This was Count Linus of Sweden. Linus turned to Arthur and spoke in rapid, flawless Swedish: "Are these the small men who thought they could starve you?"
Arthur did not blink. He squeezed Clara's hand against his arm.
Clara stepped forward. She dropped Arthur's arm and looked directly at Count Linus.
"They are shovers, they are snobs," Clara replied. Her Swedish was sharp, commanding, and echoed with the exact regional dialect of the Stockholm nobility. "They are thieves, Your Grace. But they are thieves who only know how to steal in shallow water. They do not understand the deep ocean."
Linus threw his head back and let out a booming laugh. He reached out and aggressively shook Arthur's hand. "My uncle was right. You are a man of excellent taste. The contract is yours."
Clara turned her head slowly, fixing her gaze on Westfall and Villette. Both men were staring at her in absolute, paralyzed horror. They didn't speak Swedish, but they understood the handshake. They understood the crest on Linus's collar.
"The Duke of Ashbourne no longer requires the Spanish routes," Clara said in flawless, unaccented English, her voice cutting through the space between them like a scythe. "He has just secured exclusive rights to the Baltic timber reserves. Your monopoly is broken, Lord Westfall. Have a pleasant evening."
She turned back to Arthur, sliding her hand gracefully into the crook of his arm. Arthur looked at the two men, his dark eyes glittering with brutal satisfaction. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to.
He turned and escorted Clara out of the ballroom, leaving Westfall hyperventilating and Villette staring at the floor as their financial empire crumbled into dust behind them.
Cobblestones slick with freezing rain reflected the carriage lamps like scattered coins in the dark. Clara stripped the velvet mask from her face the second the carriage door clicked shut. The cold air of the cab hit her heated skin, sobering the intoxicating rush of the ballroom. She looked down at the black silk gloves covering her hands; they felt like chains now. The game was over. She had served her purpose.
Arthur sat across from her. He had removed his mask, and the jagged scar on his brow caught the dim, flickering light of passing streetlamps. He watched her pull the gloves off, peeling the silk back to reveal the calluses and burns of a scullery maid. He didn't look away. He never looked away from the ugly parts of her.
"Count Linus will send his solicitors to your study by noon tomorrow," Clara said, her voice flat, retreating behind the armor of practicality. "The timber rights are secure. Westfall's monopoly is broken. You have won."
"We won," Arthur corrected. His voice was a low rumble over the clatter of the wheels.