Translator: Nox

Chapter 23

A sudden wave of relief washed over Madam Ritz, grateful she had turned to Jacqueline for assistance. As she watched the younger woman, the housekeeper’s gaze was no longer skeptical, but filled with genuine reliance.

Jacqueline gestured toward a room situated near the front entrance. “Is this the cloakroom, Madam Ritz?”

“It is. On the evening of the reception, John will be stationed here to manage the gentlemen’s coats and hats, while Amy will attend to the ladies in their dressing room.”

“In that case, we should arrange for two additional mirrors for the ladies,” Jacqueline suggested. “If several guests need to adjust their appearance simultaneously, it will cause a bottleneck. Given the length of the guest list, we should anticipate a crowd.”

“A wise observation, Miss. John, see to it that two more mirrors are brought in here at once.”

“Yes, Madam.”

The two women moved in a disciplined circuit, tracing the path a guest would take: from the foyer to the cloakroom, through the drawing room and the smoking room, and finally into the grand banquet hall. They walked with the poised elegance of high-born ladies attending a royal gala.

Drawing upon her extensive history of attending such functions, Jacqueline identified every minor oversight with a keen, practiced eye. Madam Ritz, recognizing the value of this expertise, implemented her suggestions without hesitation.

“These vibrant, heavy colors won’t do for the floral arrangements,” Jacqueline noted. “It will look as though we are overcompensating. In the ton, anything too gaudy or too austere invites gossip—there is always someone looking for a reason to sharpen their tongue. It would be far more sophisticated to use softer, more muted tones.”

“I shall speak with the gardener immediately,” Madam Ritz agreed. “We will supplement the displays with peach-colored carnations.”

“Perfect. And this tablecloth—it’s exquisite. Is it the new imported weave? I believe I recognize the pattern from a recent catalog.”

“Your eye is sharp, Miss Jacqueline. It is indeed.”

“A marvelous choice. The noblewomen will likely be quite taken with it; they are always remarkably observant regarding the latest trends.”

Madam Ritz couldn’t entirely hide a flicker of pride at the compliment. As they transitioned into the dining area, Jacqueline turned her attention to the logistics of the meal.

“How is the service being handled?”

“We shall provide an abundance of light refreshments—sandwiches, biscuits, and the like. However, a small circle of esteemed guests will dine privately with His Lordship. Only those of the highest priority whom we cannot afford to slight.”

The housemaids watched from the periphery, stunned to see the formidable Madam Ritz consulting the governess with such earnestness. Jacqueline was oblivious to it, but her standing within Preston Manor had shifted significantly. She was no longer just the boy’s teacher; she had become an essential advisor in the house’s most prestigious affairs. It was the dawn of an unanticipated transformation.

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In his study, Windsor Preston ran a cold eye over the guest list. A sharp knock preceded the door opening. He didn’t need to look up; the cadence of the footsteps in the hall had already announced the visitor.

“Is the matter I requested prepared?”

Roman Miller froze mid-step. Windsor’s head remained bowed over his desk, yet the question hit him with unerring precision. After a momentary lapse into confusion, Roman’s expression smoothed into one of grim recognition—Ah, of course. This is the Devil of the Black Fleet. He shook off the chill and approached the desk.

“He will be arriving shortly, My Lord.”

“Shortly?”

Windsor finally set his pen aside and looked up. The weight of that gaze prompted Roman to abandon all vagueness; he knew his master’s low tolerance for ambiguity.

“He is expected within fifteen minutes.”

“Very well.”

Only when Windsor looked away did Roman allow the tension to leave his shoulders. Though it had been years since Windsor walked the decks of a warship, he still carried the lethal, high-tension aura of a commander on the front lines.

Windsor checked his pocket watch before returning his focus to the list of names.

“My Lord,” Roman ventured cautiously. Windsor gave no verbal acknowledgment, but Roman knew he was being heard. The man was a predator who remained hyper-aware of his surroundings even in the depths of sleep. “Are you certain about the King? We won’t be extending an invitation to His Majesty? It is late, certainly, but perhaps even now…”

“Roman Miller.”

“Sir!”

Roman snapped to attention, the response hardwired into his nervous system. It wasn’t simple fear; it was the instinctual reaction of a man who had seen Windsor Preston navigate a hail of lead and blood with terrifying serenity.

Roman was certain that no amount of time would ever make him feel truly relaxed in this man’s presence. It had nothing to do with a lack of loyalty; it was simply that Windsor was not a man designed for comfort. He was a shark currently resting in a shallow thicket, teeth hidden—but Roman knew that if Windsor ever found deep water again, he would tear through anything in his path.

“Not another word on the subject. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly, My Lord.”

Another knock interrupted them. William entered, bowing low. “Viscount James Hammington has arrived, My Lord.”

“I will see him now.”

“He is waiting in the drawing room, sir.”

As Windsor stood to leave, Roman followed, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Viscount James Hammington?”

Windsor offered no explanation. Roman shrugged to himself and trailed his master down the grand staircase. Halfway down, Windsor paused and turned back.

“Fetch Miss Somerset for me.”

“The governess? Now, My Lord?”

Windsor produced his pocket watch again. With a metallic click, he checked the time, his voice devoid of emotion. “Her lesson concludes in exactly eight minutes. Wait by the door. The moment she is finished, escort her to the drawing room.”

“…Understood.”

Not ten minutes. Not “soon.” Precisely eight.

Roman shook his head as he watched Windsor walk away. The aristocracy treated time as a suggestion; being half an hour late was considered fashionable, and appointments were often treated with a casual disregard. Windsor, however, remained a soldier to his core. Roman wondered if the day would ever come when the Marquess would finally adopt the lazy, carefree habits of his peers.

Scratching the back of his neck, Roman turned toward Benjamin’s quarters.

Windsor continued to the drawing room. Inside, James Hammington was pacing, nervously wringing his hands, but he nearly jumped out of his skin when Windsor entered. He forced a wide, oily smile.

“I am so glad you reached out so quickly, Lord Preston! I was starting to worry—time is very much of the essence here.”

Windsor didn’t bother with pleasantries. He took the chair opposite the man, and as if on cue, William appeared to serve tea. Windsor poured a cup with steady hands and took a slow sip.

James, licking his dry lips, toyed with his own cup, his eyes darting around the room before he spoke again. “Hahaha! Truly, sir, if you let this pass, you’ll never see a mine of this quality at such a bargain again. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You won’t regret it, I promise.”

“The paperwork?” Windsor asked.

“Right here, My Lord!” James, sensing he had Windsor’s hook, grew bolder. He spread several documents across the table—a deed of silk-pressed land and a detailed mineral analysis. “As I mentioned, I’d never dream of parting with it if not for my wife’s failing health. The returns will be five times your initial investment within the year. No—ten times! Perhaps twenty!”

A knock cut through James’s frantic sales pitch. He glared at the door, his small eyes narrowing in irritation at the interruption.

“Enter,” Windsor commanded.

James fell silent, leaning back and watching the door with a sour expression. Roman entered first, followed by Jacqueline.

“You sent for me, My Lord?” Jacqueline began, her voice steady until she saw the guest. She stopped dead, her eyes widening as she recognized James Hammington—and then saw the documents spread out before Windsor.

James peered at the newcomers, trying to place them. He didn’t care who they were; he just wanted the money in his hand. He was on the verge of a windfall and his nerves were fraying.

“Lord Preston!” Jacqueline said, her voice tight with urgency.

Windsor raised a single hand, a silent command for her to wait. In the sudden hush, the distant rattle of a carriage approaching the manor could be heard. Windsor slid the documents toward Roman.

“The gentleman claims these are the deed and the geological surveys for a productive mine.”

“I see.” Roman picked up the papers, scrutinizing them with a clinical eye. Jacqueline bit her lip, her face pale, clearly bursting with a warning she wasn’t yet allowed to give.

Roman walked to the window, holding the deed up to the natural light. He gave a dismissive snort. “This is amateurish, My Lord.”

James bristled, his face reddening. “What are you talking about?”

“This deed is purportedly a century old,” Roman explained, his voice flat. “A hundred years ago, paper was handmade from cotton fibers. This, however, is a wood-pulp product from a factory. Such mills didn’t even begin production until fifty years ago. The timeline is impossible.”

The color drained from James’s face. He stammered, his bravado crumbling. “Well… that is… you see…”

Roman didn’t let him finish. “It’s a forgery.”

“It is not!” James turned to Windsor, his expression one of wounded pride. He licked his lips again, his voice cracking. “I don’t know what this man is saying, but this land has been in my family for generations—”

“Miss Jacqueline Somerset.”

“Yes, My Lord,” she whispered, meeting Windsor’s eyes.

“Somerset?” James repeated the name, the gears turning slowly. When the realization finally hit him, his jaw dropped in sheer terror.

Outside, the sound of a carriage pulling up to the front steps echoed through the room. The faint murmur of William greeting the new arrivals drifted through the open window. Windsor listened intently, his gaze never leaving Jacqueline’s face.

“The authorities have arrived,” Windsor stated calmly.

Jacqueline wasn’t the one who panicked. James scrambled to his feet, stumbling backward in a blind retreat. Through the glass, a carriage marked with the seal of the Metropolitan Police sat in the drive, flanked by three mounted officers.

Windsor’s voice remained cool and detached. “The decision to press charges for fraud against James Hammington rests entirely with you, Miss Somerset.”

Jacqueline felt the weight of the choice. If she moved forward, her name would be splashed across the broadsheets once more. Her father’s name would be dragged through the mud of a public scandal. The ton would laugh at the idea of a nobleman being swindled by a common crook, and the fragile remains of Baron Somerset’s reputation would be utterly destroyed.