It was a strange offer—as odd as The City itself.
Charles de Roschillian.
Yes, it sounded nice.
"Oh, but you won't inherit De Roschillian name," Jacquet whispered in his strained voice. "Neither will your children."
Even so, the offer was too good to be true.
"She is a beauty."
Jacquet nodded his head at the woman tending to the garden of statues.
"There isn't a man in this city, bachelor or married, who'd refuse a chance to court her."
He walked up to his guest, leaned forward, and continued in a lifeless tone.
"There isn't a man in this city, bachelor or married, who'd refuse the goodwill of a De Roschillian."
Bland as those words were, paired with a cold gaze, they sounded ominous.
Charles met his eyes. His hand shot up, ending beside Jacquet's head. In it, he held an old pipe.
"May I?" he asked unflinchingly.
Jacquet eyed him before correcting his posture.
"Why, of course."
His hand was flat and held wide to gesture towards the door leading to the balcony.
