Peter Nigel’s face suddenly crumpled. It was at the same moment that Johan took something from his inside pocket and dropped it with a thud onto the table.
Nigel, who had just been about to drink his tea, forcefully set the cup down. The clatter of the porcelain against the saucer was jarring in the silence. The hand pulling away from the handle trembled uncontrollably.
How did he get this?
Peter Nigel’s shock did not subside for a long time.
“…What do you want?” The middle-aged man’s voice was horribly cracked as he finally managed to speak.
Nigel’s eyes were still fixed on the photo on the table. It was a happy family photo of him—a man who was a symbol of integrity—with his beautiful mistress and their illegitimate son.
“The Princess of Britte. Put her on trial.”
“…”
The man who had just delivered the bolt of lightning from a clear sky was completely expressionless. Nigel’s lips moved as if his face had been scorched black by a strike.
“T-that’s…”
“That’s?”
“…You know that would be difficult.”
“Difficult, you say… Well, I think this would be more difficult, wouldn’t it?” His indifferent gaze slid to the photo.
Nigel’s eyes followed, tracing the face of his son—a child he cherished more than anything. The boy was smiling brightly. Nigel’s face twisted in even more pain. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his wife. He loved his three daughters, too. But that was separate from the joy his son, who looked just like him, gave him. His son was his other self. Incredibly precious… as was the honor he had built his whole life.
If only my wife had given birth to a son.
Just as Nigel was lost in this pointless fantasy, there was a quiet click. He looked up to see the Duke lighting the end of a cigarette. The time of a single cigarette. The time given to him, standing at the crossroads of a critical decision that would turn his life upside down, was absurdly short.
A heavy silence fell as the pale smoke scattered in the wind pouring in through the window.
In a monarchy, turning his back on the royal family would mean he could no longer set foot in Britte. The honor and position he had built as an incorruptible judge would plummet the moment his private life was revealed. Even if that happened, it would be difficult for him to continue living here as he was.
When his mistress had given birth to their son, Nigel had sent her to Rhondos. There, she lived a peaceful life, disguised as the wife of a low-ranking noble from Britte who had lost her husband. He couldn’t let the precious eldest grandson of the House of Nigel grow up as a bastard.
He was caught between a rock and a hard place. No matter which option he chose, self-destruction was unavoidable. If that was the case, he had to weigh the pros and cons.
The Duke flicked the long ash of his cigarette into the ashtray. Nigel clutched his head with both hands as if a sudden headache had struck. One foot was trembling on its tip.
He remembered what his acquaintances had said: the Duke’s patience lasted for only one cigarette. It was time to make a decision.
“…I have a condition.”
He spoke just as the ash, which had burned down almost to the filter, broke off and fell into the crystal ashtray.
Johan gave a light nod and looked at the Lord Chief Justice with his eyes half-closed. Nigel’s slow gaze swept around the office. His eyes caught on the royal awards and trophies that adorned one wall. In the quiet moonlight, the achievements of his lifetime shone proudly with a golden luster.
“If you will expedite my application for asylum… I will do as you ask.”
He had expected a brazen demand for one of Leopold’s businesses, but it was a pathetically trivial request. Aside from his double life, he seemed to have been a fairly upright person.
“I will cooperate.”
It was a small effort to put Anne Blyn Grace of Britte on trial. He intended to make her pay thoroughly for ruining the Leopold Hotel’s opening party. She had also hurt Olivia’s foot; he planned to make her crawl and kneel at Olivia’s feet to kiss her instep. That is, assuming she survived the humiliation of the trial.
“And, please keep this matter…”
Nigel’s eyes fell on the warm family photo. It wasn’t a secret he had to take to the grave, but Johan nodded easily.
With that, the deal was struck. The Britte Princess’s court appearance was anticlimactically decided by a single photograph.
Anne Blyn’s Rage
News of the Crown Prince and Olivia’s failed negotiation reached Anne Blyn’s ears just as Kayla entered her bedroom. The enraged screams that had been echoing from the hallway became even more vivid when the door opened.
Kayla navigated the glass shards lurking like traps on the floor and approached Anne Blyn. She was sitting on a sofa by the window overlooking the grand garden, pouring herself a drink. Kayla watched her fill the empty glass. The image of her, a person who used to be more suited to deep tea than strong alcohol, was nowhere to be found.
Following Lord Chief Justice Nigel’s betrayal, the negotiation had fallen through. The meeting between Alex and Olivia ended with only a confirmation of their differences. She had refused the huge consolation money offered in exchange for dropping the lawsuit. That illegitimate child, with a wealthy ex-husband and a lover, was truly no ordinary person.
“Did you find Angela?” The voice, thick and heavy with alcohol, roused Kayla.
“Not yet.” Kayla lowered her eyes, unable to meet the sharp gaze. Anne Blyn frowned.
“Does it take this long to find one person?”
“…She wasn’t at the Burkin barony. And she wasn’t at the Leopold Hotel, either.”
Angela Burkin had disappeared like smoke. Her last known whereabouts were a testimony of her being seen entering the Leopold Hotel to give a false confession on Anne Blyn’s orders. She had left a letter for her family saying she was going on a trip.
“We sent people to all her relatives and places she might have relied on, but there’s no trace of her.”
“Duke Leopold must be involved. Search with him as the focal point.” Her amber eyes were clouded, but she wasn’t drunk. “You have to find her and handle it. No matter what. Understood?”
“…” Kayla couldn’t bring herself to give the reply that was ingrained in her from birth.
Murder was a realm far beyond the role of a princess’s playmate.
“Kayla.” Anne Blyn’s expression softened as she gently took Kayla’s trembling hand. “I only have you by my side now, Kayla.” She whispered, lowering her voice. The two hands holding Kayla’s white ones tightened. She seemed to be anxious because of Kayla’s hesitation. “Kayla.”
Just as she had always done, Kayla gave a short nod.
“…Okay.”
“Good, that’s my Kayla. For the sake of our friendship.” A smile finally appeared on Anne Blyn’s face. The hand that had achieved its goal let go. Anne Blyn’s rough fingernails were now well-manicured.
How dare a lowly bastard like her.
‘Please, don’t do anything else and just go to Luxen now. I’m begging you.’
“No, Alex. If I leave like this, I’ll have to live with suspicion for the rest of my life. Even if they don’t say it to my face, they’ll all gossip behind my back. They’ll say I ran away because I had something to hide. I hate that, Alex.”
“Anne.”
“I’ve done nothing wrong. There’s no evidence. And there’s no… witness.”
“…”
“If you just handle Angela Burkin for me, brother, then I’m innocent.”
Alex had only warned her not to do anything else before turning away coldly. Now, the only person Anne Blyn could rely on was Kayla. If Angela Burkin just disappeared, the trial would be her complete victory.
I’m not going anywhere. Ever.
If anyone has to leave, shouldn’t it be that lowly bastard?
I should have thrown that woman I kidnapped at the Leopold Hotel’s opening party into the Bitchen River instead of room 3016… Then I wouldn’t have had to go through this humiliation.
“Make sure she’s taken care of before the trial date. So Angela never gets to stand on the witness stand.” The blue veins on the back of the hand gripping the glass bulged. The amber eyes staring at the swirling brandy were chillingly calm and cold.
A Matriarch’s Intuition
The carriage, which had been racing across the vast, unobstructed plains, gradually slowed down. Margaret Wellington slowly opened her eyes and turned her head to look out the window. After they left the tree-lined driveway, the golden eagle wings on the huge iron gate slowly parted, and the gate began to open. In the distance, Winstone Manor was submerged in the morning fog.
The carriage glided into the estate, circled the central fountain, and came to a complete stop. The servants lined up bowed respectfully to the Grand Duchess Wellington, who descended from the carriage with a ramrod-straight posture and elegant movements that defied her age. Her gaze swept past them and slowly took in the grand manor. Her cold, intimidating gaze was identical to that of Winstone’s master, Duke Johan Leopold.
“He has good taste.” That was Margaret’s assessment as she entered the white mansion that was nestled like a painting in the green landscape.
So this is where you’ve put her, Johan.
Margaret was scheduled to board the ship Queen Teresa today. But she had suddenly turned her carriage around on the way to the Lemon Port. She had not the slightest intention of leaving quietly. Not until she confirmed her intuition that that child was here.
