Episode 14
Lionel pressed his lips into a thin line at her firm reply, then exhaled a shallow sigh.
“Since you refuse to cooperate in resolving the matter between us, I suppose this won’t end quickly.”
“I’m sorry, but what matter do you think we have?”
“I’ll concede we are not yet anything in particular. How about we say we’re just beginning to get acquainted?”
“I’ve been kidnapped so often since childhood that… whenever strangers say things like that, my first instinct is to shut the conversation down and report them to the police bureau.”
Tilting his chin slightly, Lionel let out a low laugh and covered his jaw with one hand. The mellow sound, lingering near her ear, wavered between mockery and simple amusement.
The intervals of his laughter shortened, then lengthened, until—ending with a soft hum—it stilled entirely as he laced his fingers together atop the table. Even this unhurried sequence of gestures managed to feel sensuous… no doubt another one of his little performances.
“My apologies. I really should have introduced myself first. Lionel Yorkshire.”
“…”
“And how may I address you?”
His face looked almost too gentle, too decent, yet Annette R. Bonnel did not forget.
She could never forget the way Lionel’s expression had twisted—just for an instant—through the drifting veil of cigarette smoke during their first encounter across the balustrade. Nor how swiftly he had turned.
And of course, the real finishing blow had been that article in the Buchanan Times:
“We must move before the message of gratitude reaches him. I’ll take care of Emmet J. Milton within two days.”
[Viscount Emmet J. Milton in Mysterious Carriage Accident!]
Suppressing a bitter taste, Annette forced a shy little smile and plucked the first name that drifted into her mind.
“…Charlotte.”
“Charlotte.”
“Charlotte Duhamel. I hardly know what to do when such a distinguished gentleman shows me interest.”
After laying on that polite exaggeration, she mimicked the expression Benedict made whenever he learned that some cheap bonds he’d bought had suddenly shot through the roof, or when he picked the winning horse at the track.
She had no taste for this sort of pretense, but what choice did she have? Her options were either coax Lionel into leaving, or lull him into a false sense of security long enough for her to slip away.
“…Duhamel?”
“You probably wouldn’t know the name.”
“Charlotte, is it.”
Lionel rolled the name over his tongue as though testing if it was familiar. Thankfully, he didn’t strike her as someone who indulged much in cultural pursuits.
Annette could only pray his last words tonight would not be, “Dispose of Miss Charlotte.” For the sake of any unfortunate Charlotte living in Lenore, surely one tragic heroine per play was enough.
“A beautiful name. Charlotte.”
“You’re already calling me by a nickname. Almost as if we were truly becoming close.”
“For people of intelligence like us, opening our hearts and speaking openly isn’t difficult. So long as we strive to understand each other, neither your spirit nor mine need suffer any wounds. Including the grave misunderstanding from last time.”
There it was.
Annette tilted her head with an exaggerated expression, imitating Laetitia’s famously wide-eyed look.
“A grave misunderstanding? Was there such a thing?”
“Let’s be honest with each other. All I want to know is what you misunderstood, and how. Only then can I correct it for you, Charlotte.”
“I didn’t misunderstand anything. I know nothing at all. Really, don’t worry.”
She beamed, batting away every word he threw like a ball of yarn.
“…For someone with no misunderstandings, you fled so fast you abandoned your shoes. Is your foot well enough now?”
Lionel maintained his gentle smile, never once relinquishing his composure. Annette nearly blurted out, “Are my limited-edition Chigon shoes safe?” but swallowed the sorrow instead.
“I would never abandon my shoes. I don’t take them off just anywhere.”
“If that sounded accusatory, that wasn’t my intention. As I said… I’m not here to scold. I only wish to clarify the ‘misunderstanding.’ So—”
“Oh, that reminds me! I read in the paper about the man who shot himself in the leg. That was you, wasn’t it? Is your leg all right?”
Feigning sudden recollection, Annette stared at him with earnest, innocent concern—like she truly meant it. Lionel, who had remained perfectly cordial even while implying she behaved like a rat, finally had his smile stiffen.
His blue eyes, stripped of their gentleness, sharpened with a lurking homicidal glint. But Annette met his gaze unflinchingly.
Lionel rose and pulled out the chair beside her, sitting so close their shoulders brushed. He draped one arm over the back of her chair, leaning in until his face hovered just before hers.
His whisper was barely audible.
“Are you planning to keep… being such a pain in the ass?”
“….”
“I may look like a man with time to spare, but I hate wasting it. If you want to keep playing word games, I can indulge you… but don’t you think this is getting a bit… tiresome?”
A tremor of instinct bristled beneath her skin, every fine hair rising. Annette found herself staring directly into that absurdly beautiful face—one people would pay fortunes to possess—while he spoke words that felt like a blade held to her throat.
“You spied on us that day. Eavesdropping like a little rat… rude, isn’t it? Still, I’m willing to overlook it once. I’m telling you—let’s settle this by talking. All right?”
“….”
“When a man stays this civil, shouldn’t you try using that head of yours to think a little…?”
His blue eyes bore into her, pupils wide with a simmering frenzy. This isn’t right. Annette tried to lean away, but the arm hooked behind her chair slid down and gripped her forearm, anchoring her in place.
He looked entirely capable of doing something disastrous. She couldn’t even risk swallowing too loudly.
He’s not just unstable—he’s thoroughly unhinged.
From afar, they would simply look like a couple seated intimately close. But mercifully, before Lionel escalated further, a voice interrupted them.
“Well now, who might this be? Forgive an old man for intruding.”
Startled, Annette shoved Lionel’s shoulder as she turned. Lionel instantly smoothed his expression and stood.
He shook hands with the middle-aged man who had stopped beside their table—a man of stout build wearing a fine frock coat with embroidered cuffs, a tall stovepipe hat tucked under his arm, his presence warm and almost genial.
“Sir Timothy… how—”
Timothy Chastein?
Annette’s eyes flew wide.
Timothy Chastein, former Chief Secretary of the Privy Council’s Assembly and a man of considerable influence. What was he doing in such a modest restaurant? Worse—she knew him.
Oh, heavens.
She quickly adjusted her hat and lifted a handkerchief from her bag to cover her mouth.
“Today is my anniversary with my wife, so we came here. Then I spotted a rather distinguished gentleman from behind… and when I looked properly, it was you.”
