Ch#70
“I can’t say for sure! The hood hid their face completely!”
The knights traded wary looks at his claim.
Had someone truly commissioned the act?
Loic’s eyes sharpened, urging him onward, and the man pressed ahead in a rush.
“I ran into them at the Wanton Tavern… around four days back! I was drowning my woes in ale, muttering about how rough things were, when—”
He faltered, picking his phrases with evident caution before the duke.
“They plopped down beside me and blamed it all on the duchess—I mean, Her Grace. I nodded along, half-drunk, and they dangled a proposition: two hundred coins to pelt Her Grace with eggs. With the throng around, slipping away would be simple, they claimed.”
His features crumpled into a wretched mask, as though courting pity.
“They even fronted some coin… more than a wretch like me could scrape together in a lifetime. So I took the bait…”
“Did they specify the spot ahead of time?” Loic’s voice sliced through like ice.
“An hour prior, a runner delivered a note: Her Grace would appear before the Delitar Café. Time to prepare.”
Loic needed no more; the tale’s conclusion was plain.
The man confessed he’d meant for one toss alone, but the miss prompted a second to secure his pay—dooming his escape.
“That everything?” Loic’s pitch sank ominously.
Sensing the duke’s displeasure, the man blurted an afterthought.
“Others at the tavern took coin too!”
Regulars, like him, who’d begun splashing gold without reason—he pegged them as the agitators who’d plagued the duchess on-site.
“Round up every soul lurking at that tavern,” Loic commanded Theo.
“On it immediately.”
Theo, grateful for direction, relayed the order to the knights without delay.
“W-what’s my fate?” the man stammered as Loic pivoted toward the cell door.
“I never meant Her Grace harm! I repent utterly, so mercy, please—”
Loic’s gaze chilled him.
“Plead with fervor. Your neck’s tenure hinges solely on the duchess’s clemency.”
The following dawn, I stirred awake unusually buoyant.
A trick of the mind? Perhaps the duke’s kneading had truly eased me; vigor coursed through.
I glanced aside to find the window’s potted greenery aglow in sunrise.
So much had shifted.
Upon my arrival at the ducal residence, solitude had cloaked me.
Now, consoling blooms arrived from sympathizers after my ordeal abroad.
A maid furious in my stead.
A spouse who’d lingered through the night, easing my hands to slumber.
The notion flickered—that my bonds here bore a deadline—but I shoved it aside.
A year’s departure changed nothing of the moments savored. I’d pour my heart into the present.
No room for later remorse.
Who knew if duchesshood awaited again? Savor it now.
Perfect.
Dawn’s earliness beckoned a visit to my husband.
He’d brighten at my recovery.
Cecilia’s shift loomed mere moments off.
I slipped from the sheets and padded briskly to the duke’s chambers—only to confront his ashen, hollowed visage.
“…Your Grace? No rest?”
My own glow contrasted his pallor sharply.
“None,” he admitted, rubbing his cheek sheepishly before guiding me to the table.
“The perpetrator was paid?”
“No shock there. You anticipated?”
“It struck me as odd. Eggs from the ether? Too haphazard. I first eyed the trade guild head, but sabotage at his own summons gained him nothing.”
“Precisely.”
The duke noted the fellow culprits’ capture, though unmasking the instigator might drag.
“My apologies. I aimed to settle it by daybreak.”
“Hold—your all-nighter for that?”
My hands framed his cheeks; he jolted, clutching the chair arms.
“D-Duchess?”
“Your face. Behold it.”
“That dire?”
Not dire, per se… altered. Those hazy eyes lent an odd allure.
Sleeves hitched, forearm veins corded boldly—
I swallowed.
“…A disaster,” I declared, quelling fancies with a stern stare.
“Nap before the meal, then.”
“…Fine.”
“Why grin after I dubbed it a disaster?”
My chide drew an abashed cough.
“Verdict on the offenders?” he ventured gingerly.
“Lords’ statutes apply, yet your will shapes their doom.”
“Naturally, a sharp reminder’s due.”
Whoever schemed, a public thrashing would delight.
“What’s the legal word?” I queried.
“Striking nobility merits death at minimum.”
“Excessive!”
Death as baseline—what excesses lay beyond?
“Am I the tyrant now?” I shot back.
“The code decrees it, but your judgment prevails.”
“I… haven’t settled,” I conceded.
A day’s buffer, or learning of the mercenary nature, dulled yesterday’s fire.
Noble edicts weighed, yet equity eluded.
“No extremes.”
“Spare them no pity.”
“Not pity.”
His forehead furrowed; I clarified. “Merely dodging haunted nights. No vigor squandered on their ilk.”
Public beheadings echoed the fates I fled.
No whispers of reaped harvests.
Irresponsible, perhaps?
I peeked; he nodded with quiet assurance.
“I’ll manage it.”
“My thanks, Your Grace.”
I beamed.
“And skip hunting the puppeteer.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tackle that solo.”
“A lead?” His brows arched.
“Fear not.”
His gaze pleaded details; I shook my head softly.
“Their torment—tailored to sting deepest.”
“Did you uncover traces?” I pressed Leta scarce half an hour after dispatching her.
She swept in assured.
“No trace of the head maid at the main portal,” she reported, fishing a creased sheet from her pocket.
“But here’s the west gate supply log.”
“Supply gate?”
“For provisions, mostly foodstuffs.”
The ragged ledger tallied entrants and intents.
Leta noted servants ought to egress centrally, yet many darted via supply for quick jaunts or crises.
“Laxer watch there—another inner post awaits.”
“No head maid listed.”
Leta tapped another entry.
“Bennet?”
A senior maid—the recipient of my inn’s “couple’s night” voucher.
“The head maid borrows juniors’ names for supply exits.”
An entrenched habit; guards overlooked, though she shunned protocol’s paper trail.
“Timeline aligns,” I observed.
The duke’s warning of delays had already spotlighted two primes—
Marzella. And Meisel.
The “egg assault” seemed trivial for a foe’s gambit, yet cunning beyond jest.
A public slur via flung eggs—
Prime fodder for a lady or head maid to orchestrate remotely.
Marzella edged my suspicions.
Her Tiern rendezvous timed too neatly.
“But proof enough?” Cecilia fretted.
To damn Marzella on a mere outing amid my guild parley?
“Proof’s beside the point,” I replied, creasing the sheet onto my desk.
“Certainty suffices.”