Chapter 29
“…Y-Your Grace!”
In a flash, Reichert tore the telegram from Dante’s hand, ripping the envelope open almost savagely to read its contents.
Hudson’s expression stiffened as he watched the Crown Prince’s eyes sweep across the words.
Just as the Grand Duke had said, it was all there.
“…It seems my dear brother has completely forgotten any notion of respect owed to the Crown Prince.”
How dare he—when he was nothing more than a half-blood.
Reichert ’s teeth ground together, and a cold gleam sharpened in his gaze.
“So. Where exactly has the Grand Duke gone?”
As though slipping off the mask of his princely demeanor, his tone and expression shifted—hard, cutting, relentless.
Hudson felt a bead of cold sweat trail down his spine under the sudden chill in the prince’s stare.
It was time to carry out Dante’s instructions.
“…My deepest apologies, Your Highness. The Grand Duke ordered me not to reveal his whereabouts to anyone…”
“Ha! Do you think keeping your tongue will serve you? What, is this some great state secret?”
Suspicion flickered in Reichert’s narrowed eyes.
For Dante to slip away without a word, refusing even to reveal where he had gone… it could only mean one thing: he was hiding something.
Hudson’s eyes flew wide in feigned surprise, and he hastily shook his head.
“It is not a state secret, sire. Only—His Grace instructed me to be as cautious as possible, in case of unforeseen danger.”
“Unforeseen danger?”
Reichert let out a short, disdainful laugh, his lips curling.
“Why, what else? Because the Grand Duchess—that silly, provincial woman—her death might not have been an accident, but murder?”
With only Hudson as witness, Reichert allowed a shard of his true self to show, needling the butler with deliberate malice.
Hudson froze for the briefest moment, then lowered his brows, saying nothing.
He knew full well what the Crown Prince was doing—baiting him, probing for some slip of the tongue, and above all, trying to demean the master Hudson served with such unwavering loyalty.
But knowing it didn’t stop the tightness hardening Hudson’s features.
He lowered his head and answered evenly, avoiding the prince’s piercing stare.
“I only follow the orders His Grace gives me. As for the reason, I cannot presume to know it myself.”
“…Is that so? With such a heavy tongue, the Grand Duke must find you very reliable indeed.”
Reichert’s mocking tone carried as he shrugged, but Hudson merely kept his lips pressed tight.
In truth, his fists ached to clench, but a mere butler could not display defiance before the Crown Prince.
That would not be simple insolence—it could be construed as attempted assault on the royal family, punishable by death.
He could not afford to give the man any pretext.
“…His Grace is currently meeting with investors in Raheln,” Hudson finally said, clearing his throat and dangling the bait Dante had left for him.
“Raheln?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Reichert bit immediately, frowning as though the answer were a bitter disappointment.
He had imagined Dante must be off in some distant land or isolated hideaway conducting something of grave importance.
But Raheln—Raheln was nothing more than a small town, a mere two hours’ ride from the capital, lying between Arbern and Behern.
And Reichte knew the investors Dante would be meeting there; their names were no secret.
His interest evaporated almost at once.
“I see. The Grand Duke cannot come, and you are no fun at all,” he muttered curtly.
Clicking his tongue in irritation, he tightened his grip on the lion-headed cane in his hand—the sigil of House Benachert.
“Since he has declared he will visit Arbern himself, I’ll take my leave for today.”
“I shall, of course, inform His Grace of Your Highness’s visit the moment he returns,” Hudson replied with a bow.
“Yes, yes. I’ve no doubt you’ll serve him with the utmost devotion. In that case, I’ve nothing to worry about. Until next time, Hudson.”
Hudson lowered his head, escorting the Crown Prince to the palace gates.
Only when Reichert was completely gone did he finally allow himself to clench his fists tight, nails biting into his palms.
“Shall I summon the postman again, Master Hudson?” a nervous servant ventured.
Hudson turned and shook his head.
“No. What you will do is forget every word of what you saw and heard today. And make sure the other servants do the same.”
“Y-Yes, sir… but shouldn’t we report this to His Grace?”
“That is not your concern.”
Hudson’s tone was colder than usual, stripped of his usual gentleness.
What stood there was not the mild, courteous butler, but Dante’s stern, unyielding steward.
Leaving the bewildered servant behind, he strode back into the palace.
***
Knock, knock.
“Your Grace. It is Calis.”
“Enter.”
At Dante’s permission, Calis opened the door carefully and bowed, though the Grand Duke’s eyes never left his work.
He set the thick pile of documents and manuals he had been carrying onto the desk, then straightened and waited patiently.
Time passed.
At last, Dante’s pen drew its final line.
He placed it in the tray and lifted his gaze.
“Begin.”
A small nod from Dante, and Calis immediately opened a pocket-sized notebook, launching into his report on the resort’s progress.
For the past several days, Calis had come each evening to this office in the annex to deliver daily updates.
Previously he had submitted reports once every week or ten days, but now that Dante himself was on site, he required more frequent, direct briefings.
It was troublesome, yes, but decisions came faster, efficiency improved, and both Calis and the workers benefited.
“As of today, we estimate three weeks remain until completion. Most of the safety inspections are finished—heating, the restaurant kitchens, and the laundry facilities in the basement.”
Dante inclined his head.
“The standard rooms on the second through fourth floors are ready. The suites on the fifth floor are missing some furniture, but the ship carrying them is expected to dock soon.”
That furniture had been specially commissioned overseas two years ago, back when the resort was only beginning construction.
It should have arrived at least six months ago.
“When, exactly?” Dante interrupted, his brows knitting.
“Ah… the Seremar Port Authority says sometime next week…”
“Is this a joke?”
The sudden edge in Dante’s voice made Calis flinch and fumble with his glasses.
“It’s just that, a year ago—”
“I know.”
A harsh sigh escaped Dante as he pressed his fingers against his temple.
Of course he knew why—the civil war abroad had shut down the ports and sea routes for nearly a year.
Only a fragile ceasefire a few months back had allowed the ships to sail again.
Still.
The fact they had not lost the shipment entirely was small comfort.
“Continue.”
“Yes, Your Grace!”
Suppressing his irritation, Dante waved him on.
He no longer interrupted, save for the occasional nod or sharp click of his tongue.
For more than two hours, the report and Dante’s questions continued.
At last, Calis straightened and concluded. Dante shifted topics.
“Any new telegrams from the palace?”
Calis’s voice was a little hoarse from the lengthy report.
“None, Your Grace. The last telegram you sent should have reached Master Hudson around noon.”
He tilted his head, faintly puzzled.
But Dante only nodded, expression unreadable.
No reply meant Hudson had handled everything.
He had deliberately split his message in two parts to make the cover story easier.
There was no way Reichert had known Dante was in Florian, nor why he was there.
The secrecy had been absolute.
Which meant Reichte had wasted his time for nothing.
A faint, mocking smile tugged at Dante’s lips as he exhaled smoke.
He trusted Hudson to have dealt with the prince deftly.
Glancing at the clock, Dante lit a cigar.
It was already past ten.
“You may go.”
“Yes, Your Grace! Wishing you a restful night.”
Calis nearly shone with relief at his dismissal, bowing quickly before hurrying out.
Silence settled over the office.
Rising, Dante exhaled a long stream of smoke.
The wall behind his desk was fitted with a great window overlooking the annex gardens, the walking paths, and beyond them, the distant sea and beach.
His eyes narrowed.
He flicked ash from the cigar, gaze fixed steadily on one thing.
That shabby little café, still lit despite the late hour.
