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The air around him stopped being silent with such ferocity that it stole breath. He lifted his boot and Moretz rolled onto all fours, coughing and spluttering. He sucked in three breaths that sounded excruciatingly painful. He found enough air to wail in outrage as he gained his feet. “You dare attack—” He cut off abruptly as his eyes met Verol’s. Interestingly, his face blanched of all color, and he practically fell down in his haste to bow. “L-Lord Arrendon?”
Lord?
Marquin stepped forward. It put him at Verol’s side and slightly in front of Clare. She couldn’t decide if he was supporting Verol, shielding her, or both.
Moretz’s gaze shifted to Marquin, and while he didn’t have any color left to lose, his lips pinched together as he bowed again. “Lords Arrendon.”
There went that “L” word again, and Clare took in the two men’s appearances anew. They were much better dressed than they had been on the road, their clothes finer. Traveling, she had recognized they were well-off, as their clothing and supplies were all of good quality, if plain, their wagon was in impeccable condition, and their horses were happy and well-fed. But certainly nothing about their dress or behavior had said lords.
Not in the way their bearing and the gold stitching running down Verol’s coat arms now did. Not in the way neither of them batted so much as an eyelash at Moretz deferring to them.
Clare’s gaze narrowed on the guardsman. He was, she realized, terrified. And she thought it had more to do with Verol, specifically, than it did with simply being in the presence of aristocracy. Having addressed the two of them, he now seemed at a loss to say anything else.
When it became clear he would not fill the silence, Verol did. “What are you doing in this young woman’s room?”
“She—I—that is, I had reason to believe she was involved in a crime. You…know her, my lord?”
“A potential apprentice of mine.”
That was a pretty lie Clare hadn’t expected. Apprentice to what, precisely? The words had the effect of making Moretz lose any fortitude he’d managed to regain.
“What crime is she meant to have committed?” Marquin asked.
“It was only an inquiry, my lord. A matter of a shop burglary.”
Verol’s gaze hadn’t once left Moretz since he’d come into the room, and it did not do so even now, as he asked, “Clare?”
“He questioned me about it earlier, when I explained that since the burglary occurred last night, and I was still traveling with you and Marquin at the time, I couldn’t possibly be responsible.” She waited a beat, decided that, yes, Moretz did deserve the verbal knife driven in further and added, “I also believe the suspect was described as a man.”
Verol’s expression went practically glacial. Soon, she would require an explanation for precisely what the “Lords Arrendon” were doing in her room, and why they were defending her, but for the moment, she chose to enjoy the fact that it was happening.
“Clare explained this to you and yet you still felt the need to…investigate?”
“She didn’t say she was traveling with you, my lords.”
And thank Ferrian’s fire she hadn’t. She remembered that impulse she’d had to give Moretz their names earlier. If she’d told him that she’d traveled here with two lords, he would never have believed her.
“I don’t believe our names should have been necessary,” Verol growled. “Nor do I believe it should have been necessary, if you questioned her earlier, for you to do so again late at night, in her room, alone.”
Verol advanced on the guardsman and Marquin put a gentle, restraining hand on his arm. Verol halted, but the fury on his face did not abate.
Moretz took the intercession and scrambled to explain. “She broke curfew, Lord Arrendon.”
“I see. So you found her wandering the streets and, instead of arresting her, brought her back to her room?” The dangerous edge in Verol’s voice intensified.
“N-no. I came here to question her and she was gone. Look at her, she’s soaked from the rain.”
“Miss Brighton?” Marquin asked mildly. It was the kind of mild that politely suggested she lie through her teeth. As if she needed the prompting.
“I love the rain. I opened the window to see it and then he came in.” She let a tremble enter her voice. “He didn’t even knock and I” —she shivered, rubbing her arms— “I was so startled I almost fell out.”
Verol appeared barely to hear her, Marquin looked like he was trying desperately not to laugh—she’d had the suspicion, on the road, that he saw right through every lie she told—and Moretz was gaping at her, like it had never occurred to him that she could lie and be believed over him. Because it likely hadn’t occurred to him. He was the one accustomed to telling the lies and being believed.
She watched that glint of pure hatred surge in his eyes before he remembered that she was—apparently—Verol’s potential new apprentice to something, and snarling that she was a lying bitch wasn’t in his best interests.
He went back to ignoring her and went with a pleading tone to the men. “She left through the window. I watched her come back in that way as I waited.”
Marquin laughed. It was a low and dangerous sound, reminding Clare of the jaguars that prowled the marshes. “Surely you do not expect us to believe that this young woman climbed out the window from two stories up? Much less that she climbed back in that way?”
