He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto Clara. "Translate."
Clara crossed the room, her boots silent on the Persian rug. She took the letter from his hand. Her fingers brushed his, the brief contact sending a familiar, dangerous spark up her wrist. She forced her eyes down to the page. The script was archaic, filled with formal flourishes that made her brain ache to decode. She read it twice to be absolutely certain.
"Lord Janson remembers the men you pulled from the Dover coast," Clara said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. "He calls it a debt of blood and saltwater. He is willing to bypass the Prussian intermediaries and grant you exclusive rights to the Stockholm timber reserves."
Arthur exhaled slowly. The sound was a mixture of triumph and sheer relief. "The route is ours."
"There is a condition," Clara interrupted, her eyes scanning the final paragraph. "He will not sign a contract through correspondence. He demands a meeting. His nephew, Count Linus, is currently in London attending the winter season. Janson wants you to formalize the agreement with Linus tomorrow night."
Arthur frowned. "Tomorrow night is Lord Harrington's winter masquerade. The entire peerage will be there, Westfall and Villette included."
"Count Linus knows," Clara said, looking up. "He states that signing the agreement under Westfall's nose appeals to his sense of humor. He will meet you in the card room at midnight. He expects you to bring your translator."
The room went dead silent. Clara stared at Arthur. The reality of the demand crashed down on her.
"I cannot go to Harrington's house. The masquerade is for the aristocracy! I am a scullery maid. If I walk into that ballroom in this uniform, I will be thrown out by the footman before I cross the threshold."
"You are not wearing that uniform," Arthur said flatly.
He turned and walked to the bell pull near the fireplace, yanking it violently.
Panic flared in Clara's chest. "Arthur, be reasonable! I cannot pass as a lady of the court. I have calluses on my hands. My hair smells of lye soap. If someone recognizes me—if one of my father's creditors is at that ball—they will ruin me. They will ruin you!"
It was the first time she had used his given name. The word hung in the air, intimate and desperate.