DeMatteo muttered to his aide, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. The secretary stifled a snicker behind his napkin.
Arthur sat perfectly still. He recognized the shift in tone, the sudden exclusion. His jaw tightened, the muscles flexing beneath his skin. He didn't know the words, but a man didn't survive a war without knowing what contempt sounded like. He opened his mouth, likely to demand a translation.
Clara's exhaustion caught up with her. Her father had been a disgraced linguist, a man who drank away their inheritance but stubbornly forced his daughter to read Dante, Machiavelli, and regional street dialects until her eyes bled. He had taught her that language was a weapon. For four years, Clara had kept that weapon sheathed, scrubbing floors and emptying chamber pots.
Tonight, her feet hurt. The room was too hot, and DeMatteo's smug, oily face grated on her last frayed nerve.
She stopped pouring.
The sudden cessation of the liquid splashing into the glass made DeMatteo glance up, annoyed. Clara did not step back. She did not lower her eyes. She looked directly into the Count's dark, arrogant gaze.
"Pigs at least know when someone is trying to steal their food," Clara said.
Her voice was low, devoid of any subservience, carrying perfectly in the sudden quiet of the room.
"Perhaps if the Count had the cunning of a peasant, he wouldn't try to cheat a man in his own castle."
The Neapolitan rolled off her tongue with perfect, biting precision. The accent was flawless.
The silence that followed was absolute. It was heavy, ringing in Clara's ears.
DeMatteo froze, his glass halfway to his mouth. The wine in the crystal caught the candlelight, shivering violently as the Count's hand began to shake. His secretary dropped his fork. It clattered loudly against a porcelain plate, the sound like a gunshot in the stagnant air.
Clara stood there, the silver ewer heavy in her blistered hands. Reality crashed into her with the force of a runaway carriage. Her stomach plummeted. She had just insulted a foreign ambassador. She had just broken the cardinal rule of servitude.
She turned her head slowly. Arthur was staring at her. The Duke's dark eyes were wide, the cold, impenetrable mask he usually wore completely shattered. He looked from DeMatteo's pale, furious face to the maid in the plain gray uniform.