Episode 7
“You were right. There’s been smuggling of banned alcohol through the southern harbor.”
Ever since the Queen had strictly prohibited it, nothing but permitted wines could be brought into Esselwood. Being caught meant it was a serious crime warranting not only confiscation of property but even execution.
Only one reason drove them to attempt smuggling despite such risks.
Vast sums of money.
“So what are you going to do? Seeing as you told me to look into it in secret, you don’t intend to act as the secret police, I take it.”
Felix, suddenly serious as though he were a different man from moments before, sat up straight. Rather than reply, Killian scoffed and placed a cigarette from inside his coat between his lips.
“I’ll take it. All of it.”
Felix’s eyes wavered. He was the Queen’s own close confidant, yet he was talking about stabbing her in the back.
“Isn’t that too dangerous? Not that it’s my place to say… but don’t you already have enough as it is?”
Felix took a match from the table and lit the tip of Killian’s cigarette. Killian exhaled a long plume of smoke and leaned back comfortably against the chair.
“I don’t really care about the money.”
“Then…….”
“I need power. Enough that no one can control me.”
It was a declaration that he intended to expand his forces in the shadows. Felix gaped at the unexpected words.
“Enough to rival the Queen.”
Having declared it flatly, Killian tilted back his weary neck. Twelve saints were painted upon the high ceiling. It was a picture utterly unsuited to such a sordid place.
“Isn’t there another matter besides that?”
“Ah. That.”
Felix’s eyes gleamed, and he rubbed his palms together.
“I was quite surprised by this. I’m not sure I should say it.”
At that shrewd evasion, Killian, who had gotten up to put on his coat, looked down at him.
“Can I ask why before you speak?”
“No.”
“How cold.”
At the immediate blunt refusal, Felix glanced at Killian without any real malice.
“I saw him meet some boy at an intimate restaurant.”
“…
A boy?”
Killian furrowed his brow at the unexpected remark. Felix nodded, continuing on.
“Yeah. I know the owner of that restaurant personally; they say it’s a place for lovers. The boy was dressed to the nines. I was quite shocked when I heard from my errand boy.”
“Ha.”
Scoffing, Killian turned away. A bone-chilling cold radiated from his broad, hard back. Watching his back, Felix unleashed a torrent of questions.
“Is he a homosexual? But why did you tell me to investigate a man like that? Does it relate to what you’re doing now… Hey!”
The conversation was over. Ignoring him, Killian opened the door and emerged into the dim space. His secretary, Jenok, who had been waiting outside, addressed him.
“Your schedule for today is finished. Where shall we go?”
“To the townhouse where Miss Philone is.”
“Understood.”
Jenok nodded and rapped on the glass connected to the driver’s seat. Soon, listening to the sound of the horses setting off, Killian closed his eyes.
“Assign a man to Gertrude.”
“Do you mean to place a tail on her?”
“Someone unnoticeable and quiet, if possible.”
It was as much as saying to ensure not even a mouse or a bird knew. Killian rubbed his temples against the encroaching fatigue. To think someone had pinned a catamite on Rowina as her secret lover. He had thought it was a groundless lie, but the truth was even more absurd. He wondered why Gertrude, who had initially subtly urged him to take Miss Philone in, had now come to slander her to this extent—whether someone was behind her, or if it was a unilateral act.
Jenok, who had briefly worn a puzzled look, opened his mouth again at a sudden thought.
“Indeed. The acting Duchess said she would come today. She is likely there by now.”
* * *
“Killian! My nephew!”
The Countess of Essex smiled radiantly and gave him a light embrace. Killian, standing cold as ice, looked past her shoulder.
Toward the woman who hung her head like a sinner.
“Miss Philone.”
“…….”
“Rowina.”
A low voice called her name. The moment the trembling woman raised her head, something inside him snapped. Her cheek, once smooth as a bisque doll, bore a red mark.
“Were you struck on the cheek?”
The Countess turned deathly pale and tried to offer some excuse. Killian passed by her and seized the wrist of the woman who was backing away. His vision turned scarlet and his heart froze.
This woman was his.
No other was permitted to lay a hand on her.
With the face of a beast bathed in the blood of its prey, he asked again.
“Were you… struck on the cheek?”
Rosalyn Essex.
The Countess of Essex was truly a woman regarded as the model of a noblewoman. For instance, from the moment she was born, her life had been smooth sailing. A noble girl born to a prestigious house, educated in the orthodox manner of a lady. A debutante recognized by the Queen in her first season. A noblewoman married into a high house by her father’s command. Decades later, after her husband’s death, a chaste widow who wore only black mourning. A woman who had known no misfortune save that her husband had been unable to sire children.
It was only natural that the House of Devonshire had accepted such a woman as its elder.
Acting Duchess of Devonshire.
Exalted honor and immense authority. And the vast annuity that accompanied it.
She had established herself within the House of Devonshire as a matter of course. All respected her and heeded her words. Even Killian Devonshire, her nephew and the Duke, had respected her.
That was why Rosalyn could not fathom this situation. This was Killian, who had maintained a straight posture and an expressionless face even at her own father’s funeral. But now he was raging violently. The killing intent radiating from behind his broad, jet-black back stole her breath.
It was a situation she had never anticipated. She had merely thought he had finally lost interest in that filth. She had merely tried to remove a speck of filth splashed into the ducal house.
“Killian…….”
“Rowina.”
Her anxious plea was ruthlessly ignored. A desolate voice, scraping up from deep within his throat, called her name again.
“Rowina.”
“…….”
“Your master is asking you a question.”
“…
Your Grace.”
Rowina raised her head, which had remained bowed. Her trembling reply came out in lumpish fragments.
“I was foolish… and committed an act of rudeness… toward the Countess. That is, that is why.”
“…….”
“That is why……”
Rowina concealed her swollen left cheek with one hand and bit her lip. Agitated breaths rose to the tip of her chin. His ominous eyes, as though they would devour her at any moment, pressed down upon her entire body.
“Ah. Is that so?”
Killian twisted his mouth and finally turned. He cast a ruthless gaze at Rosalyn, frozen stiff like a mouse before a serpent.
“Speak, Duchess.”
“Ki, Killian…….”
“What insult did my foolish, base mistress commit against my noble aunt?”
Though he degraded the woman behind him without end, the direction of his fury, having reached its extreme, was unmistakable.
Yet his expression was no different than usual, which made it all the more bizarre.
No. No. The eyes that met hers were dark.
A chill ran down her nape. Rosalyn clamped her mouth shut. A violent premonition swept through her: one wrong word here would bring disaster.
“Your Grace.”
As the Countess of Essex was turning into a living corpse at the sight of a blood relative she had never seen before, Gertrude, reading the room, cautiously intervened.
“There seems to be some misunderstanding…….”
“Misunderstanding?”
“I am merely trying to hear what rudeness my mistress committed; what misunderstanding could there be?”
Killian, his mouth twisted, removed his coat with impatient hands. Bones stood out white across the backs of his hands. Killian handed the coat to Gertrude as if throwing it and asked slowly, as though seeking counsel.
“Is it not odd, Duchess?”
“That is…….”
Every muscle and tendon in her body trembled with convulsions under the crushing fear. It felt like standing unarmed before a beast baring its fangs. Her mind went blank. Rosalyn turned to Gertrude as if grasping for a lifeline. At that desperate look, Gertrude clenched and unclenched her fist. Then she bent her back deeply, as though prostrating herself.
“Mi-Miss Philone spilled tea on the Duchess’s coat. She slipped coming down the stairs. The Duchess was so startled that she… just…….”
“So it is Miss Philone’s fault. That is what you mean.”
Killian narrowed his brows at the surprisingly coherent lie, given it was hastily concocted. Rosalyn, finding a glimmer of hope, nodded.
“Th-that’s right. Yes…! It was an educative measure. A base creature dared spill tea on me.”
He might be an omnipotent authority, but she was a noblewoman recognized enough to be an occasional companion in conversation to the Queen. Furthermore, she was his elder and his kin by blood. It was unthinkable, given his disposition, that they would fall out over a mere mistress.
As both Gertrude and Rosalyn were rapidly turning matters over in their heads, Killian turned. He lifted the cheek of the woman standing as still as a statue. He traced her red-rimmed eyes with his thumb and swept over her swollen cheek.
In his eyes looking down at her as if asking if it were true, Rowina opened her pale lips.
“Th-that’s right, Your Grace. Lady Gertrude speaks the truth… My hand slipped… I made a mistake. That is why I was struck…….”
In the precarious atmosphere that felt as though he might do something violent at any moment, Rowina felt she had to say something.