"Tell me."
She looked at him. The dim light cast harsh shadows over the scar on his brow. He wasn't playing a game. He was analyzing her.
"He called you a pig at a trough," Clara said flatly. "He said if you put a crown on a pig, it only knows how to grunt. He said you had the brain of a peasant and the charm of a corpse."
Arthur absorbed the words without flinching. "And your reply?"
"I told him pigs at least know when they are being robbed. And that if he had the cunning of a peasant, he wouldn't try to cheat a man in his own house."
Silence stretched between them. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked a steady, rhythmic pulse in the quiet room.
Arthur walked around the desk. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, and as he approached, Clara had to fight the urge to step backward. He stopped a few feet away, invading her personal space just enough to establish dominance, but keeping enough distance to observe her clearly.
"Where does a maid learn fluent Neapolitan slang?" he asked softly.
"My father," Clara lied smoothly. "He was an Italian sailor."
"Do not insult my intelligence," Arthur replied, his voice dropping dangerously low. "Sailors do not possess the grammatical structure you used. You spoke the dialect, but you formed the sentences like a scholar. You have an education."
Clara clamped her jaw shut.
"You are hiding," Arthur stated. It wasn't a question. "A woman with your intellect scrubbing floors in my house? You are running from something... or someone."
"With respect, Your Grace, my past is my own."
"Not anymore." Arthur crossed his arms. "You just made an enemy of a very powerful foreign ambassador. He will look into you. And if he finds out who you really are, he will use it. Which means, as of this moment, you are a liability to me."