
They barely spoke of anything other than the work. But the silence between them was no longer cold. It was comfortable. It was dangerous.
On the evening of the fourth day, Margaret laid her quill down. The ink in the well was nearly dry. The heavy stack of vellum had been reduced to a neat pile of English ledgers. It is done, she said.
Her voice was hoarse. Simon looked up from his desk. He looked terrible. He hadn't shaved in two days, and dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes.
He looked more human than she had ever seen him. He stood up, walked to a small iron safe in the corner of the room, and turned the dial. The heavy door swung open. He pulled out a crisp white envelope and walked back to the desk.
He set the envelope down in front of Margaret. £3,000, Simon said, drawn on the Bank of England, as agreed. Margaret stared at the envelope. She didn't reach for it.
It was the answer to every prayer she had ever uttered in a drafty boarding house. It was the end of Lady Agatha's tyranny. It was salvation. It felt like a tombstone.
"Thank you, my lord. Margaret said formally. She picked up the envelope. It felt impossibly light."
Simon watched her. His face was entirely unreadable. The aristocratic mask firmly back in place. The crisis was averted.
The business was concluded. The barrier between the earl and the penniless spinster had returned thicker and higher than before. "My carriage will take you back to your aunt's house. Simon said."
His voice was polite, distant. "You have done me a great service, Miss Lindfield. If you ever require a reference for clerical work, you have but to ask. Margaret felt a sudden sharp ache in her chest."
It wasn't grief. It was anger. She hated that he could turn his emotions off so cleanly. She hated that she couldn't.
She stood up. "I will not be requiring a reference, Lord Kelsall. I am taking this money and purchasing a cottage in Somerset. I am leaving London."
I have no desire to ever look at another ledger or another ballroom as long as I live. A muscle twitched in Simon's jaw. He didn't blink. "Somerset is very quiet."
That is exactly the point. Margaret stepped away from the desk. She didn't look back. She walked out of the library down the long echoing corridor and out the front door.
When she returned to the rented townhouse, Lady Agatha was waiting in the parlor. "Well?" her aunt demanded, her eyes darting to Margaret's hands. "Did he pay you? Did you finish your little secretarial task?"
Margaret pulled the bank draft from the envelope and dropped it onto the tea table. Lady Agatha snatched it up. Her eyes went wide. She let out a sound that was half gasp, half shriek. "3,000!"
Margaret, good heavens, we are saved! I must call the modiste immediately. We can buy you a new gown. We can attend the Duke of Rutland's ball on Thursday.
No, Margaret said. Lady Agatha stopped. What do you mean no? I mean no, Margaret said, her voice entirely flat.
Take 500 pounds. That will cover the remaining debts my father left, and it will pay your rent for the year. The rest is mine. And I am leaving.
Leaving to go where? Away from you. Away from this city. Margaret walked toward the stairs.
She felt hollow. She had won. She had beaten the system. She was independent.
So, why did it feel like she was walking to her own execution? She spent the next two days packing. She bought a ticket on the mail coach bound for Bath, intending to hire a private carriage from there to Somerset. She paid the butcher, the baker, and the modiste, watching Lady Agatha seethe in silent, impotent rage.
The morning of her departure was cold and violently wet. Rain lashed against the windows of the townhouse, turning the London streets into rivers of gray mud. Margaret stood in the narrow hallway, wearing a heavy, sensible woolen cloak. Her two trunks were sitting by the front door.
The overworked maid was weeping into an apron, entirely unaccustomed to someone actually paying her wages in full. You are making a terrible mistake, Lady Agatha hissed from the parlor door, clutching her dressing gown. You could have trapped him. You had him alone for four days.
If you had an ounce of charm, you could have compromised him. You could be a countess. I do not want to be a countess, Margaret said, tying the ribbons of her bonnet with sharp, jerky movements. And I do not trap men, aunt.
I leave that to spiders and desperate women. The sound of heavy hooves splashing through the mud outside cut off Lady Agatha's retort. A carriage did not pull up. It was a single horse.