Chapter 5 - THE BLACKMAILER’S GAME
Inside a dim, smoky private room at the back of the Black Boar Tavern on the edge of town, a man named Vance sat at a greasy wooden table, swirling amber liquor in a heavy pewter mug. He was a sleek, sharp-featured man wearing a tailored coat with brass trim, a thin mustache framing his cruel lips.
The tavern door creaked open, and a figure draped in a heavy velvet cloak stepped into the dark room. The figure pulled back the hood, revealing the striking, cold face of Vivienne Van Doren. She looked disgusted by her surroundings, holding a lavender-scented handkerchief to her nose.
"You are late, Vivienne," Vance drawled, leaning back in his chair without bothering to stand.
"I had to slip past Julian's watch," Vivienne snapped softly, sitting opposite him. "Did you deliver the second note as we agreed?"
"Of course," Vance sneered, pulling a small silver coin from his pocket and rolling it across his knuckles. "I slipped my threat into the envelope inside that rice sack right before your foolish husband walked out to the gates. The old woman now believes that if she speaks a single word about Thomas’s death, I will release the forged documents proving her husband was a thief—and her son will hang from the town gallows."
Vivienne smiled—a slow, venomous curl of her lips. "Brilliant. Julian thinks he is being so clever, secretly collecting evidence to expose my father at tonight’s grand auction. He has no idea that we have been watching his every move."
"And my gold?" Vance asked, his eyes narrowing greedily.
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"You will receive your five hundred gold sovereigns tonight," Vivienne whispered, leaning in close. "After the auction concludes, when my father uses Julian's forged ledgers to have him arrested right in front of the district nobility. Julian will take the fall for the illegal crown mining, my father will retain the land, and that old hag in the village will rot in poverty, believing her son hated her until her dying day."
Neither of them noticed that tucked into the small linen chute directly behind their table, a young, ten-year-old stable boy named Toby—who worked at the tavern and whom Eleanor had healed from a fever the previous winter—was crouched in absolute silence, listening to every single word.
