Page 17 of The False Vow

He rubbed his thumb and index fingers together. “Why is she spidering around my maidens’ old quarters, searching for a pair of gloves?”

My spine straightened. After agreeing to Bastian’s bargain in the morning, I’d given Mia instructions to search for any signs of the missing gloves Marie-Louise had mentioned to me during our talk—but in all honesty, I hadn’t expected my fiancé to notice. Typically, when Noé wasn’t bothering me, he was poisoning himself with cigarettes or drink; I’d assumed that most of Fortblanche’s daily happenings ticked by without his awareness, like gears in a clock, their workings too detailed to capture his dulled attention.

Shrugging, I answered him. “Perhaps I misplaced my pair.”

Noé gave a dark chuckle. “You, misplace something?” he challenged. “Come now, Tamerlane. We both know you do not lose items, lest you do so with a purpose. You set traps and you scheme—now, which is it this time?”

Tamerlane. There was that name again. Now that he’d started, he seemed determined to keep using it.

Still, I relented. “I received a tip that Anais Tremblay reported a missing set of gloves following the Midway Ball,” I admitted. Lying to him was purposeless—if I continued to do so, he would likely just go to Mia, and as hard-shelled as my maid was, I did not trust her not to crack beneath his questioning. “This morning, I instructed Mia to see if any stray pairs might have been left behind. I thought they might be connected to Sybil’s death, seeing as the events occurred so close to one another.”

Noé snorted. “So, you’ve decided to take my father up on his challenge.” He rose, striding over to the crosshatched window nearest to us and lifting the latch to push it open. Rain spat immediately through the gap, dampening his sleeve; I barely heard him over the thrash of the storm as he flicked his spent cigarette into the gale and said, “Do you even realize how stupid you’ve been?”

I bristled at his tone. “I—”

“Oh, what is it—you want me to coddle you, like Lear would? Tell you how clever you are?” Bitterly, Noé shut the window again. With his wet hair and the pounding of the storm around us, I could not help but compare him to a character from a novel—some dark-haired villain, brooding in his tower by the sea. “I will not lie just to make you feel better, Tamerlane,” he sniped, turning over his shoulder. “I am not your lover. Whatever rules you play by, I will obey the same.”

Sulking, he leaned against the windowsill.

“Answer me,” Noé said a moment later from his post. “Did you agree to my father’s deal? Will you play sleuth for him, as he asked you to?”

I held his gaze. “You seem to already know my answer.”

He smirked, quick and cruel. “Oh, but I want to hear you say it.”

My skin chilled. It was without my conscious decision that I heard myself whisper, “Yes.”

Noé slumped back, shaking his head. Defensive, I went on, “It was the smart move. The only way to ensure the continuation of our plan—and keep myself from the cloisters.”

“If it were beneficial to either of us, Father would not have proposed it.” Noé rubbed at the bridge of his nose in frustration. Grunting, he raised his gaze to mine again; I was startled to see there was an air of hurt to his expression, as if he’d been wounded by my reply. “I’ve already promised to keep you from the cloisters.”

I scoffed. “You could not even read through a copy of the marriage accords. It is because of your negligence that Bastian was able to exploit this loophole to begin with.”

“I did read them.” Noé’s voice was hot. “The morning after my father proposed this scheme. Which is how I know that the favor Father spoke of is meant to be decided by a groom and his family together. Which is why I’ve attempted to speak with you these past few days, but you refuse to see me.”

He broke off, jaw tight. I felt a jab of shame as, irritably, he went on.

“It doesn’t matter. You’ve agreed to his request now, just as he wanted,” Noé said. “Nicely done.”

I stayed silent. The room suddenly seemed quite small—and I at the center of it, looking like an idiot. Too late, I thought back to the countless requests Noé had sent me recently, asking for the two of us to talk. Never had I considered that he’d actually had something to say.

Swallowing, I shifted in place. “What would you recommend I do?”

Noé chuckled. “You’re asking my advice?” he teased. “My father truly must have you running scared, Tamerlane.” Dipping his head, he brushed down the damp sleeve of his jacket. “If you agreed to solve his mystery, our obvious next step is solving it.”

I frowned. “I can manage Sybil’s death on my own.” My fiancé’s response had a dangerous edge of comradery to it, which I both mistrusted and disliked. I would work with him so long as I had to, but I had no desire to work together. “I uncovered the truth about you and Ophelia without much help, during the Vainglory—I can do so again.”

My answer seemed to amuse Noé. “Lear was that useless, was he?”

I paused. It hadn’t come out the way I’d intended.

“We will solve the case together,” he asserted before I could form a rebuttal. “Allowing you to operate on your own has created enough trouble for us already. You investigate with me, or you do not investigate at all.”

My temper flashed. “No.”

Noé quirked a brow. Desperately, I softened my tone, trying another argument. “Investigation is arduous work.”

“You think I am opposed to hard work?” Again, that sly smile. I was seriously beginning to detest it.