He reached out and picked up his glass of port. He did not spill a single drop from the brimmed glass. He took a slow sip, his dark eyes locking onto Villette.
"And I find I have lost my appetite for swimming with sharks—particularly those who believe the waters of Cadiz belong to them."
Villette froze. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking like powdered chalk. Westfall dropped his cards, his fat hands trembling slightly.
They didn't know how he knew. Arthur spoke no French. He had no spies in their inner circle. He was a brute, a soldier, and yet he had just completely dismantled their ambush with a single sentence.
Clara stood in the shadows near the velvet curtains. A cold, fierce satisfaction bloomed in her chest. She watched Arthur stand up, buttoning his evening coat with agonizing slowness, letting the silence crush the other men at the table.
"Good evening, gentlemen," Arthur said.
He turned and walked toward the door. As he passed Clara, he didn't stop, and he didn't look at her. But as he stepped into the hallway, his rough voice barely carried back over the threshold: "Bring the carriage around," he ordered his valet. Then, quieter, meant only for the shadows: "And fetch my secretary."
Rain lashed against the lacquered wood of the ducal carriage, a sudden violent downpour that washed the soot from the London streets. Inside the cab, the air was cold and smelled of damp wool and old leather.
Clara sat rigidly on the forward-facing bench. The velvet cushions were softer than any bed she had slept in for four years, but she did not allow herself to sink into them. She kept her spine perfectly straight, her hands folded over her white apron.
Arthur sat opposite her, cloaked in the heavy shadows of the carriage interior. The dim yellow light from the passing streetlamps occasionally slashed across his face, illuminating the harsh lines of his jaw and the jagged, pale scar on his brow. He had not spoken since they left Mayfair. He just watched her.
The silence was not peaceful. It was a heavy, loaded thing, pressing against Clara's ribs.
Arthur reached into a polished mahogany compartment beside his seat. The clink of glass cut through the rhythmic thud of the horses' hooves. He pulled out a crystal decanter of whiskey and two small tumblers. He poured a generous measure into the first glass and held it out across the narrow space between them.
Clara stared at it. The liquid sloshed gently with the rocking of the cab. "I am on duty, Your Grace," she said, her voice barely rising above the sound of the rain.