ESP 51

chapter 51

It began at tiffin after the banquet, from a casually dropped remark.

“Will Lord Weardale really marry Mistress Arlington?”

“Mistress… who?”

“You know — Lady Ebony.”

Leopoldine rested her chin on her hand and listened in silence. The ladies invited to tiffin with Her Majesty the Queen looked perfectly delighted.

Only a handful of ladies or young gentlewomen who stayed in Fanshaw were eligible to attend the Queen‑sponsored tea parties. To become a new member you had to be introduced by an existing member or be invited directly by Leopoldine. After word of that spread through the nobility, the Queen’s tiffins quickly rose in popularity. Within a year it had become customary to call a few people the day after — or the day after that — a royal banquet and invite them to tea.

To win over the nobility, grant them privileges.

It was a perfectly simple maxim — and one that, in most cases, proved true. Leopoldine thought the ladies who didn’t understand this were foolish.

“But I heard that the girl led Lord Weardale on at the first waltz and then stood him up.”

“No way. That sounds like something she made up to raise her market value. Her dowry is enormous, but she is a divorcée.”

Perhaps because Leopoldine was present, no one directly mentioned the “Count of Dalmore” by name. They were mindful of the mistake the “Queen’s Eye” had made.

“Well then, she must be clever.”
“Mistress Arlington is more than capable.”

Someone spoke up. The voice was a little loud, and all eyes turned. A woman — a bronzed beauty with luxuriant blond hair, slightly embarrassed but also pleased at the attention — caught the others’ gaze.

“This is your first time here, isn’t it, Lady…?”

When Leopoldine asked kindly, the beauty blushed.

“I’m Dunlop. Chrissie Dudley.”

“Oh, of the Dudley marquessate.”

Leopoldine said nothing more; the rest of the conversation would continue without her.

Chrissie Dudley then began to tell a story about the “former Lady Ebony.” She and Mistress Arlington had attended the same finishing school, and Mistress Arlington had been expelled for breaking the rules.

“My word — expelled from finishing school…”

Chrissie lowered her voice in excitement.

“Apparently she sneaked out at night and didn’t return until dawn.”
“She was the daughter of a baronet, right? And taken as the wife of a man who was essentially a kept son… It’s a bit blunt to say, but you can’t hide your origins.”
“Then perhaps that’s why she got divorced…”

When the ladies murmured, Chrissie delivered the next blow.

“I don’t know the exact reason for the divorce, but she hasn’t shaken off those old habits. I invited her to Dudley because she had nowhere appropriate to stay in Fanshaw, and on the night of the banquet some man escorted her home.”
“My goodness — without a chaperone? Who could that possibly be?”
“If that’s so, poor Lord Ebo… her ex‑husband must be miserable.”

Chrissie smiled as if she’d been waiting for the chance.

“And the dowry is no small sum. I heard he was looking for Mistress Arlington even that night.”
“Goodness…”

The conversation drifted to the young ladies who had recently debuted in society. Leopoldine traced the rim of her teacup with a slender finger. On the surface her face was calm; her silver eyes even flashed as though she found the chatter mildly entertaining.

“Count Dalmore searched for his ex at the banquet…?”

That night, she had left the ball early — wounded by Keith’s coldness during the first waltz — before the feast had even reached its height. After all, she had arranged the opportunity mainly to dance with him even once, so in that sense her purpose had been met. But the idea that, while she had stepped away, he had been looking for another woman — his ex‑wife, divorced for personal reasons — was something she could not simply let pass.

Someone asked, “What does Her Majesty think?”

Leopoldine hadn’t been listening at all. Anything that didn’t concern Count Dalmore warranted no attention. She smiled coolly.

“Trivial.”

The warm atmosphere chilled at once. The young gentlewoman who had first raised the subject looked as if she might cry; she had clearly expected the Queen’s opinion to matter. Seeing such an overblown sense of grievance at nothing much annoyed Leopoldine.

“Excuse me — I suddenly remembered I have business. Enjoy yourselves.”

Rising with the captain of the guard, Leopoldine thought, I should look into that divorce.

A few days later she ordered the clerks of the audience chamber to fetch case documents from the high court.

“Have you ever danced with a girl who had the same eyes as mine… before?”
“I don’t remember.”

Keith’s answer disappointed Leopoldine. She had not expected him to remember; it had been a very brief encounter, and she had not even revealed her face.

If only… even a faint recollection would have been nice.

That memory dated to when she was sixteen.

Back then Leopoldine had been nothing. Her father, Cecil, bore the title of the second prince but was the son of an exiled queen — he was treated as an outcast in the palace. Leopoldine was neglected by him. Cecil had always had problems with his mental stability; after Leopold’s death he became even stranger, and Leopoldine stopped going to the pavilion where her father stayed after nightfall.

People called her “Leopoldine of Albread” because her grandmother, Leticia, the queen who had been expelled, was from Albread. After exiling the queen and taking his mistress Augustin as the new queen, King Conrad II sent the young second prince to Albread as well.

The woman who’d been sent away raised the second prince with nothing but resentment and bitterness. Under such a mother, it was no wonder Cecil’s temperament was unstable. As an adult he married the most beautiful woman in the region, and the children from that union were Leopold and Leopoldine.

Both siblings inherited their mother’s beauty. Leopold, especially, was upright and alert — hardly the way people expected Cecil’s son to be. From a young age he drew attention; sometimes he was even called to Fanshaw, prompting both admiration and caution from the royal family. Leopoldine lived forever in the shadow of that brother — like the moon that dares not show herself while the sun is out, reflecting only the sun’s light to glow faintly.

When the sun finally set, she learned she had to shine on her own.

Around that time, the heir apparent had died of a contagious disease, and King Conrad III, exhausted by the shock and his labors, fell ill. Leopoldine visited Fanshaw shortly after the epidemic had swept across Algonquin.

She did not like Fanshaw. Born and raised in Albread, Fanshaw felt too vast and ostentatious. Her longing for it rose so strongly from deep within that the disparity between the booming city and the ever‑silent Albread only deepened her inferiority, so she put on an outward dislike for Fanshaw.

It was spring. Despite the sour mood at court because of the King’s illness, the season itself would not be deterred. Those who had endured an especially harsh winter wanted to welcome the new life of spring more jubilantly than usual.

Leopoldine attended the spring ball hosted by the illustrious Noble Academy in Fanshaw for that reason. She wanted, for one night, to forget her sorrows and the things that weighed down her soul, and be an ordinary sixteen‑year‑old. The ball — where young ladies wore white masks and white dresses — was perfect for that feeling.

There were few girls Leopoldine’s age in Albread. Seeing the hundreds, even thousands, of beautiful girls gathered that day both surprised and intimidated her. She had only one white dress — made at fourteen — and, being thin and underdeveloped, she could wear it, but it had to be let out an inch.

With her face hidden behind a mask and her silver hair, which she always let fall to her waist, pinned up, even nobles close to the royal family did not recognize her. Or perhaps they shrugged because she was deemed barely better than an illegitimate child — the frail, skinny daughter of a prince.

Blending into the crowd did nothing to lift her spirits. As dusk fell and the air turned cold, Leopoldine began to cough. Huddled in a corner, struggling to calm a fit of coughing, someone spoke to her.

It was a gentle voice.

“Are you all right?”

He was Keith Dalmore, eighteen at the time.

His white academy uniform with gold epaulets was dazzling. Until then she had thought her dead brother the handsomest man in the world, but she had never seen anyone more handsome. And the young man — or perhaps a man just shedding boyhood — was kind too. Leopoldine, buoyed with an unreal feeling, accepted the warm cup of tea he offered.

“No matter how crowded the place, it’s dangerous for a girl to be here alone. Did you come without company?”

“I came with people, but they’re nowhere to be seen.”

Flustered, she lied. The tone sounded coquettish to her own ears, and that embarrassed her more — a voice she had never used before, the voice of an ordinary sixteen‑year‑old girl.

For the first time she realized her heart could flutter like a bird’s wings.

“Shall I help you look for them?”

“No, they’re probably dancing somewhere.”

He nodded. Perhaps he assumed she’d been abandoned despite arriving with a partner. That notion pricked her pride, but being pitied by a handsome man wasn’t entirely unpleasant either, so she quietly watched the dancers. The tea had calmed her cough.

An awkward silence fell between them. When he spoke, Leopoldine somehow anticipated his words.

“…May I request a waltz?”

“Yes.”

It was a simple acceptance of a stranger’s invitation, but given all she had been through, it should have been the easiest thing — yet her voice shook. He extended his hand; she placed her small one in his. For a moment she felt proud: her hand was pale enough to seem translucent, and her white dress matched the pallor of her skin. No one there shone as white as she did in that instant.

In hindsight, it had been a small kindness offered to a girl alone without a partner. Even then she suspected as much. But at sixteen, a few minutes of a dreamlike waltz, a momentary lock of eyes and a smile, could steal a girl’s heart. That moment was the only time she truly felt sixteen.

Leopoldine did not know then that she would one day truly ascend the throne — and that it would be barely a year later.

She would not say she never forgot that youthful gentleman, for that would be a lie. During the two years she held the throne she had to clutch everything she could to hold onto what she had. But once she had eliminated opponents, readied her power upon the foundations built by past kings, and the realm had settled enough for her position to feel secure, she recalled that night.

I want to dance again with the man who asked me then.

She was no longer the frail, helpless girl. She wanted to show him the woman she had become; perhaps he would remember the silver eyes that had shone beyond the mask.

When she finally found him, he was more handsome and stately than before.

“Then by all means, take my neck and dance away.”

…But he answered with chilling coldness.

Leopoldine did not need his neck. Nor was his insolent remark — that she acted like a naïve girl — entirely unfounded. She wanted him with the same feelings she had had then.

Still, she was not willing to abase herself. She was the Queen of Algonquin; if he wanted, she could grant higher titles, gold and jewels. She believed she had a chance. And if Keith would be swayed by riches and rank, she could disdain him as not being worth her notice. If he refused, she could try other approaches until he grew tired of her.

But if his reasons lay with another woman—

Then I will make him forget her, Keith Dalmore.

That was one of the things Leopoldine believed she could do best.