"Do you know," Arthur said quietly, "what DeMatteo said to me on his way out?"
"I imagine he demanded my head on a pike, Your Grace," Clara replied.
She kept her tone neutral, refusing to let her voice shake. If she was going to be fired, she wouldn't beg.
Arthur's mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile, but it was close. "He demanded you be flogged. When I refused, he packed his carriages. He claimed the insult to his dignity was too great to bear."
"Then I have cost you a trade agreement. I will pack my things tonight."
"Don't move."
The command snapped through the room like a whip. Clara froze.
Arthur walked slowly away from the window, stopping on the opposite side of the desk. He set his glass down. The ice clinked against the crystal.
"He was trying to corner me," Arthur said, his voice lowering, dropping the formality of a lord speaking to a servant. "He knew our naval routes were struggling. He pushed for a thirty percent tariff because he believed I was desperate enough to accept. But when you spoke—when you embarrassed him in front of his aide—he lost his footing. He left in a temper tantrum. A man throwing a tantrum is not a man holding the upper hand."
Arthur leaned forward, resting his knuckles on the leather surface of the desk.
"He sent a messenger ten minutes ago, right before he left the grounds. He offered fifteen percent. He wants the deal signed before word gets out that he was humiliated by an English scullery maid."
Clara blinked. The panic in her chest receded, replaced by a sharp, cautious confusion. "Then... I am not dismissed?"
"Dismissed?" Arthur let out a harsh, dry laugh. "I just saved thousands of pounds on shipping routes because of your lack of self-control. I don't want to dismiss you. I want to know exactly what you said to him."
Clara hesitated. "It was uncharitable, Your Grace."