Chapter 69
Wilford’s crime inevitably swelled into an international issue.
How could it not, when a foreign noble had been caught sneaking into Duke Gloria’s villa?
The Gloria ducal house claimed that the act must have been politically motivated, while the Principality of Domique, shaken to its core, insisted it was nothing more than Wilford’s personal folly.
The principality rushed to investigate Baron Rosney’s financial state and explained that he was so destitute he had resorted to burglary, hiding in the duke’s estate with the intent of theft.
Ordinarily, Wilford would have been extradited to Domique to face punishment as a criminal of his own nation.
But this was no ordinary crime: he had attempted to steal from Duke Gloria himself.
And so the principality surrendered him entirely to the Gloria household.
News of this decision spread swiftly, carried by the most influential papers of both countries.
When Wilford heard that his own nation had abandoned him, he flew into a frenzy.
Just as he had always claimed, he cried that he had been blackmailed by that wretch Lucas, that all he had wanted was to inquire after Marsha’s whereabouts.
[And another thing! Why is Lady Marsha—a noblewoman of Domique—being kept here?! Do you even realize she’s listed as missing back home?! That, too, is an international matter!]
But Wilford was shouting these protests from within the prison at Duke Gloria’s villa.
There was no one to relay his desperate cries to Domique.
Which meant Lucas never heard them, either.
I told him only to ask about Marsha quietly, but he just had to lose his mind and go too far.
Lucas crushed the freshly delivered paper in his fist, teeth grinding audibly.
“Damn it…”
He flung the crumpled sheet onto his desk.
Unfortunately, it landed atop the pile of letters from Rosanna he had left unfinished.
“Lucas, you know we can’t delay the wedding any longer. Or what, are you planning to abandon me and find another woman? That won’t do! My family knows all about the bribes you funneled into the western court. You wouldn’t want that to become public, would you? And furthermore…”
“Lucas, I’m starting to forget your face. Why am I the one preparing our wedding alone? You should be helping, too!”
“You’re not still searching for her, are you? She’s gone! She left to live her own life! Why can’t you just let her be? Unless… Lucas, don’t tell me you still…”
Every time he read them, his stomach turned.
Rosanna always doused her stationery with perfume—the heavy rose scent made him nauseous.
Marsha never had.
She sometimes enclosed a pressed flower, one that carried the memory of a season.
She must have chosen them carefully, drying them with care before sending them to him.
Even though they had lost their fragrance, those flowers still held value.
They were precious.
They were her.
“Ha…”
Lucas stepped out onto the terrace.
In Stravi, people hung cloves in their rooms for purification.
But tonight, mingled with the cloying rose stench still clinging to the letters, the fragrance only aggravated him further.
Just then, a knock sounded.
Without waiting, someone opened the door.
“Lucas.”
It was Count Beveridge—Marquis West’s right hand, and Lucas’s most important client.
“Am I disturbing you?”
“Not at all. The count is always welcome. But what brings you here at this hour?”
“I was hoping to procure some wine.”
“If you’d sent a servant, I would have delivered it immediately.”
Lucas smiled pleasantly, but the count shook his head.
“It has to be the best you carry. I can’t entrust something that valuable to a servant.”
“The best is kept in Emelaid…”
“Then perhaps you could bring it yourself? Don’t delegate this one. Choose it with your own eyes and handle it with care.”
Though the request was bothersome, Lucas maintained his genial expression.
“By when would you need it?”
“The exact date of the gathering hasn’t been announced yet, so… as soon as possible.”
With a sigh, Count Beveridge dropped into the sofa, shaking his head.
“Honestly, Gloria. He knows how to get under everyone’s skin.”
Lucas’s eyes widened, but the count, sunk in his own self-pity, failed to notice.
“I mean, what is he thinking? Suddenly announcing a ball? That lofty man who always avoided social gatherings?”
Normally, western nobles never showed their faces at Delua society events.
Ever since the current king took the throne, they hadn’t even attended the royal spring celebrations.
But Duke Gloria’s ball was another matter.
“He’s the most vexing enemy and the most desirable ally, all in one.”
Marquis West’s desire for the throne wasn’t just because of the king’s shameful birth.
Even if West himself had no ambitions, an incompetent and feeble monarch would sooner or later throw the realm into chaos.
“I can’t imagine why Gloria supports such a man. If he had aimed for the throne himself, the marquis could have washed his hands of the matter with relief. Or else we’d already be in the midst of a war splitting the country in two.”
He rambled on, clearly having had a drink already.
On any other day, Lucas would have cursed him inwardly for wasting his time.
But tonight was different.
“So you’re seeking wine to present to the duke?”
“Exactly. It will be as if the marquis himself is sending the gift. It must be nothing less than the finest.”
The count exhaled, his breath heavy with alcohol.
“If it were just a party, this wouldn’t be necessary… tch.”
“It must be a special party, then,” Lucas said smoothly.
The count stroked his chin, tilting his head.
“Rumor has it it’s for a woman. Supposedly she saved his life.”
To the count, it sounded ridiculous.
Duke Gloria was a man who seemed unkillable.
When would his life ever have been in danger?
“Some say he just used that as an excuse to bring along a pretty little thing he fancied.” The count shrugged.
“And yet he never batted an eye at the advances of Lady Hemes.”
Lucas knew that name well, though he had never seen her in person.
Patricks had droned about her endlessly: the most beautiful woman in the world, angelic, delicate, in need of constant protection.
But the world’s opinion of her, beyond her looks, was far less glowing.
Still, what mattered to Lucas now was neither the woman Claudio had brought, nor the daughter of Marquis Hemes.
It was the party itself.
“So the gift is for that woman,” Lucas said lightly.
“She saved his life. Showing up empty-handed would be poor form.”
“Of course. I imagine many will attend?”
“Certainly. With the Gloria name, nearly every noble in Stravi will be invited.”
“In that case… ah, never mind.”
Lucas gave an embarrassed smile, shaking his head.
“What? Don’t stop halfway.”
“Well, I wondered if I might accompany you, to explain the wine myself. But perhaps it’s too presumptuous. Your eloquence far surpasses mine, and a humble man like me hardly deserves to appear at such a distinguished event…”
The count’s eyes lit up.
Lucas wasn’t just pleasant company; he had a talent for putting others at ease, flattering them in just the right way.
And frankly, having Lucas explain the wine would be less tiresome than doing it himself.
“You’ll soon be Count Emelaid, won’t you? No reason you shouldn’t.”
“But I’m foreign-born, and I haven’t received an invitation…”
“Count Emelide is hardly just another foreigner. Besides, maids who accompany ladies don’t receive invitations either. Ah! Don’t mistake me for comparing you to a maid. I only mean to say such exceptions exist.”
Everything was unfolding just as Lucas wished.
He smiled warmly, this time with true sincerity.
“Thank you for accepting my suggestion.”
