Accomplice to the Villain (Assistant and the Villain, #3)(80)
“She’s not a bag of goods to be tossed around from one person to the next!”
Aw, that’s sweet. And the expectations of chivalry were sinking lower by the minute.
“Of course not, sir, but I must respect his lordship’s wishes. I am under his command.”
“Fine.” The Villain released the footman so quickly and so hard he fell into the door. “A change of clothes for the lady. Now.”
Her tender heart tried not to clench too tight at the protective care he was putting into safeguarding her, but it failed. He was too honorable by half, and that was unjust, considering he was meant to be a dishonorable blackguard.
Who was she fooling? She’d take him that way, too.
“Of course. Right away. I’ll be back with something for her promptly!”
“Something comfortable,” Trystan clarified with the authority of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. Evie would like to be something he wanted.
He has you already anyway.
“Of course, sir! Oh! Before I forget, Lord Fowler wanted me to give you this.” The footman laid a long strip of silk across The Villain’s palm, then whispered conspiratorially behind his hand. “In case things get a little rough in here.”
He winked, and The Villain boomed so loudly the walls shook, “Get out!”
The footman lost his composure, scrambling out the door and slamming it shut.
“Sage. You didn’t hear that.”
“Sir, I’m twenty-three years old, and I read naughty novels like they’re about to go out of fashion.” She slipped the silk from his hand, quickly twining it tight and doubling it into an expert knot. “I know what playing rough is.”
There was no way to tell for certain if the words had been absorbed into his consciousness. There was not even a twitch of movement on his face as he threw himself into the chair by the fire.
“You take the bath first. I’ll take the fire.” He angled the chair as far away from the tub as it would move, the long headrest blocking even the back of his head from view.
“Okay,” she said carefully. “I’m going to get naked now.”
“Don’t narrate.”
She thought she heard the wood of the armrest splinter.
It was going to be a very long night.
Chapter 51
Clare
Clare Maverine had always enjoyed libraries. In the small seaside village of her childhood, there had been one—not nearly as grand as Lord Fowler’s but far more dear.
After the night’s festivities concluded and the rest of the guests proceeded to the large dinner table, Clare made her escape back to the library where she’d first awoken. She found herself among the stacks of books with an aching heart. But any ailment of the heart could be ignored, or at the very least forgotten for a little while, when an open book sat before you, pages lined with nothing but new possibilities.
This book was less imaginative and more illuminating. Pots of ink lined the inside of the pouch clipped around her waist, and Clare slipped the one she rarely used out of the far-right side. Yellow. When she’d first begun ingraining her magic into objects, she’d taken to ink almost immediately.
There was already something magical about a liquid that could make something from nothing. To her magic, ink was another avenue for creation, and with each color she interacted with, a different reaction occurred.
Yellow was one of the greatest enigmas, but when she got it just right, it helped her uncover secrets hidden among ambiguous pages. With a flick of her hand, Clare pulled the yellow liquid from the small pot, moving it slowly with her fingers before splashing it against the crumpled paper in front of her.
One of the many missives to Evie’s little sister was splayed out on the mahogany table. She’d been hesitant to bring them along, but she couldn’t seem to leave them behind, something in the writing familiar in a jarring sort of way, all the letters curling strangely, each of the Ts with a crooked dash. She’d tried to find an answer within the ink several times and come up empty, but something about them… She couldn’t seem to let it go. The candles all around dripped wax slowly against the little trays they sat upon. The paper glowed along with the yellow ink, and Clare noticed several things all at once.
For one, whatever ink was used to write the letter was not magical in the slightest—the letters etched onto the page were unchanging beneath the weight of Clare’s power. For another, the yellow ink had clung in places to large, strange marks over every corner of the parchment.
Not fingerprints… What are these?
Clare pulled a magnifying glass off the desk and leaned over the paper, attempting to decipher what she was looking at.
“You look like a detective. Attempting to find a heart?” Tatianna’s comment was so startling in the quiet, not even a light footstep in warning, Clare cried out, stumbling into the wooden chair before righting herself on the edge of the table.
“Have anything on hand to restart it?” Clare grumbled, sitting back in the seat with a huff before returning to her task. “What do you want?”
Tatianna frowned, as did Kingsley, who sat with a tiny steel cuff clipped to his foot. A small, weighted ball was chained to the end of it. They’d found it in an armor display, and after Alexander knocked it over, it felt like a natural next step. It had been Kingsley’s own idea. Now that his awareness was becoming sparser and far more dangerous, judging by how the evening had disintegrated, they’d agreed that keeping Kingsley in place was safest for all involved.