Page 50 of The False Vow

Abruptly, I felt disgusted with myself. What would Eliot think, if he could see this? Not even three days parted from him and already bantering with his best friend.

Oblivious to my growing disquiet, Noé met my gaze, tilting his head to the side. “I suppose the real question is, what do you think we should do next?”

The directness of his question took me aback. “You’re asking me?”

He arched a brow. “Why shouldn’t I? We’re partners, aren’t we?” His eyes lit up; I saw the opening I’d left him the same second he did, and I rushed to cover it, but he got there first. “Did Eliot not ask you what you wanted?”

I flushed. “Do you think if you degrade him enough, my impression of you will improve by comparison?” I returned sharply. “He has many qualities which you lack.”

“Such as?” Noé sounded smug; I could sense his pleasure, rolling off him in irritating, self-satisfied waves.

“Eliot cares for people.”

His brow furrowed. “I can be caring.”

“Please.” I leaned closer—determined to deny him, if not a win, then at least total victory. “Name one person you care for whose surname is not Lear.”

He looked stricken—though whether it was my unexpected advance which had caught him off guard or my question, I was unsure. “My mother,” he said suddenly.

We both went silent. My mother. It was the very last response I had expected from him.

He swallowed. I felt my own skin heat as I watched his neck turn pink, the lively atmosphere which had grown between us struck dead. “I…”

Whatever he meant to say, he seemed to think better of it. His hand drifted toward his trouser pocket; somehow, I knew he was reaching for his cigarette packet and felt my nerves jump at the opportunity. My entire body was jittery, sore, and itching to fight.

I exhaled. “I wish you would not do that.”

He paused, his manner, too, spikier than usual. “Why not?”

I nearly snarled. “Because it is a disgusting habit, and one of the least attractive qualities a man may possess.”

His nostrils flared. As we stared one another down, I remembered the five-hundred twill note he’d pulled from his pocket—the lifeline he’d tossed me at the end of the Vainglory in the form of his ring on my finger. Fighting with him was foolish; no matter how I postured, I was utterly at his mercy. If he chose, he could cut me down like an apple from a tree.

Still, I did not cower.

“Fine,” Noé snapped a second later. “I’ll go outside.”

I shifted closer to the bar as he stalked by me. My skin felt hot and tacky; giving in to my impulses, I glanced behind me to ensure he’d left the pub, then turned back around and hastily downed my whiskey.

The liquor was cheap, like fire as it moved down my throat. I shook my head to banish the sensation, contemplating the second glass as behind me the jingle of the pub door signaled the entrance of another patron.

My temper reignited at the sensation of a presence sidling up to my side. “I said…”

My words died there. Beside me stood a man—not raven-haired and wiry like Noé, but tall, broad, with reddish-brown waves and handsome features. His eyes were the most familiar: dark and intensely curious, as if they were not observing the world around them so much as breathing it in. My mother always said the pair of us had hoarding eyes—ones which were greedy, which wanted more than they were given.

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” my brother replied. “What did you say, little sister?”

Chapter Twenty-Two

It was my fault, really, that he’d found me.

When I’d read his first note, delivered by Mia in that stark crimson envelope, I’d been shaken but unsurprised. Markham and I had many differences, but we could both scent money like a shark, fresh blood. As soon as I’d accepted Noé’s proposal, I’d known it would only be a matter of time until my estranged elder brother put together that the Cecilia Lovett mentioned in the papers was none other than me, Lovett Tamerlane. And that the very same girl he’d offered to sell to Eliot for a pittance prior to the Vainglory was now engaged to the heir of the family whose house we used to eye from the apartment we shared, observing it with the same reverence of a land-dweller gazing up at the moon.

As expected, Markham had written to me in search of a bribe to keep quiet about my true identity, a request which I’d ignored. My brother was cruel but clever; despite his threats, I doubted he’d expose me to the public until he’d exhausted all other courses of action—not when doing so might endanger his own chances of taking a bite out of my future in-laws’ fortune. In the meantime, I’d meant to come up with a plan, something to subdue him more permanently.

That had fallen by the wayside once I’d learned of the target Bastian had placed on my back. I’d been so fixated on the danger posed by my fellow silkwitches that I’d forgotten the neighborhood Noé had driven us to was also one Markham often frequented, on the rare days he got leave from the workhouses. That the pair of us would patron the same downtrodden pub as my brother, at the same time, was a far-fetched enough notion, it seemed as though fate itself would have had to conspire to make it a reality.

Yet fate must have had a grudge against me, for that appeared to be exactly what had happened.