Chapter 11 – The Clown and the Poisonous Mushroom

Early Morning at Crawford House

In the early hours, the butler Hermann quietly rolled a trolley to Ian’s chambers.

“Good morning, Lord Ian. Did you rest well?”

“Come in.”

The reply was icy-cool. Hermann stepped inside carefully. Everything was spotless—a reflection of the master’s own tidiness.

Ian, standing before the mirror, had already groomed himself and was selecting a cravat.

“You leave early again today. You came back late last night—are you overdoing it?”

“Growing old makes the world full of needless worry.”

Despite the cold tone, Hermann knew better than anyone that Ian wasn’t troubled. As the ‘young lord,’ Ian’s chances to drop the Duke’s public mask were rare and valuable.

Without a word, Hermann placed the tray on the table and poured tea.

“The Duke and the Duchess?”

“His Grace fell asleep at dawn. Duchess Monica is choosing dresses with Madame Fleur.”

“Madame Fleur? A fashion designer—why the sudden call?”

“Seems she wants a new dress before attending the salon this afternoon.”

Ian’s hand halted mid-cravat. His slitted eyes narrowed.

“You mean… the Earl of Lancaster’s salon?”

“Yes.”

A soft, knowing smile formed on Ian’s lips.

“So it’s the same place… as planned, I see.”

Hermann quietly breathed out—he hadn’t seen Ian smile in this way for a long time.

“Prepare a bouquet of Avril roses—large and striking.”

“Certainly.”

The butler bowed and left. Ian’s gaze shifted to a portrait on the wall, and he sneered.

He recalled the secret will hidden behind it—and felt pleased.

“Two simple requests.”
“A request?”
“Not complicated ones.”

And such was the rest of the day—like a bad performance by a clown, yet intoxicating in its chaotic absurdity.

“You certainly make life less dull.”

He practiced his smile, refining it to appear like a lovesick fool’s.

Once satisfied, Ian stepped away from the mirror—regally made up and ready.

Society Never Sleeps

The rumor of Diana’s ongoing meetings with Ian spread like wildfire through society—anyone with even a toe dipped into high society heard of it.

“Faster than I anticipated…”

Her stroll with the Duke had already been witnessed; now the visit to Crawford House added fuel.

At home, Diana’s mother stood beside her with a teasing grin:

“Even pig‑headed Abigaille is seeking your hand!”

“Mother…”

“What strange experiences motherhood brings… your suitors come in droves now.”

The culprit: Helena had innocently mentioned Diana’s outings—and the rumor mill churned immediately.

But it worked in Diana’s favor—an invitation arrived quicker than expected.

“Miss, invitations are piling up like a mountain!”

“If I accepted them all, I’d need ten lifetimes.”

Diana froze at the stack. Too many?

“They’re just curious—who is this mysterious Miss Wellington?”

Since her deal with Ian, invitations flooded in—from tea parties and music galas to book clubs she’d only once visited with her mother.

The most invitations came from salon-containing noblewomen.

“Here it is!”

She plucked one invitation from the pile: the Lancaster Lady’s salon—her true battleground.

At Lancaster Manor

Lancaster House stood near the palace, an unusual location.

Lady Lancaster herself was equally noteworthy—renowned for lavish hospitality and for collecting gossip like a librarian.

Her salon had a nickname: The Pool of Rumors—a place where whispers, once dropped, didn’t fade.

“Welcome, Miss Diana.”

“Good afternoon, Lady Lancaster.”

The hostess had personally greeted her—she hadn’t missed a detail.

“Perfect timing—tables are just set.”

Regular salon hosts set the stage for social currents, and Diana, invited to this nexus of gossip, was now firmly in the spotlight.

Feeling the weight of that scene, Diana discreetly pulled out a small gift.

“As a token of gratitude, a humble gift—may I?”

“Oh dear…”

Lady Lancaster’s face brightened as she examined the gift.

“A Réserve teapot set?”

“You recognized it immediately!”

“My, such a precious item…”

Known for love of tea wares, Lady Lancaster admired the teapot adorned with raspberries and nightingales.

Diana had avoided lavish options; instead, she chose something rare with attentiveness—it paid off.

“Thank you for inviting me. I’ve wanted to attend—this makes me most happy.”

A bit of flattery, but appropriate—and appreciated, especially from a rising figure.

“I should be the one thanking you, Miss Diana. Please, come this way.”

She guided Diana into a conservatory—arched glass ceiling, lush plants, and rare cacti standing like framed art.

And there: the best seat, closest to the sun, away from drafts—a perfect vantage to observe the entire room.

A host’s favor goes far.

The plush single sofa beckoned, as comfortable as a cloud.

Diana examined the guests—including one familiar face in the crowd…