Chapter 19
For a royal funeral, it was strikingly modest, with several formal procedures omitted.
The gathering itself reflected that austerity.
Yet few among the mourners openly questioned the stripped-down rites or the sparse attendance.
Some quietly resented the absence of the royal family and court dignitaries, but most accepted it.
After all, Riena was no longer the Grand Duchess.
With her marriage annulled, she was no longer part of House Venachert, no longer of royal blood.
Strictly speaking, the Duke bore no obligation to hold her funeral.
She had died only after the annulment had been finalized.
Legally, they were nothing to each other.
And yet, many of the mourners thought otherwise.
Marriage was a bond forged by the divine.
No decree or annulment could sever such ties so easily.
Riena had wielded no influence in Behern.
But she had once been the wife of the Duke—a man both feared and admired, envied even.
And that alone was reason enough for many to come and offer condolences.
Her death, reported only days ago, had already spread beyond Behern to the capital, Arbern, and other major cities.
The details were vague, merely described as a tragic accident.
Some suspected she might have been the same woman who had gone missing after the carriage crash that had set Behern searching weeks before.
The annulled Grand Duchess, cast out of the palace and dead in an accident.
Her fate was pitiable, and many mourners were moved by her misfortune.
Moreover, the Duke’s decision to host her funeral at Behern Palace soothed the angry public, which had been brimming with hostility toward him.
“Whatever secrets lie behind this, Duke Venachert has honored the eternal rest of the woman who was once his wife.” That was how public sentiment swiftly shifted.
By the time the simple service neared its end, the archbishop’s priests handed each mourner a flower to lay upon the grave.
At last, the basket was held before the Duke himself.
Dante lowered his gaze and studied the flowers within: white lilies and red roses.
He could feel the weight of countless eyes upon him.
A quiet, scornful laugh echoed inside his chest.
White lilies—purity, nobility.
Red roses—love, longing.
As Duke. As once her husband.
“Red roses,” he murmured under his breath, too softly for anyone else to hear.
He considered such symbolism archaic, a superstition.
And yet, when his gloved hand reached into the basket, he withdrew—
A single white lily.
He stepped forward and stood before the gravestone.
Riena.
Only her given name, without surname.
She had never publicly claimed the Bronte name of her birth, and so it was omitted.
A safeguard, so no past acquaintance or distant kin might recognize her as Riena Venachert.
Dante’s gaze, cold and unfeeling, swept over the inscription.
Then he cast the lily upon the stone.
The Duke’s lily—an absurd gesture, almost mocking—fell onto the base of her headstone.
After the ceremony, a modest reception was held in Behern Palace’s banquet hall to thank the guests.
“My lord Duke, how heavy your grief must be.”
“Thank you for coming.”
To each condolence Dante offered a faint lift of the lips, a shallow smile.
He met their gazes one by one, and every pair of eyes was the same—pity, sympathy, regret.
Emotions he had known all too well.
They reminded him of wounds left decades ago, scars buried yet never erased.
“Your Grace, a word…”
As his thoughts threatened to drift, his steward approached, expression taut with urgency.
Dante inclined his head, and the man whispered quickly into his ear.
Dante’s golden eyes dimmed, a shadow flickering through them.
He gave a subtle nod.
Raising his glass, he called for the room’s attention.
“I must excuse myself. Once again, I thank you all for your kindness in attending. Please, remain and take your time.”
He bowed with perfect courtesy before departing with his steward.
“…You’ve caught him, then?”
His voice was as cold as his face.
“We couldn’t see his face, but yes. He’s been secured.”
“Were any guests or servants likely to notice?”
“No. He was brought quietly through the wine cellar passage. The second floor was cleared beforehand.”
Their pace quickened as they made for the Duke’s study.
The corridor was silent, almost ominous.
Dante flung open the study doors—
“Mmff! Mmmph—!”
A man lay bound on the floor, his head covered with cloth, his mouth gagged.
His muffled cries filled the room.
Beside him stood a plainclothes officer, hat pulled low.
“You’re bold,” Dante said, lips curling faintly.
“…If I’m caught, it’s straight to prison,” muttered Evan, chief inspector of the constabulary.
His voice was tight with unease. Kidnapping was no minor crime—and for an officer to commit it was unthinkable.
But Dante Venachert’s presence was far more terrifying than the law.
Evan pulled a crumpled scrap of paper from his coat and held it out.
Dante’s golden eyes narrowed, demanding explanation.
“It was found in his lodging. In the pocket of the clothes he was wearing at the time.”
“Lodging?”
Dante’s gaze sharpened.
Not a house.
An inn.
“He’s not Bermark-born. He’s from the Kingdom of Caledia.”
Caledia.
Barely a kingdom—small, poor, in the barren north.
“Then he must have crossed before the borders closed.”
“Yes. But he isn’t a smuggler. He came last year and stayed, stranded when the borders shut. Picked up work as a coachman.”
“And the constabulary never caught this? Didn’t even check his identification?”
“You run your work like swine,” Dante muttered darkly. His brow furrowed in cold disgust.
Evan swallowed hard, sweat running down his spine.
“He was badly injured at the time. Only just regained consciousness in the hospital. That’s probably why the investigation wasn’t thorough…”
“Do you wish to confirm him yourself?” Evan asked hesitantly.
Dante inclined his chin.
Yes.
Evan peeled back the cloth.
The man’s bruised, scabbed face was revealed, eyes darting wildly—until they met Dante’s.
The Duke’s golden eyes glinted like a blade.
The man froze, trembling violently.
His gagged voice died in his throat.
Dante tilted his head, studying him like an insect.
“From this moment, if you utter even a single useless word…”
The chill in his voice sliced like ice.
The coachman shook his head desperately.
“Answer only what I ask.”
The man nodded, frantic, trembling like a trapped beast.
