Chapter 143
The Duke and the Girl
Nothing.
There was nothing green in the wardrobe.
Anne, on edge from the sounds outside the door, turned toward the dresser. She pulled the top drawer with all her strength.
Nothing here either.
Growing more anxious, Anne opened the next drawer with trembling hands, rifling through the clothes. After checking, she carefully arranged them back and pushed the drawer in.
There was no more furniture in the modest room. Anne pulled a travel bag from under the bed.
She unclasped and opened it—but it was empty, just like she feared.
With no result, Anne left the maid’s room.
She hurried up the stairs to the third floor via the servants’ passage, heading to her next search location.
The western corridor on the third floor was bathed in slanting, serene sunlight, still as if submerged underwater. Only the sound of Anne’s pounding heart echoed loudly in her ears.
Sneaking into a maid’s room without permission and breaking into a noble guest’s bedroom were worlds apart.
If someone discovered her, there would be no avoiding imprisonment.
Moreover, Anne had a history of being accused of stealing the late Duchess’s belongings.
Of course, it had been a false accusation—but no one had believed her.
Anne took a deep breath.
She crossed the corridor straight to the door and opened the bedroom.
The master key she had brought for emergencies wasn’t needed.
Inside, Anne frowned.
The sunlight streaming through the tightly closed windows was golden, mingling with a dreamlike fragrance that floated in the air.
It was reminiscent of the aroma burned by insomniacs to induce sleep.
Anne swallowed hard and walked slowly toward the center of the bedroom.
Though she had the urge to ventilate the stifling air, she made a small pivot and headed straight for the dressing room.
She found it.
Among the neatly hung clothes, Anne spotted a green shawl and grabbed the embellishment. But when she compared it with the thread she had received from the young lady, the color was clearly different.
Disappointed, Anne calmly opened the next wardrobe. Yet nowhere did she see any fabric containing green aside from that shawl.
As she left the dressing room to examine the bedroom, she accidentally knocked over a jewelry box on the vanity.
It fell to the floor with a loud clatter. Anne’s heart seemed to drop along with it.
Cold sweat ran down her spine.
Had someone heard it?
Downstairs, the young lady and the bedroom’s owner were having tea.
“Focus, Anne Marshall.”
Wiping the sweat from her hand, Anne carefully picked up the scattered accessories and returned them to the jewelry box.
When she reached for a brooch that had fallen under the sleekly curved leg of the console, her hand froze.
The light streaming through the small square window reflected off a round piece of glass.
“…”
Anne slowly extended her hand.
The brooch, apparently opened from the impact of falling, had opals arranged like a shell.
Inside, there was a photograph.
The Duke…?
Anne picked up the brooch and blinked rapidly, staring intently at the photo.
It was a picture of the Duke, younger than now, standing at the edge between boy and young man, and a young girl.
The girl standing beside him with a bright smile was none other than Josephine Clara Sinclair.
Anne’s heart began to hammer.
“I heard you first met Johan at the commissioning of the King Trafalgar.”
Olivia suddenly remembered what Clara had said when she first visited Greathill.
Sunlight fell brightly across Clara’s face as she answered.
“Yes. I was at the ship’s commissioning.”
Her blue eyes sparkled as if recalling that day.
“I heard that the Marchioness Wellington thought highly of Miss Josephine. I find that a bit surprising.”
The admiral’s daughter and a naval officer—during the two years he served at the Waylo Navy Department, had they really never met, even by chance? Olivia sometimes wondered.
“It was a phrase the Marchioness used habitually. I heard it since I was six. The Duke would have been fourteen.”
Clara smiled.
“It was too young to assign meaning. From my perspective, the Duke felt like a distant adult.”
“I see.”
Olivia nodded with a faint smile.
Clara was absorbed in painting and uninterested in society, and Johan didn’t prioritize social activity either. There was little reason for their paths to cross.
Johan was said to be the most popular officer among Waylo’s ladies.
Families with daughters of marriageable age would hold parties to invite him, yet he never appeared. Clara smiled as she recounted this.
As Olivia listened and smiled at her, the head maid entered with a knock.
“Your ladyship, the master has returned.”
“Already?”
Olivia’s expression instantly paled, the smile gone.
“Early, it seems. I’ll return to the studio now.”
Clara rose.
“No, Miss Josephine. Please, stay comfortably.”
Olivia urged her to stay. Her heart pounded.
Anne hadn’t returned yet.
Anne swiftly left Clara’s bedroom and descended to the first floor via the servants’ passage.
She had just opened a door facing the western corridor when urgent footsteps echoed through the central hall.
The Duke had returned sooner than expected.
Anne, tense from being in a space frequently used by servants, felt relieved.
All eyes were focused on the central hall, awaiting the master of Greathill.
Anne moved carefully down the corridor, keeping her footsteps silent.
Reaching the studio in a single bound, she stealthily opened the last door.
After seeing the photo in the brooch, she couldn’t avoid checking here.
For some reason, the Queen had received information about the shooting incident at Litten Harbor.
She intended to summon him to put diplomatic pressure on Britt.
Queen Katrina planned to demand Britt’s army withdraw from Indus.
Johan, having endured a long and tedious negotiation, supported the Queen’s wishes without raising objections, ending the private audience earlier than expected.
Whether Britt would share or monopolize the Indus Peninsula wasn’t Johan’s concern.
He had gained Olivia through the arrangements set by the King of Britt. That was enough.
His attention was elsewhere.
“Tracking Allen Powell.”
The movements reported by the sparrow didn’t leave Raiden city.
This meant he wasn’t looking for the father Olivia’s maid had requested him to find.
Of course. There had never been such a request in the first place.
Johan turned his gaze from the scenery outside the carriage window to his wristwatch.
Then what exactly had his wife commissioned the detective to investigate?
He had forbidden all newspapers carrying Edgar’s articles.
Was she curious about Edgar’s news? Or was she trying to find the whereabouts of that painter who had been the subject of rumors?
His ash-gray eyes roamed over the watch, and he slowly clenched his fist. Blue veins stood out on the back of his hand.
No. It couldn’t be.
Johan closed his eyes, suppressing the unpleasant feeling rising again.
As the carriage wheels stopped, Johan opened his eyes.
As he prepared to step out, he casually glanced through the window and saw the western wing of the mansion.
Through the long, rectangular windows, someone was crossing the corridor—toward Josephine Clara Sinclair’s studio.
Johan frowned.
The reddish-brown hair left no doubt—it was Olivia’s maid.
There was no time to waste.
With the Duke home, the young lady’s teatime would soon end.
Anne had roughly ten minutes. The studio’s owner could return even sooner.
Anne quickly scanned the studio.
The empty space seemed unremarkable: a tea table, three single sofas, and a work chair.
Nervously, Anne approached the boxes stacked next to the wall where the canvases were lined up.
“Anne. There should be red paint. Check how much was used.”
The crimson drapery taking up half the background had yet to be painted, so the paint jar should be intact.
With trembling hands, Anne began opening the topmost box, one by one.
Brushes of various sizes, charcoal, bottles of oil she couldn’t identify—
No.
She closed that wooden box and pulled out the next.
Anne’s heart beat faster as time passed.
Only one unopened box remained.
Just as she was about to open the last box, the studio door—thought to be locked—flung open.
“!”
Anne spun around reflexively, frozen as if struck by lightning.
Standing beyond the open door was Duke Johan Leopold.
He stepped inside and quietly closed the door.
His slender ash-gray eyes, hands in his pockets, scanned the studio slowly before fixing back on Anne.
The Duke walked toward her with measured steps.
Anne held her breath.
Outside, beyond the garden, the sun hung low over the ridgeline, casting long crimson shadows over the quiet stillness.
“What are you doing here?”
His gaze, deepened by the sunset, looked down at Anne with dry intensity.
