Page 106 of The False Vow

Swallowing, I read his message: We need to talk.

That was it—just those four words, and yet I understood his meaning fully. The key was as obvious a marker as any map would have been; examining it, I flexed my fingers around the cold metal, then lowered my arm to my side.

It seemed I had somewhere to be.

—

I arrived at the Diplomat hotel at ten minutes past five the next day, squinting in the fading daylight as I stepped out of my carriage.

Noé was not due back from his trip until later in the evening. I wondered what excuse Eliot had given him for leaving their bachelors’ excursion early, whether my fiancé had seen through it or was idling away his remaining hours abroad isolated and miserable, ignorant of the fact that his former friend had left him to meet with his bride in his absence. I’d reached for the stump of our candle to write him of the development—and my talk with his father—before I’d gone to bed last night, only to recall with a dull sort of ache that it had burned out.

I gripped the brass key from Eliot’s letter tightly as I strode through the Diplomat’s lobby, eyeing the numbers etched into the token attached to its end: 15, as in room fifteen—the same room where Eliot had been staying on the day I first encountered him, when he’d made himself the target of one of my thefts. I still remembered the pure shock I’d felt when I’d opened the door to his chamber and found him sitting there in an armchair waiting for me. Five-fifteen. I was expecting you earlier.

Same time we met, in the same place we met. That was the message I’d taken from Eliot’s note, and while I had yet to confirm my theory, I knew I was right.

I opened the door to his suite without bothering to use the key. On its other side, Eliot was sitting in an armchair, just as he’d been the day of our first encounter. He was positioned away from me this time, the chair angled so he was facing the windows; still, at my entrance, he called out.

“Lock the door behind you.”

Turning, he peered at me over his shoulder. The glaze of his hazel eyes was instantly familiar—same as I’d known them during the period we’d been allies, then something more. It always took me a moment to recall what we’d become.

“Lovett,” Eliot said. “You came.”

“Mr. Lear.” I used his surname deliberately, aware that in the decision, he would read distance. “You called.”

He was silent. Latching the door as he’d requested, I stepped farther into the room and spoke again.

“I thought you were meant to be hunting deer, not silkwitches.”

Eliot winced. Rising, he abandoned his armchair, moving to lean against the wall behind it. I did not miss the anxious way the toe of his polished leather shoe tapped against the ground as he studied me. An unsteady jitter, like that of a drunk man rifling through his pockets at a pub, uncertain whether or not he has the money to pay.

He was nervous.

“I left the trip early,” Eliot answered a second later. His evident discomposure had thrown me; if anything, I’d been expecting more of the arrogant condescension he’d doled out when I’d accused Clio after the bridal dinner. Hurriedly, I masked my surprise, listening. “Noé and Adélard should be making their way back to the Isle now. I knew if I wanted to see you, I had to do it while Noé wasn’t around to interfere, else he’d tag along like he did at the Winns’.”

His eyes flicked to mine.

“And I did want to see you,” Eliot said. His voice was hushed, as if he were speaking to himself. “Needed it, really.”

He stepped forward, his expression disconcertingly earnest.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d read my letter. I feared you might have tossed it out.”

I moved back on instinct. Eliot paused, his hand half extended as though to draw me toward him, and frowned.

“Something’s happened,” I stated, holding his stare. “What is it?”

It was the only logical explanation for his summons. Whatever Eliot felt or did not feel toward me, he wouldn’t have called for me after insisting that he’d never do so again unless he was certain he could justify it. It was his way, to pluck the fruit, then hate himself for craving it.

Sure enough, Eliot flinched. He worried at his lip, thumbnail between his teeth. “It isn’t going well with Lucie,” he admitted a moment later. “Clio tried her best—really, she’s been exemplary—but before your dinner the other night, Lucie cut off all communication with us. Her letter said she’d considered our cause, and she sees no place for herself within it.” He blew out a frustrated exhale. “I’ve no idea how to make her see reason. And Clio…Like I said, she’s been a wonderful partner. She’s done everything I’ve asked of her and then some, but even so, she—she frightens me.” He winced. I noticed, suddenly, that the thumb which was not held up to his mouth was rubbing anxiously at his engagement band; his eyes were curiously hollow in a way which made me wonder what sort of images his mind was projecting.

As if sensing my interest, he shook himself once, then returned his attention to me.

“Everything is falling apart without you,” Eliot said softly. “The truth is, I—I’ve missed you, Lovett. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since we…since I ended things between us. I wanted so badly to hate you, but that went away, and now…”

Drifting off, he swore, low and grating.

“Dammit, I need to know. Are you with him?”