Raised voices. The sharp clip of heels striking tile. The unmistakable, high-pitched indignation of someone unused to being refused.

  Daine tilted his head toward the noise with a faint sigh. “Sounds like someone’s lost their sense of decorum.”

  Morveyn cracked an eye open. “If you’re so curious, go and handle it.”

  Daine tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting with restrained humor. “Far be it from me to overstep, milord. I’d wager that what’s needed is a touch of your esteemed authority. After all, when it comes to settling such matters, it must feel rather like taking candy from children.”

  The noise outside swelled, punctuated by the clatter of parasol against tile. Morveyn exhaled through his nose and rose with deliberate grace, drawing his black brocade robe snugly around his shoulders. Whatever awaited beyond the door, he doubted it would prove half as amusing as Daine seemed to think.

  New money, Morveyn thought with a touch of disdain. Likely the wife of a merchant who had only recently clawed her way into the upper echelons of wealth and now believed it her divine right to take everything life had previously denied her. No grace, no decorum—just noise and demands. Apparently, her initial attempts at persuasion had failed, and now she was trying to physically push past the valet to claim the empty compartment next to Morveyn’s. Behind her, a pretty young girl stood with a bored expression, obviously her daughter. Morveyn noted the sharp features and full lips that the girl had inherited from her mother. Unfortunately, the older woman’s face had long lost any hint of beauty, marred by a perpetual scowl that had etched deep lines into her cheeks. The daughter, by contrast, possessed a keen, predatory beauty, though it was already evident that she had inherited her mother’s air of perpetual dissatisfaction.

  “This is absolutely unacceptable!” the woman shrieked, her eyes flashing with indignation. “My husband will be furious when he learns that we are being forced to squeeze into the regular carriages! He will be most displeased to know that his family has to share space with commoners while this reserved compartment remains empty!”

  Martin, struggling to maintain composure, stammered out a polite but helpless response. He had no authority to allow passengers into the private carriage without explicit permission, and the woman knew it. Her tantrum was purely for show, a display of force meant to wear down his resistance.

  Struggling to suppress a contemptuous smirk, Morveyn decided to intervene. He stepped fully into the corridor, his presence immediately drawing attention. In any other situation, he might have been mortified to be seen in a dressing gown before ladies, but since it was they who had disturbed his peace, he felt no obligation to uphold propriety.

  “Excuse me for the inconvenience, madam,” he began smoothly, his tone all effortless politeness. “But this carriage is reserved for Protectorate equipment. It may be hazardous for civilians, so your passage here is unfortunately impossible. I would kindly ask that you stop troubling my valet, as he cannot change the circumstances.”

  The woman turned to him sharply, ready to argue—but as soon as her gaze fully registered who he was, her expression underwent a dramatic transformation. The righteous indignation melted away, replaced by syrupy admiration.

  “You… it’s you!” she gasped, her voice suddenly lilting with feigned delight. “We saw your picture in the newspaper! What a fortunate coincidence that we should meet, dear Lord Lyuteakh! Veronica, just look!”

  The girl, Veronica, fixed him with a sharp, assessing gaze. Long eyelashes fluttered as she studied him intently, her mouth curling into a slow, knowing smile. The hair on Morveyn’s nape prickled. It was not attraction he felt but the unmistakable sensation of being sized up like prey. Her cold, calculating eyes swept over his attire, lingering slightly at the opening of his robe where his collarbone was visible. She clearly approved of what she saw, but Morveyn remained unimpressed. He had long grown used to such glances, and they neither pleased nor disturbed him. The only question that lingered in his mind was which damned newspaper had decided to feature him so prominently.

  Not so long ago, despite the public’s morbid fascination with his persona, the very idea that some desperate mother would be eager to throw her daughter at him would have been laughable. Let them whisper, let them gawk—but the matrons of the most respectable salons had once recoiled at the mere thought of their naive girls falling for the notorious Falconet, a man who carried nothing but scandal and misfortune in his wake. And yet, something had clearly shifted. This one, however, was bolder than most—clearly prepared to go to great lengths to ensure an introduction.

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  “It is a great honor to meet you,” the woman continued, now adopting a more refined tone. “Such a wonderful opportunity! Just think, you must be dreadfully lonely here, but worry no more!” She raised her parasol like a triumphant banner. “We would be delighted to keep you company! After all, you are the hero of the day! It’s the least we can do for you.”

  Morveyn summoned an effortless, charming smile—one he had used countless times before. He had dealt with many such people in his lifetime. Gently maneuvering Martin aside, he moved closer to the women, taking the older woman’s plump wrist and pressing the air above it in a ghost of a courtly kiss.

  You’ll never convince anyone you’re aristocrats with nails like those, ladies, he thought grimly.

  “Thank you for your kind words, madam…” he paused deliberately, waiting for her to supply her name.

  “Eleanora Lawrence, my lord, and this is my daughter Veronica. My husband’s enterprise is quite indispensable to the Confederation—why, he supplies the finest official paper to all the noble courts, from Teak-An to the farthest provinces.”

  “Ah, of course,” Morveyn purred, not in a hurry to release the woman’s hand. He had mastered the art of pretending familiarity where there was none. The girl was dangerous—that much was evident from the way she carried herself—and her mother was no fool either.

  “Madam Lawrence, mademoiselle,” Morveyn inclined his head slightly. “It is truly a pleasure. However, rules are rules,” he continued, injecting his voice with just the right note of regret. “For your safety, I must insist that you find seats elsewhere. The risk is simply too great. You cannot imagine how precarious it is to be near battle schematics and munitions. Even the slightest mishap could be catastrophic. That is precisely why this carriage is at the rear of the train—to minimize danger to the most precious of passengers.”

  He kept his grip on the woman’s hand as he spoke, his voice laced with elaborate gravitas. Then, ever so subtly, he began to guide them backward, step by step, all while lamenting the perilous nature of his work, the burdens of a Falconet, and his solemn duty to ensure their safety above all else. By the time his winding monologue on the hardships of service concluded, the ladies had unwittingly backed all the way to the threshold of the vestibule.

  Eleanora blinked, momentarily disoriented. She had been so caught up in his smooth words that she had failed to realize she had been maneuvered into retreat. A forced nod, a faltering smile, and finally, with a last, lingering glance from Veronica, they disappeared beyond the door.

  Silence fell in the carriage once more.

  “You saved me, sir,” Martin whispered in relief.

  Morveyn exhaled, running a hand through his hair as he turned back toward his compartment. “It was nothing,” he replied evenly.

  He knew, of course, that this was not the last he would see of them. Women like that did not give up so easily. He could already recognize that calculating gleam in Veronica’s eyes.

  But at least, for now, he had bought himself a moment’s peace.

  The dining car, though far from the luxury of private compartments, bustled with soft murmurs and the clink of silverware. Morveyn would have preferred the solitude of dining alone, but refusing Eleonora and Veronica had proven impossible. Their invitation, delivered in person with expectant smiles, left little room for protest.

  Naturally, Daine found the entire situation endlessly amusing.

  “Well, well, my lord,” he remarked, straightening Morveyn’s cravat with a flourish worthy of dressing royalty. “Off to dine with your devoted admirers. Shall I alert the poets of Te Aroed? I can already hear the verses—The Falconet’s Return: A Love Story in Five Acts. What do you think?”

  Morveyn’s gaze was flat. “I think it might be worth seeing you suspended by your tongue from the city gates of Teak-An for excessive chatter.”

  Daine clutched his chest as though mortally wounded. “Ah, but then, milord, you’d be the first to perish from heartbreak. Best not tempt fate.”

  “Polished saints’ eggs, Daine. Your imagination is becoming positively ungovernable,” Morveyn muttered, adjusting his cufflinks with a sharp click.

  “And yet, milord, here I am—still running after you with trays and apples from dawn to dusk, all so you might consume the occasional morsel. Perhaps next time I should don a gown to make the persuasion more effective?”

  “Spare me the imagery,” Morveyn replied dryly. “Just make yourself useful and ensure my glass stays full before I go. I’d rather face tonight’s performance with a touch of warmth in my veins.”

  Daine’s grin widened as he stepped back, hands clasped behind his back with mock solemnity. “Of course, milord. And should I detect the slightest softening of your gaze toward Lady Veronica, I’ll be sure to note the vintage that achieved such a miracle.”

  Morveyn rolled his eyes and gave Daine a light push toward the drinks cabinet. “Go on, then—before I have you thrown from the train for insubordination.”

  “Oh, the poetry that would inspire,” Daine called after him with a bow that was just a touch too deep to be entirely respectful.