Chapter 3 - The Ice Beneath the Silk
Three floors above, in the western terrace suite, crystal shattered against Italian marble.
"He humiliated me!" Vivien shrieked, hurling a perfume bottle into the fireplace, where the expensive alcohol flared in a burst of scented blue flame. "In front of Senator Vance! In front of the Delacroix family! He took his jacket off and put it on a fat little scullery maid!"
Her mother, Lady Eleanor Hail, sat calmly on a velvet chaise lounge, sipping tea with an expression of cold calculation. Eleanor was sixty, with skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones by the best plastic surgeons in Switzerland.
"Lower your voice, Vivien," Eleanor commanded, not even looking up from her teacup. "Hysteria is the weapon of commoners. You sound like a tavern wench."
"Did you hear what I said, Mother? He took the whip from my hand!"
"I heard," Eleanor said, placing the cup down with a delicate clink. "And whose fault is that? I told you to play the role of the devoted, elegant consort until the contracts were signed and the harbor rights were transferred. Ronan Blackwood is not like his father. Dominic Blackwood was an arrogant brute who could be manipulated with flattery and feminine tears. Ronan is an animal who sleeps with one eye open and executes his own captains for skimming five percent."
Vivien paced the length of the room, her emerald silk dress swirling violently around her slender frame. "He looked at her, Mother. I saw his eyes. He has never looked at me like that. Not once in eight months of our courtship."
"He looked at an employee who was wronged on his property," Eleanor dismissed dismissively. "Ronan is obsessed with feudal notions of honor. You challenged his authority in his own great hall. That was your mistake."
"She made me look ridiculous!" Vivien snarled, her manicured nails digging into the palms of her hands. "I will have her out of this house by tomorrow. I'll call Julian Vance. He has men on the docks who can handle an unfortunate accident for a girl walking home through the lower district."
"You will do no such thing," Eleanor snapped, her gaze turning lethal. "Julian Vance is already playing a double game against the Blackwood family. If Ronan finds out you are communicating with Vance behind his back, he won't just break the engagement—he will crush our shipping lines before the week is out."
Vivien paused, a slow, malicious smile curving her lips. "Then we don't use violence. We use the law. Ronan is ruthless, but he is paranoid about betrayal. What if that sweet, innocent little maid turns out to be a thief?"
Eleanor raised an eyebrow, interested. "Go on."
"The Blackwood vaults hold bonds, bearer shares, family jewels worth millions," Vivien whispered, stepping closer to her mother. "It would take very little effort to slip an unregistered bond into that girl’s trunk. If Ronan believes his precious, pitiful charity case is stealing from him, he won't just fire her. He'll destroy her himself."
Eleanor smiled faintly, nodding her head in approval. "Better. Much better. But timing is everything, Vivien. Wait until the solstice gala next week. When the entire syndicate council is gathered to witness our alliance. When the fall of that little girl will leave Ronan no choice but to rely entirely on us."
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Vivien looked into the vanity mirror, wiping a smudge of mascara from beneath her cold blue eyes. "She wanted to wear his jacket. Let's see how warm she feels in an iron cell."
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