Free Labyrinth Gate by Kate Elliott Page A

to stand quietly until he finished. He examined her, his expression unreadable, and at last placed his gloves at a precise angle on the high booktable.
    “Well, Miss Farr,” he said, his voice as cold as his face, “are you finding it difficult to believe that I murder infants and violate girls and boys whom I buy off the streets from their destitute parents?”
    “No,” she said.
    His smile was as chilling as his eyes. Now she saw clearly that he was amused, but for a reason she could not possibly fathom. “Very good,” he said softly. “I see I came to the right place.”
    “My lord,” she said, more deliberate now, or perhaps made rash by a combination of plain fear and, worse, admiration for his beauty. “I cannot imagine you came here simply to mock me. Whatever business you might conceivably have with my father or myself could not possibly interest us.”
    “It will.” His conviction silenced her. “In any case, has it not occurred to you that by angering me you might be endangering yourself?”
    “No.” It had indeed not occurred to her. “Even you could not harm or enchant a respectable young woman of good birth with impunity.”
    “It is true,” he said, “that it is more difficult to meddle with those whose birth and wealth in some measure protect them. That does not mean it is impossible. Now I suggest you call your father, since my business is primarily with him.”
    For a moment she wanted to refuse, but she knew it would be both futile and foolish. “My lord,” she said stiffly, acquiescing; but the door opened before she could move, and her father and the new secretary entered.
    “Maretha.” Professor Farr’s voice was slightly peevish, a tone Maretha recognized—he hated to be interrupted. “Molly says there is a visitor—” He paused, blinking in his absentminded way at their guest.
    “My lord,” she said, surprised at the calm in her voice. “May I present my father, Professor Farr. And Monsieur Mukerji. His lordship the Earl of Elen.”
    Professor Farr bowed, but it was obvious that he was not quite sure who this personage was and why he should recognize him. “My lord,” he said.
    Mr. Mukerji bowed as well, but said nothing. His eyes met Maretha’s briefly, a questioning look, and she saw from his expression that although he recognized the name and reputation, he, too, was at a loss to explain the earl’s presence.
    The earl inclined his head to acknowledge the two men, but his gaze lingered longer on Mr. Mukerji: whether because of his foreign looks or because of some other quality he saw with whatever sorcerous sight he possessed, Maretha could not tell.
    “Please sit down,” said Professor Farr.
    The earl glanced at Maretha, eyebrows lifted, and as soon as she sat, seated himself. There was a moment of silence.
    “I see you own a Gobella,” said the earl finally, nodding towards the wall next to the window, which bore, not bookshelves, but a magnificent old tapestry.
    “Yes, yes,” said the professor, “a fine original. I identified it immediately when I saw it. You see that it gives the ten scenes of the Life of Saint Maretha, but it can be dated to the troubador period by the rendering of scene four—of course historically she rejected the Prince of Fronsai’s offer of marriage, but due to the romanticism of the period she is seen here accepting it. He then dies, in some versions while defending her brother when he was martyred, as is depicted here in scene five, but as is appropriate leaving Saint Maretha free to dedicate herself to the Knights Guardian in the service of the Queen of Heaven—scene six of course is always constant in all depictions.”
    “Ah,” said the earl. His eye lit for an uncomfortable moment on Maretha. “And perhaps you named your daughter after the esteemed saint?”
    Professor Farr appeared, for a moment, flustered.
    “I believe,” put in Maretha quickly, “that it was my mother’s choice of name.”
    “I see,” said the