ESP 12

chapter 12

“Thank you for coming all this way. I’ll have some tea brought, and then you should be on your way.”

The moment Briony stepped down from the carriage, she strode straight into the front hall without a glance back. Myrtle trailed behind her nervously, unsure what to do. Harold, who had come out to greet them, stopped dead in his tracks when his eyes landed on Lord Weardale.

“Harold, bring this gentleman a cup of hot tea. And tell the coachman outside to come in and warm himself as well.”

“M-my lady, this gentleman is…?”

“Is my father at home?”

“He hasn’t returned yet. But who is this—?”

Briony turned and looked blankly at Lord Weardale. The man gave a crooked smile.

“Theodore Byron, Lord of Weardale.”

For a moment, Briony thought Harold might collapse right there. The old butler’s face drained of all color, and then his whole body began to shake.

“Y-your G-grace… the Duke!”

‘So he is a duke.’

It made sense. Not the lord of a small holding like Ebony, but a sovereign noble entrusted with an entire province—of course he would be a duke.

“Just as Mistress Arlington asked, why don’t you bring us some tea? Which way is the parlor?”

“I-I-I—”

Myrtle stepped in before Harold, who was gaping like a fish, could stammer any further.

“This way, Lord Weardale. Allow me to take your coat.”

It wasn’t the fact that Byron was a duke that startled Briony most, but Myrtle’s excessively courteous demeanor. She’d noticed the maid had been struggling to contain her excitement since the carriage ride, but this… this was almost servile.

The duke smiled as Myrtle helped him out of his coat—or rather, it looked to Briony as though he was helping her to take it off for him. Myrtle jabbed Harold in the side.

“Go on, fetch the tea! And bring out those sweets you usually keep hidden for yourself.”

“Well then, rest awhile before you leave.”

Briony gave a polite bow to the duke, who seemed rather amused by the scene, and started up the stairs. She had only gone halfway when Myrtle came rushing after her and clutched her arm tightly.

“My lady, you’re going to change clothes, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m going to fetch some money.”

Briony had promised the miner Henry’s wife she would cover Amber’s upbringing expenses. The money she had just given was said to be enough for a month’s living, so sending the same again would suffice as child support for a month.

Myrtle clenched her teeth.

“B-r-i-o-n-y!”

“Why are you saying my name like it pains you? And let go.”

“Come with me to your room right now. You’re changing.”

“Why?”

“Because what you’re wearing is just an ordinary day dress—dull and plain. If you change into one of the dresses from Ebony Heights, I’ll redo your hair too.”

“And why exactly?”

“Because Lord Weardale is downstairs!”

Briony honestly couldn’t see what that had to do with her clothes. She had no intention of accepting his proposal, nor did she have any desire to see him again.

“Lord Weardale will drink his tea and leave. I’ll see him off politely, but that’s all. I don’t need to change clothes just for that.”

Myrtle’s eyes widened.

“My lady, the Duke himself proposed to you! He outranks a count by two whole titles! Count, marquess, duke! And he’s not just any duke—he’s Weardale, one of the top ten dukedoms in the entire kingdom!”

“I was there. I know.”

But Myrtle hardly seemed to hear her.

“And he’s extremely handsome! As handsome as Lord Ebony himself! Did you see his carriage? Fit for the queen herself! Ebony never had anything like that—the finest carriage there was, was the one you took with you when you married.”

Briony couldn’t help frowning.

“I don’t think he’s that handsome.”

“Your opinion doesn’t matter.”

Myrtle practically dragged her into her room, forced her into the chair by the vanity, and began pulling dresses from the wardrobe one by one, holding them against her. They were freshly delivered from Ebony just a few days ago, carefully packed by Demitri so that not a single wrinkle marred the fabric.

“Every color suits you, my lady, but yellow is out of season, pink looks cheap, white makes you too pale, blue will look like you’re trying to match his clothes, black is too much like mourning…”

“Why don’t you put on a dress and go down instead?”

“Red might look like you’re being too obvious.”

“Obvious about what?”

“Wanting to be proposed to.”

“Myrtle, I am not going to marry Lord Weardale.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Well…”

Myrtle stood with a deep wine-colored gown in one hand and her other hand on her hip, staring at Briony as if daring her to explain. Briony ticked reasons off on her fingers.

“First, I’ve only just divorced.”

“So? There’s no law saying you can’t remarry soon after a divorce.”

That was true.

“Second, I have no desire to marry again.”

“You didn’t want to the first time either, my lady. You only did it because your father made you.”

That was also true. Though not entirely. She had wanted to escape Shobury, to live somewhere new. And Keith… well, he had seemed like someone she could live with.

“Third, I don’t really know what kind of man Lord Weardale is.”

“Then you could accept an engagement first and take the time to find out! Please, my lady. Please. Just wear this gorgeous wine-colored dress that flatters your amber eyes and bright skin, and go down there to have one cup of tea with that handsome duke.”

“Myrtle, why are you so invested in this?”

Briony rose reluctantly, and Myrtle immediately began stripping away her day dress.

“…Because you haven’t smiled once since coming back to Shobury, my lady.”

Had she really not?

The Arlington estate was called Tearry Haven—“Haven of Tears.” Briony had often thought nothing could suit the house better. Even in her childhood, she could barely remember laughing there.

“Well, circumstances were grim.”

“And they’ll only grow worse here. The master is as he is… there are no young, handsome nobles in Shobury. And you can’t simply leave Tearry Haven and live alone.”

“…”

“I’m not saying marry him tomorrow. But unless you meet someone from outside, how can your life ever open up again?”

“I really don’t want to marry again.”

And she meant it. Her first marriage had been peaceful, quiet… a little lonely, perhaps, but comfortable. Keith had never demanded more than she was willing to give. It hadn’t been marriage itself she disliked, but rather a relationship that was little more than a political contract, leaving hearts unread and untouched. She never wanted that again.

‘This isn’t the life I married for.’

Keith’s voice echoed in her memory. He had looked pained when he spoke of divorce. Neither of them had done anything wrong, and so Briony still couldn’t quite understand it. All she knew was that both the one who asked and the one who accepted had suffered. She never wanted sleepless nights of senseless pain again.

“…Not every marriage would be like yours with Lord Ebony.”

“Some could be worse.”

“Worse than life in this house?”

Myrtle fastened the back of the dress. Standing before the mirror, Briony had to admit this dress did suit her better than her old day clothes. The deep red silk made her skin gleam, her black hair darker, her eyes deeper.

“Oh, you look perfect,” Myrtle said, clapping her hands.

Briony entered the parlor. Lord Weardale—the Duke of Byron—rose at once.

“So, you’ve changed your mind, Mistress Arlington?”

“I thought I might as well share a cup of tea.”

He narrowed his eyes, and then words of genuine admiration spilled from his lips.

“You are truly beautiful.”

“You as well, Lord Weardale.”

Leaving him looking startled, she sat. A fresh teacup had already been set before her, and the duke himself poured the tea.

“Have you reconsidered my proposal?”

“How much do you know of my first marriage?”

The duke touched his clean-shaven chin and gave a thoughtful hum. Briony knew even that was a practiced gesture, but on him it didn’t look ridiculous. Whether it was his radiant good looks or the sheer aura of confidence and refinement he carried, the act seemed natural.

At the very least, it was easier to face than her father’s perpetual scowl.

She leaned back with her teacup.

“You did not frequent society much, did you, Mistress Arlington?”

“Only for a few weeks before my marriage three years ago.”

“Ebony is quite close to Fanshaw. Why did you stay away?”

“I don’t like crowds.”

“A trait you share with Lord Ebony.”

Briony bit back the urge to ask about his relationship with Keith. If she wanted to learn from someone who spoke obliquely, she would have to follow that manner.

“Yes. That’s why we spent most of our time in Ebony.”

“The nobility adore gossip, especially about one another. A breathtakingly wealthy baronet’s daughter marrying the poorest yet most handsome of young counts? That was the talk of the season.”

“…That was three years ago.”

Briony couldn’t believe people still gossiped about it. But the duke explained kindly:

“Indeed. But in those three years, the Earl and Countess of Dalmore were rarely seen in society. That gap was fertile ground for speculation: a beautiful bride forced into marriage with a penniless count by her ambitious father, doomed to unhappiness. And three years was just enough time for such whispers to grow.”

Briony set her cup down.

“I was not unhappy. I—”

“Calm yourself, Mistress Arlington. I’m only saying that was society’s talk, not my own opinion. You may not have felt unhappy, but by not denying the background circumstances, you admit there was truth in what people assumed. And now, rumors have shifted further—that Lord Ebony abused his cold, doll-like wife.”

“That’s a lie!”

Her voice rose sharply.

Keith had always told her she needn’t go to parties if she disliked them—he hadn’t liked them much either. Their first year together had been consumed with restoring Ebony Heights, which had been in dreadful shape when she arrived.

And all the while, such vile rumors spread?

The duke’s tone was almost soothing.

“Seeing you here, I can tell you are no cold doll, nor a woman who suffered cruelty. But society invents tales when someone is absent. That is Lord Ebony’s failing—whatever his reasons for hiding you away, he should have shown his face more often to quell such talk.”

“Lord Ebony was busy. There was much to tend in his lands.”

“He works at the High Court as well, does he not? I know because his superior, Marquis Seymour, is from my province. And in fact, Lord Ebony and I once studied swordsmanship under the same master, for two years in our youth.”

So that’s why he spoke as though he knew Keith…

Curiosity tugged at her, but she had a more pressing question now.

“Then you must know society’s news quite well?”

“I have many ears, and I spend half the year in Fanshaw.”

Should she ask? She hesitated briefly, then decided.

“…Do you know how Lord Ebony fares now?”

“That relates directly to why I came, Mistress Arlington.”

The duke took a graceful sip of tea.

“As I was saying, gossip reached a fever pitch when your divorce papers were filed. Don’t glare so—there are no secrets in society. Ebony may be remote, but it is not far from Fanshaw. Lady Ebony packed her belongings in haste, and the moment the papers were finalized, she left Ebony Heights. That very morning, another visitor arrived for Lord Ebony.”

Could he possibly know that much?

Briony’s senses sharpened. This dazzling man was no one to underestimate. He was a duke, entrusted with a whole province by the queen herself—of course he would have swift, precise intelligence.

“…And did society learn the identity of this visitor?”

“They know it was the queen’s investigators. And since you departed that same morning, the tale they now tell is that Lord Ebony was arrested for abusing his wife. He has yet to be released.”

Briony fixed her gaze on the duke’s blue eyes. He claimed to know society gossip, but he hadn’t come all the way to Shobury merely to pass along rumors.

“You know the true charge against my former husband, don’t you?”

He inclined his head. His voice dropped, low and velvety, brushing her ear.

“Keith Dalmore, Earl of Ebony, was arrested on suspicion of treason.”