TYND 50

Chapter 50

Her appearance was beautiful, but it was her flawless, unblemished skin and slender figure that irresistibly drew the eye. Rutherford, who had been staring at her as if enchanted, thought, I used to be something myself, once…, and gazed up at the ceiling with a wistful expression.

“The bathrooms in the Rutherford estate are remarkably luxurious. They can’t compare to the ones at headquarters. Hmm… is this scented oil?”

Lucy lifted an oil bottle from the basket and gave it a shake. With a soft sloshing sound, the crimson liquid inside swayed back and forth.

“It’s oil extracted from desert roses imported from the western regions. The fragrance is quite exquisite.”

Rutherford took the bottle from Lucy and poured it straight into the bath.

A pleasant aroma spread in all directions. He stirred the water to disperse the scent, then reached into the basket and grabbed a handful of flower petals.

Amid the rich rose fragrance, red petals drifted gently across the surface of the bath.

“When you suddenly came to the estate and said you wished to bathe, I found it rather odd… but it seems you chose the bathhouse out of concern for prying ears.”

“Mm. It’s unlikely, but if there were an informant, it could be dangerous.”

“May I ask why you’ve given me this order? Does it have something to do with Duke Witten?”

Lucy smiled faintly as she splashed water over her chilled shoulders.

“I like people like you. Say one thing, and you understand ten.”

At that simple affirmation, Rutherford’s brow furrowed even deeper.

Is she telling me to keep watch over Witten?

Why? Was he plotting something via the sea?

Could he be trying to move troops, like Duke Kiel?

But Duke Witten was different from Duke Kiel. He wasn’t bold enough to attempt treason, nor irrational enough to challenge someone he couldn’t defeat.

Rutherford narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to deduce Lucy’s intentions. But there were too few clues to reach a conclusion.

“He did seem rather displeased during that meeting. Are you saying the duke intends to do something reckless?”

“Lately, there’s been a peculiar visitor coming and going from the Witten estate. Supposedly an antiquities dealer. Disguised as a merchant, but he seemed connected either to the Empire or to Dopheine.”

“…Could he be conspiring with them to commit treason?”

“Well…”

Murmuring, Lucy washed her face.

“For now, it’s only suspicion—no concrete evidence. To be honest, even the identity of the merchant visiting the Witten estate is just my guess. Still, it’s strange that the meetings began only after I deliberately provoked him.”

The timing, and Witten’s temperament, both made it suspicious. Rutherford rubbed his cheek and looked at Lucy with cautious eyes.

“Indeed… Duke Witten despised having traders frequent his estate. It’s worth suspecting.”

“Exactly. But suspicion means nothing without proof. Gathering that proof is your role. I’ll give you a list of ships associated with the Witten estate. The moment any of them cross into restricted waters, inform me immediately.”

Lucy stepped out of the bath, tossed aside her wet towel, and dried herself with a fresh one.

When Rutherford hurried to rise and attend to her, Lucy instead scolded him for moving at his age and used the towel to dry his hair herself.

The maids, who had entered belatedly, helped finish up, and Lucy—looking refreshed—walked into the adjoining room.

Whis, who had been waiting for his sovereign, stared in horror as Lucy flopped down onto the sofa and hurried over with a blanket.

“How many times must I tell you not to lie down just anywhere? And this is the Marquess Rutherford’s residence, no less.”

“It’s been a while since I soaked in such a large bath. My whole body feels limp. Ah, Whis—since you’re up, could you bring me a pillow too?”

“You speak like an old man every single day, honestly…”

Grumbling, Whis nevertheless fetched a cushion from somewhere and placed it beneath Lucy’s head.

Wrapped snugly in the blanket, Lucy lay sprawled there for several minutes before Barnessa Rutherford personally entered the room carrying a tea set.

“You must be exhausted, living at headquarters with such a delicate body. Please rest well before you leave, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you for your kindness, Lady Rutherford.”

“Oh, think nothing of it. By Your Majesty’s grace, my daughter’s life was saved. This is nothing in comparison.”

Rutherford smiled benevolently as she handed over the teacup.

Her daughter, once ravaged by the plague, had now fully recovered and returned to her normal life. No matter how many times she thanked Lucy, it wouldn’t be enough.

Lucy rose to accept the cup and met her gaze with a bright smile.

“I’m glad I could help. I’ve heard your daughter takes after you—wise and eloquent. I’d be pleased to meet her someday.”

“Oh my, is that so? She happens to be at the estate today. She’s been eagerly awaiting the day she could meet Your Majesty—if I call her, she’ll come at once.”

“No, there’s no need to call her right now—”

“Since the topic has come up, shall I bring her immediately? Please wait just a moment, Your Majesty.”

Before Lucy could stop her, Rutherford exited the room. A short while later, she returned wearing an awkward expression.

“My apologies, Your Majesty. It happens that a child for whom I am the godmother is also visiting the estate. That child wishes to meet Your Majesty together with my daughter.”

“A guest? Who?”

“Viscount Lass.”

The moment she heard the name, Lucy let out a snort of laughter.

Viscount Lass. Hearing her friend referred to by his title rather than his name felt oddly cringeworthy. Regaining her composure, Lucy nodded solemnly.

“Very well. Tell them to come together.”

After Rutherford left once more, faint sounds of a small scuffle came from beyond the door.

Rutherford’s nagging—words like decorum, manners, and please—could be heard faintly, followed by a man’s low voice retorting that it was fine and to stop nagging.

A soft, gentle voice slipped in between, murmuring that everything would be fine if you would just stay quiet.

Moments later, the door burst open and a booming shout rang out.

“Hey, Arsinoe! Long time no see!”

A man in formal attire ran toward Lucy with his arms spread wide. Behind him stood a pale-faced Rutherford, and a young woman who resembled Rutherford somewhat but looked calmer and more composed.

Lucy was still deciding how to react when Whis stepped forward and slammed the man to the floor.

“Insolent fool! How dare you speak His Majesty’s sacred name so casually!”

In an instant, Whis subdued the man, gripping both wrists and mounting his back to pin him down. The ease with which he restrained a full-grown man with one hand was proof that a soldier was, indeed, a soldier.

Lucy sighed and tried to calm him.

“Whis, calm down. It’s fine. Leave him.”

“He must be restrained at once! He’s clearly attempting to assassinate Your Majesty—!”

“No, no. He’s my friend. We’re just very informal with each other. Try to understand.”

The man pinned to the floor let out a strangled croak. At this rate, he might actually die, Lucy muttered to herself, quickly shoving Whis aside.

Under the many suspicious gazes in the room, the man who had been flattened on the floor coughed and awkwardly pushed himself upright.

Lucy reached out a hand and helped him up.

“It’s been a while, Geronimo.”

Dressed in a fine suit, with his hair casually swept back, the man’s long lashes framed hazel-brown eyes brimming with intellectual melancholy.

Though his appearance had changed greatly, his fundamental aura was exactly the same. Without a doubt, he was the fool who had shared every hardship with Lucy during their academy days—Geronimo Lass.

“Ah… I thought Rapi just flew around in the sky, but you’re ridiculously strong too. Seeing your skills, I guess you won’t be dying from an ambush anytime soon.”

The friend now known as Viscount Lass—no longer simply the idiot Geronimo—extended his hand first for a handshake.

“You’ve really made it far, Your Majesty.”

“You rushed in speaking informally and got thrown to the ground—what did you expect? You’re a viscount now, yet your manners are still atrocious.”

“And Your Majesty still speaks just as roughly as ever. Is that really acceptable?”

“What’s not acceptable about it? I’m the king.”

They exchanged barbed jokes, trading sarcasm back and forth. While the two of them chatted freely without titles or hierarchy, those standing nearby watched the scene with mounting anxiety, as though sitting on a bed of needles.