Chapter 40
How might one characterize this encounter? Perhaps as a rather disconcerting revelation.
“Lord Lionel! What an immense joy to receive a man of your stature without a moment’s notice!”
A boisterous laugh reverberated through the room like a persistent ringing. A middle-aged man, notably well-fed and reclining upon a bed, flushed with visible excitement. He looked upon Lionel as if he were a divine apparition.
“Lord Emmet, your complexion has improved remarkably.”
“Naturally, my Lord, given the exquisite care you have deigned to provide.”
Annette had arrived at a secluded residence nestled within a forest on the outskirts of Lenore. She could not discern whether they had truly departed the city or were merely hidden within an undeveloped urban thicket, but it was unmistakably a small safehouse, strategically isolated from prying eyes. Though termed a “small” house, it was a two-story manor with nearly half a dozen rooms—hardly a peasant’s cottage.
Upon alighting from the carriage, Annette was hurried inside by Lionel before she could scrutinize the suspicious structure. There, she found Emmet Milton. He was, by all appearances, living in the lap of luxury; his skin possessed a healthy sheen that spoke of an easy life. He claimed to be bedridden due to leg injuries sustained in a carriage mishap, but he seemed otherwise in high spirits.
When Lionel had demanded a non-disclosure agreement to show her a living Emmet, she had suspected the man survived, yet seeing him thrive so shamelessly drained the tension from her entirely.
“It is heartening to see you so recovered. Is there anything further you require?”
Lionel adjusted the pillows supporting Emmet’s back with the tenderness of a dedicated nurse, prompting tears of gratitude to well in the man’s large eyes. Annette mused that Lionel might have missed his true calling as an actor.
“But tell me, is there fresh news? And who is the young lady accompanying you?”
Emmet cast an intrigued glance toward Annette. However, she was too disappointed by the mundanity of the truth to offer a polite response. As an awkward silence began to settle, Lionel intervened.
“You recall the mention of a legal complaint filed against you three days ago, Viscount?”
“Indeed! Some insolent wretch… Was the Marquess of Valtière behind it? But tell me, can such a suit truly stand? How could the Police Bureau—”
Lionel looked up and caught Annette’s gaze, a crooked, private smirk dancing on his lips.
“This lady is the one who denounced you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Emmet’s face, previously a mask of jovial contentment, twisted in shock. Annette choked back a cough. The sudden exposure of this prickly truth instantly chilled the room’s cordial atmosphere. Emmet’s eyes grew sharp, flashing with a sudden, latent hostility.
“Well, you see—”
“Thus,” Lionel cut in smoothly, “I suggested she withdraw the charges and meet you in person to facilitate a candid dialogue.”
Against her will, Annette was subjected to a condensed, harrowing recitation of Emmet’s life story, eventually forced to promise a withdrawal of the lawsuit. Since the complaint had only been a tool to pressure Lionel into revealing Emmet’s whereabouts, she felt no regret in dropping it, yet doing so beside a mockingly triumphant Lionel was galling.
By the time they returned to the carriage, the sun had surrendered to the horizon. The gloaming of a summer night filled the cabin. As they boarded, the coachman set off as if following a preordained command.
Annette reflected on the surreal events. Witnessing a living Emmet Milton in the “realm of the living” felt like stepping into an meticulously staged play—a reality far removed from her grim imaginings. Opposite her, Lionel appeared unchanged. Though a hint of fatigue touched his features, his posture remained impeccably poised and aristocratic.
Strangely, he refrained from the expected “I told you so.” His demeanor was that of a man who had simply concluded a minor task. Eventually, Annette broke the silence.
“I understand that Viscount Emmet Milton was embroiled in a dispute over wine trade rights with the House of Valtière. I understand his disappearance was a ruse to evade audits, and that his injuries were the result of his own drunken folly… But why are you shielding him?”
The Lionel she knew was neither soft-hearted nor altruistic. He did not seem the type to painstakingly arrange a sanctuary for someone who was not even a close associate. Moreover, she remembered that Emmet had threatened him.
“That night… did that man not threaten you?”
“If one cannot distinguish between the ramblings of a drunkard and true intent, one’s secrets are quickly forfeited in this city,” Lionel replied dismissively. “He is an anxious man who blusters when intoxicated. He is a nuisance, but ultimately harmless. I was requested by someone who wished to see him safe, and I have provided the barest minimum of assistance.”
“I recall you saying that Emmet Milton had no inkling of whose quarrel he had stumbled into…” Annette probed, recalling their first meeting.
“And?”
“I heard him threatening to expose someone. You calmed him and sent him away.”
“It was the Marquess of Valtière he threatened to denounce. He harbors a grand, misguided delusion that the Valtière family is persecuting him. In truth, someone entirely different is watching him for entirely different reasons. It is pathetic. Now, if you are satisfied, I should like to rest.”
Lionel leaned his head against the carriage wall, his eyes fluttering shut. But Annette had one final doubt to resolve.
“And the death of Archibald Richetti…?”
“I know not why you are convinced I would murder a member of the Kiwi Party, but I give you my word: until you mentioned him, I did not even know the man existed.”
Annette pressed no further. Had she not just seen the “missing” Emmet alive and well, she might have doubted him; now, skepticism seemed the more irrational path. Perhaps Rivner’s assessment had been correct.
Lionel opened a single eyelid to observe her silence, then continued in a languid tone.
“Upon our return, I shall alight at [Cercle 22]. Your coachman will have departed, but you may secure a driver from the establishment. You might still attempt to visit the Marquess of Alderford, though at this hour, a guest would be an unforgivable intrusion.”
“An intrusion you orchestrated,” Annette noted with a faint smile.
Lionel’s expression returned to a blank mask. Looking at his face, Annette felt a strange, cumulative exhaustion. Having navigated her mother’s business circles, she prided herself on reading people, yet Lionel defied categorization.
“…I expected at least a bit of gloating. Is that all you have to say?”
“I could demand an apology for your prior insolence, but as this is an unofficial matter, such a gesture would be hollow.”
“Why so?”
“Because no apology from your lips could ever hold meaning for me.”
Annette, who had anticipated him saying her apology would lack sincerity, let out a sharp, derisive laugh at his unexpected arrogance.
“What an insufferable ego you possess.” She crossed her legs and rested her chin on her hand. “If you are so superior, why do you spend your life pandering to others?”
“Pandering? That is a novelty to me.”
“You smile through insults, play the saint, and maintain the facade of a gentleman while suppressing your true thoughts. I understand the economic logic that a better package yields a better price, but surely your value wouldn’t plummet dramatically if you dropped the act? Even today—rearranging the Viscount’s pillows? That was a display of excessive courtesy.”
The House of Yorkshire stood at the pinnacle of the nation—the spine of the Lion Party and the cradle of the Privy Council. Even the notorious Dujardin family was held in awe, yet Yorkshire commanded an even deeper reverence. Such people rarely had cause to conform to the standards of others.
Lionel opened both eyes, meeting Annette’s genuinely curious gaze. He crossed his arms and allowed a ghost of a smile to appear—one Annette could not identify as either mockery or a renewed mask.
“You are far too shallow a woman, Annette, for me to discuss the philosophy of my life with.”
He reached into his pocket with a refined grace and produced a pocket watch in the form of a locket. Whether he truly sought the time or was merely performing a gesture, the message was clear: the conversation was at an end.
Annette, refusing to be undignified, asked nothing more.
