TPB 5

Chapter: 5

“Natalie? Oh, her? She’s my cousin.”

For a brief moment, Ian wore an utterly disgusted expression, as if wondering whether Roger was the type to be involved in that kind of relationship even with a cousin.

It certainly wasn’t meant as praise, but Roger’s face brightened with smug pride anyway.

“Ahaha… I saw her once a few years ago when I stayed at my aunt’s house—she’s a baroness, you know. And somehow… things ended up like this.”

Ha. This cursed popularity of mine.

Roger deliberately spoke in a suggestive tone and shrugged. True to being Lady Heaton’s son, he’d be nothing but a corpse if you stripped away his vanity and pretension.

Ian’s memory of Natalie was vague. At the time, Roger—at the peak of his popularity—had found fifteen-year-old country girl Natalie utterly unremarkable. All he faintly remembered was that her unusually dark coloring made her look, at a glance, like a delicate-looking boy.

Ian alternated his gaze between the apricot-colored envelope and Roger’s face, lightly furrowing his brow.

Do these people really have nothing better to do?

With that brief thought, his interest in the owner of the striking handwriting quickly faded.

Guess I’ll torment Roger instead.

Ian lifted his gaze again and smiled brightly.

“Out of consideration for our camaraderie as academy classmates, I’ll give you a choice. Solitary confinement, or a pay cut. Pick one.”

The smug ease vanished from Roger’s face in an instant.

*

Dwan’s Central Train Station was always chaotic—especially the first-class exit.

The prince, who had a mild case of germophobia, froze the moment his foot touched the platform. He stared blankly at the crowded scene with unfocused eyes before quickening his pace.

Ian’s return was unofficial. To avoid attention, he brought only a minimal escort and even tried to obscure his face with a hat, but his tall stature inevitably drew eyes. The best option was to move as quickly as possible toward the carriage under his attendants’ guidance.

They had just turned a corner near the relatively quiet rear exit when the plump attendant leading the way collided with a boy.

Suspenders and a flat cap. The boy, clearly a newspaper seller, let out a sharp cry—“Ack!”—and went flying.

What was unusual was that even as he fell backward, he didn’t try to break his fall. Instead, he clutched the cap pressed to his head with his life on the line.

He sacrificed his tailbone to protect the cap, succeeding—but the hat lifted slightly, revealing his face.

Even to Ian, who usually registered people as little more than “humans with heads and torsos” and “buildings that were square,” the boy’s face stood out. Despite his shabby clothes, his features were delicate and refined, carrying a hint of noble grace.

The attendant bowed first to Ian, then apologized to the boy and helped him up. The boy pulled his cap down low again and disappeared quickly without even offering thanks.

It was hardly worth calling a meeting, such a fleeting moment—but Ian’s gaze lingered on the newspaper boy the entire time. It was extremely rare for his attention to rest on a passing stranger for more than a second.

Cross-dressing, huh.

The reason the boy had caught the prince’s eye was simple: the “boy” was not a boy at all. Her pale complexion made her dark eyes and brows stand out, but it was unmistakably a woman dressed as a man.

Ian didn’t bother debating whether to have her stopped.

He was far too busy.

Meeting the queen—who had been anxiously awaiting her second son’s return—came first.

*

It was hard to believe the Marquis of Maybell’s vast garden lay in the very heart of bustling Dwan. Welcoming spring, it was filled with yellow daffodils and purple dahlias.

A woman hurrying across the garden suddenly stopped and looked back. The Shone River shimmered white beneath the midday sun, stretching out before her. The estate was, quite literally, a painting come to life.

Every time Natalie visited, she found it impossible not to be dazzled by the scenery. Heaton Park was refined compared to her family home—but the Maybell estate, belonging to a truly wealthy family, was on another level entirely.

On the map, the estate sat on the western side of Dwan, overlooking the Shone River that cut across the city. This area, known as the “West Side,” was the most expensive land in all of Dwan.

According to a newspaper article, the Marquis of Maybell ranked among the top ten earners in Grand Batten every year—an astonishingly wealthy man. And he had one precious only daughter: Christina Dowie.

Having debuted in society the same year as Natalie, Christina was naturally considered the ideal bride—yet she showed interest in no one at all.

Because of this, people whispered that she would eventually marry a cousin set to inherit the marquisate, transforming her from the Marquis of Maybell’s daughter into the Marchioness of Maybell herself.

If you asked Natalie—her closest friend—whether the rumor was true, she wouldn’t know.

Christina never spoke of important matters, and neither did Natalie.

Perhaps that comfortable distance was precisely why they’d been able to remain close for years despite the significant gap in their backgrounds.

“You latecomer! What are you doing down there instead of coming up already?!”

Startled by the booming voice, Natalie flinched and turned around. Looking up, she saw two women leaning halfway out an open window, waving energetically.

The one with auburn curls was Christina. Beside her stood Emily, with honey-colored hair.

Judging by her voice alone, Christina was born to be a general. Though raised with indulgence befitting a marquis’s daughter, she was far from prim and proper. Playful and free-spirited—that was Christina. And one of the reasons Natalie adored her.

Friends with similar tastes and interests. Seeing them made Natalie smile without thinking, and she quickened her pace.

By the time Natalie rushed up the spiral staircase and entered the private parlor, Christina and Emily were already sprawled across the couch.

“Why did you take so long? And goodness—what happened to you? Why are you drenched in sweat?”

Christina gasped when she spotted Natalie.

“The post office. For some reason it was crowded today. And, well… when there are that many people, you get shoved around.”

“And it still took that long?”

Emily chimed in coolly, barely lifting her head.

“You went wandering around Deville again, didn’t you? Mary finally gave up trying to chase you. Says her feet feel like they’re on fire. Is Dwan really still that fascinating?”

There it was—the city girl’s careless remark.

In Dwan, “the market” usually meant Deville, the largest one.

Emily had no interest in markets, finding them dirty. As for Mary, the Heaton family maid, she’d followed Natalie a few times for protection before becoming thoroughly fed up. These days, she waited near the market entrance instead.

Thanks to that, Natalie enjoyed a fair amount of freedom wandering Dwan.

“And you waste all your dressmaker money on carriage fares.”

Most of Natalie’s allowance went toward transportation—something Emily could never understand.

“People-watching is more fun—ow….”

More accurately, it was the fun of eavesdropping on people’s conversations, but Natalie held her tongue.

“Did you hurt your back?”

When Natalie groaned mid-sentence, Christina asked with concern. Mischievous as she was, the marquis’s daughter was also deeply kind.

“I must’ve slept wrong. Oh—Christina.”

Natalie shrugged as if it were nothing and subtly changed the subject, handing her a translucent silk shawl.

“You left this at the ball yesterday. Again. Honestly, you’re so careless.”

“Oh my! I thought that shawl looked familiar. It was mine? I should’ve known—only you would bring it back.”

Affectionate yet absentminded, Christina often left things behind. Retrieving them usually fell to Natalie.

The moment Christina took the shawl, Emily cut in.

“By the way, Natalie—you were sending another letter to Roger again, weren’t you? I told you to stop.”

Emily was unusually persistent today.

“Please mind your own business, Miss Heaton. That too—but it was also time to write to Warfield. Our youngest adores me most, you know. I have to write often.”

Natalie had three younger siblings.

Bianca, the eldest, who had married into the Rutherford earldom; Dorothy, who would debut in society next year; and Alex, the youngest, who would someday become a baron. Alex was thirteen years younger than Natalie and had always followed her around since infancy.

“Oh, right—Emily was saying this before you arrived.”

Christina, never particularly interested in other people’s family affairs, smoothly changed the subject.

“She said Lady Heaton is finally furious enough to seriously look for a husband this time.”

“Hm. That’s how it is.”

“Oh? Still not very motivated, despite all that resolve?”

“Thank goodness,” Christina muttered under her breath before grinning broadly. She clearly believed their secret gatherings of unmarried young ladies would continue for a while longer.

“Alright then—shall we begin today’s ‘reading group’?”

With a satisfied smile, Christina rose and headed for the bookshelf in the corner of the parlor.

“Miss Dowes and Miss Heaton—today, I’ve acquired an exceptionally rare poetry collection. You have no idea how difficult it was to get.”

She placed two books on the table with dramatic flair. Their sturdy, expensive-looking covers and impressive thickness made them the sort of books anyone who disliked reading would instinctively avoid.

“This time, I managed to get two copies, so no need to wait your turn. Of course, I stayed up all night and read them all already.”

As expected of the marquis’s daughter! Emily jokingly mimicked a devoted follower.

“It was so enlightening that I simply had to share my thoughts with you both. I can confidently say it’ll be a great help to young ladies seeking husbands.”

Christina added meaningfully. Impatient as ever, Emily was already flipping through the pages.

Natalie, too, picked up a book with anticipation, stirred by Christina’s confident tone. The cover read:

One Hundred and Fifty Lyric Poems for Ladies.

What lay inside, however, was about as far from “ladylike” as possible.

Ordinary reading circles studied lyric poetry or stage plays…

But their gathering was anything but ordinary.

The three of them were deeply engrossed in erotic novels—
in other words, dirty books.