Arthur walked slowly toward the desk. He stopped inches from her chair, looking down at her.
"If they are plotting something that will cost me money, you will accidentally spill a drop of wine on the tablecloth. Just one drop. If they are insulting my intelligence, you will fill my glass to the brim. If they are laying a trap that requires me to fold my hand immediately..." He paused, his gaze dropping to her ink-stained fingers. "...you will touch the back of my chair."
Clara looked up at him. The proximity was suffocating, making her acutely aware of the sheer physical power he possessed. Yet, she felt no fear. She felt the cold, sharp thrill of the game.
"Understood," she said.
The Westfall Estate in Mayfair smelled aggressively of crushed white roses and expensive gin. It was a suffocating combination that made Clara's throat ache. She stood in the corner of the smoking room, wearing a plain black dress and a crisp white apron, holding a silver tray laden with crystal decanters.
The room was heavy with cigar smoke and the low, dangerous hum of men who owned too much of the world. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight against the damp London night. In the center of the room, a green baize card table was illuminated by an enormous gas chandelier.
Arthur sat perfectly still, holding his cards close to his chest. He wore a dark evening coat that fit him perfectly, but his posture was all wrong for a gentleman of leisure: he sat like a soldier in a trench.
To his left sat Lord Westfall, a plump, sweating man with a predatory smile and rings that cut into his fat fingers. Across from Arthur sat the Marquis de Villette, the French envoy. Villette was a creature of absolute elegance: his hair was powdered, his waistcoats embroidered with silver thread, and he looked at Arthur with a mixture of amusement and deep disgust.
Clara moved around the room like a ghost. She had spent years perfecting the art of invisibility. She kept her eyes lowered, her footsteps silent on the thick Persian rugs. Every time she approached the table, she felt the oppressive heat of the gas lamps and the sharp sting of tension radiating from the men.
"Your Grace," Villette said smoothly in English, discarding a card. "I hear your merchant fleet is planning an expedition to the West Indies. A bold move... some might say overly ambitious."
"I prefer ambition to stagnation, Marquis," Arthur replied, his voice a low rumble. He did not look up from his hand.
Villette smiled. It was a thin, cruel expression. He glanced at Lord Westfall, then casually shifted into rapid, aristocratic French.
"The bear thinks he can swim with sharks," Villette murmured to Westfall, keeping his tone light and conversational. "He has no idea his ships will never reach deep water. The Cadiz contracts are already ours."
Clara stood two feet behind Arthur. Her face remained a perfect, unreadable mask, but her grip on the silver tray tightened until her knuckles ached. Arthur was right. They had already bought the Spanish guilds. The delay in the correspondence was a trap to keep Arthur's ships docked while Westfall took the routes.