Page 51 of The False Vow

Leaning against the bar, Markham reached for the remaining glass of whiskey and tossed it back. One of the first rules I’d had to learn upon moving into his apartment over a year ago: In his mind, at least, everything that was mine was his. “You haven’t replied to my letters,” he said.

I forced my mind to clear. “Well, to be honest, Markham, they were rather rude.”

My brother chuckled, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve. He wore no suit jacket, only a dirty cotton shirt, suspenders, and trousers. Contrasting his ensemble with my own finery, I felt briefly ashamed. I wished I could pluck the pearl buttons off my blouse and cup them in my palm like a handful of berries—perhaps that would be enough to make him leave me be.

“Was that your fiancé with you just now?” Markham asked. “Looked like him, at least from the sketches I’ve seen in the papers. He seemed quite cross with you as he was leaving.” He arched a brow, thick and dark—just like mine. “Does he know who you are?”

Anxiety throbbed in my stomach, but I forced it down. “That, and then some,” I replied steadily. “We are deeply in love. So, you see, your attempts at extortion are useless—there is nothing you can possibly reveal about me which I have not already told him.”

“Extortion?” Markham looked wounded, his regal features creasing. Even as a boy, he had a strict beauty about him that seemed better suited to the clean boundaries and rigid distinctions of high society than the rolling hills of the countryside where we were raised. As he grew older, he adopted a nobleman’s habits, too: reading, drinking.

Scheming.

“Dear sister,” Markham went on, “what sinister forces have been whispering in your ear, which have convinced you I would ever attempt such a thing? I simply wish to be made to feel part of the family.” He simpered. “We had such a nasty falling-out before,” he said. “A pity, really. I wonder what the public would think if I told them of it—my thieving witch of a sister, stealing my savings and then conning her way into the infamous Noé Alaire’s heart under false pretenses. It is quite brotherly of me to keep it all back.”

“I did not steal your savings,” I corrected. “You stole mine. When I took them back, I was merely retrieving what always belonged to me.” My gaze darted to the pub door Noé had exited through, still blessedly closed. But for how much longer? “What do you want, Markham?”

My brother eyed me. I feared he could hear the urgency in my voice and focused my attention wholly on him, eager to deny him any evidence of my vulnerability. If he found a weakness within me, he would exploit it until I broke; it was a method he had also taught me.

“Perhaps I wish to discuss it man-to-man.”

I didn’t register the jingling of the doorbell until several seconds too late. My skin went numb as, from the pub entrance, I heard Noé call out, “Discuss what, exactly?”

He crossed to us, waving off the barman, who had looked up attentively at his reappearance. I went stiff as he slipped into place beside me, his cap tugged over his curls where he must have wedged it on after exiting, his suit freshly reeking of smoke.

“Darling,” he said, his gaze on Markham. “Who is this?”

My brother’s grin grew wicked. “And here I thought you told him everything.”

Straightening, he addressed Noé.

“Forgive my intrusion, sir. It is only that your betrothed possesses an uncanny resemblance to a girl I know. My younger sister, actually. Perhaps you’re familiar with her? Tragically, I have not seen her since she disappeared several months ago, around the time rumors began circulating about Mr. Noé Alaire’s second Vainglory.” He canted his head. “Her name is Lovett Tamerlane.”

The sound of my true name speared me. Fool. I’d been a complete fool to brush Markham’s letters off—so fixated on the dangers my new life posed, I’d forgotten to attend to the one I’d left behind. My palms grew clammy. If my brother didn’t get what he wanted out of this interaction, would he out me to the papers? Would I be exposed?

My mind whirled. In the quiet, Noé’s eyes flicked to me. His pale features were perfectly smooth; he’d donned the same cold demeanor he’d worn when speaking with the barman, a stark arrogance different even from the princely condescension he’d sometimes exhibited during the Vainglory. As if he found this conversation both dull and utterly beneath him.

His expression seemed to shift as he regarded me, though I barely processed the change. I was too preoccupied with the burning in my cheeks, and the dreadful awareness that I’d been cornered.

Abruptly, Noé’s gaze shuttered. To Markham, he asked, “What is your sum?”

My brother laughed. “I never said I desired a sum—”

“No, I am sure you desire nothing more than the health and well-being of your long-lost sister. Do you think yourself witty?”

When Markham said nothing, Noé prodded sharply, “Answer me.”

I expected my brother to evade him—was caught off guard when instead Markham blinked obediently and replied, “One thousand twills.”

My blood chilled. It wasn’t the amount which disturbed me—he’d asked for the same in his letter to me—but more the immediacy with which my brother gave his answer. I was too embarrassed to look at Noé, though I felt him tense beside me. “One thousand,” he repeated. “Is that all you think of her?” He clucked his tongue, the sound pensive, almost perplexed. “If you’d treated your sister nicely, she could have stolen you more than that in a week.”

I furrowed my brow. Across from me, I saw Markham do the same. “Fine, then,” he amended tersely. “Ten thousand.”

“A bargain,” Noé replied dismissively. “Do you know who she is?”

“Fifty thousand.”

Noé hummed. “Still low, in my opinion, but vastly more respectable.” Leaning an elbow on the bar top, he tipped the glass Markham had drained idly toward himself, then released it once he saw its contents had been emptied. It clattered against the wood, making me wince. “If only it weren’t so much cheaper to have you killed.”