Chapter 26
Kicking Away a Friend’s Care
Florence had eventually run out of things to say and departed, leaving the room quiet. Classie remained motionless for a long duration, her fingers tracing the edge of the invitation bearing the seal of Grand Duke Siwil’s house.
She realized then how truly fortunate she was to have such companions. A wave of tenderness for Florence washed over her, and she let out a soft, weary breath.
In the wake of her sister’s passing, the world’s sympathy had been reserved for Merran. At eleven years old, the girl was seen as a tragic figure. Even Classie had fallen into that trap, believing her niece’s suffering was so monumental that her own feelings were irrelevant by comparison.
Yet Classie had been only sixteen herself—a child in her own right. Florence had been the solitary soul to acknowledge that fact, offering the comfort Classie so desperately needed.
“Is that guest finally gone? Where is my aunt? Is she inside?”
The reverie of deep gratitude shattered at the sound of Merran’s voice echoing from the corridor. Classie reflexively shoved the card into her pocket. She couldn’t forget Florence’s parting advice: keep the invitation out of the girl’s reach. The very thought of another confrontation made Classie’s skin crawl.
She considered the logistics of the event. A gala at the Grand Duke’s estate demanded formal elegance; casual attire was out of the question. Preparation was mandatory. However, if she ordered the carriage and began her transformation in the morning, Merran would undoubtedly sniff out the secret.
Before she could solve the puzzle, a loud pounding hit the wood of her door.
“Auntie, has your friend left yet?”
Classie pulled the door open to find Merran standing there, her face round and glowing like a full moon, her cheeks flushed a deep berry red. The girl peered into the room with a sour pout.
“Why does she come here so often? It’s incredibly poorly mannered.”
“If we’re discussing manners,” Classie countered, “did you seek an invitation before barging into my room?”
“I’m your blood relative. She’s a stranger.”
“We wouldn’t be sharing a roof at all if you’d stayed back in your own home,” Classie pointed out.
Merran’s expression darkened with burgeoning rage. Classie reached out, playfully tweaking the girl’s lips into a pout before letting go to redirect the conversation.
“Actually, why did Florence show up so suddenly? Was she looking for trouble?”
“I have to keep tabs on the opposition,” Classie replied lightly. “She was just checking in.”
Later that night, bathed in the glow of her bedside lamp, Classie scrutinized the card once more. The event was scheduled for the 20th. It was already past midnight on the 17th, leaving her a mere forty-eight hours to coordinate everything.
The timeline was incredibly tight. Florence must have moved mountains to secure the invitation so late. Classie tapped the corner of the card against her brow, her forehead creasing. No matter how much she turned it over in her mind during dinner, she couldn’t find a way to slip away to the gala without Merran noticing.
The guest list was strictly controlled. If Classie arrived and Merran somehow trailed her, the fallout would be disastrous. The girl would be blocked at the entrance, forced to endure the sting of a public rejection. It was a familiar, exhausting cycle.
She could already hear the venomous whispers of the socialites. They would paint her as a cruel guardian, intentionally shaming her niece by excluding her. Worse, those rumors might spiral back to the old, ugly lies—the ones suggesting Classie was responsible for Mary’s death.
Classie had endured Merran’s behavior out of a sense of duty and love for her late sister, but the ignorant gossip of the ton often pushed her to the breaking point. Sometimes the resentment burned so hot it threatened to incinerate her guilt, making her want to scream the truth to the world. She felt physically ill under the weight of the looming dilemma.
On the morning of the 18th, Merran rose earlier than her usual hour. She paused while washing, a thoughtful look on her face.
“My aunt is behaving strangely.”
Karen, who stood nearby with a fresh towel, let out a chuckle. “What a thing to say, miss. Why are you targeting Lady Classie today?”
“She’s just… off. Ever since that woman visited, she hasn’t been herself.”
“Are you worried they’re planning some excitement without you?”
“Exactly. I’m certain they’re plotting to leave me behind while they go have fun.”
Merran’s large eyes narrowed as she handed the damp cloth back to the maid. Karen didn’t argue the point; she simply shook her head.
“To be fair, Lady Classie has a history of doing exactly that.”
“Is it another grand ball? Or perhaps a private tea with the high-ranking ladies?” Merran’s irritation grew as she spoke. Even after Karen returned from emptying the water, the girl remained rooted in place, lost in her suspicions.
Seeing the girl’s distress, Karen felt a pang of sympathy and began to mutter under her breath.
“She can try to act the part, but Lady Classie will never measure up to your mother. If the Marquise were here, she would never dream of attending a function without you. She would have coaxed you into coming even if you fought it, knowing how vital it is for your future—making the right matches and securing your place in society.”
Karen had been Merran’s nanny, a role Mary had personally appointed her to. The Marquess had kept her on after his wife’s passing, and she had followed Merran to the Kalashi estate. Her heart belonged to the Omer family, and her only metric for right and wrong was what benefited Merran. In her eyes, Classie was merely a relative, not her mistress.
Merran collapsed onto the chaise longue, her golden tresses spilling across the upholstery like silk.
“You’re right. My mother would never have abandoned me to go chasing after some man.”
“Never!” Karen insisted. “She valued you above her own life.”
Merran toyed with the fringe of a pillow, her voice a low murmur. “I’m going to watch her like a hawk. Whatever she’s planning, I’m going to be right there. If she wants to play the role of my mother, she needs to start acting like it.”
By the afternoon of the 18th, Classie had donned a heavy, oversized cloak that made her movements look comical. She climbed into her carriage with an exaggerated air of importance, a deliberate move to bait her niece.
Experience had taught her that Merran was always more suspicious after Florence visited, knowing that Florence was usually the one facilitating Classie’s private social life.
As the carriage pulled away, Classie glanced back. Just as she suspected, Merran’s carriage was falling into line behind her. She clicked her tongue and slid the small window shut.
The coachman, Ledon, noticed their tail as well. “My Lady, a carriage from the house is following us. It looks like Lady Merran. Should I pull over?”
“Ignore it,” Classie instructed, leaning her head against the cool interior of the coach. “Just keep driving.”
Ledon followed her orders, maintaining their course until they reached the first stop on her list: a prominent bakery on Balroire Road. Classie made a show of her flamboyant cloak as she entered, eventually returning with two massive cakes.
Merran’s carriage remained a steady shadow. Classie looked at the boxes and a plan began to crystallize.
Merran was infatuated with Dernick. If Classie could arrange for him to visit the manor on the night of the gala, Merran would be too preoccupied to follow her. In fact, she’d probably be glad to have the house to herself.
“Ledon, take us to Driblu Street,” Classie called out.
“Not the main square, My Lady?”
“No. Stop at the Guard Station.”
When they arrived, Classie gathered the heavy cakes and stepped out. As she approached the entrance, a guard recognized her, his expression shifting to one of awkward discomfort.
“My Lady? What brings you back here?”
It was clear Kishin had issued strict orders to keep her away after their last encounter. The realization stung. He had the audacity to be offended by her quick change of heart, yet he was the one making sure she couldn’t even see him. Shouldn’t he be relieved if she had moved on?
Regardless, she wasn’t there for him today; she was using him. She could swallow her pride for the sake of her plan.
“Please give these to Sir Kishin,” she said, her voice dripping with feigned sorrow. “One is an apology for him, and the other is for his companion, Sir Dernick.”
The guard looked flustered. “I can do that. That’s no trouble.”
He clearly took her for another heartbroken noblewoman unable to let go of a man who didn’t want her. Classie, having spent years being the target of much worse rumors in her hometown, found his pity almost amusing.
“Auntie! Auntie! Why on earth did you send a present to Sir Dernick?”
Merran had clearly been on her heels all day. Classie felt a surge of triumph; the fish had taken the bait. Masking her satisfaction with a look of feigned shock, she turned to the girl.
“How did you find out about that?”
Merran’s eyes were blazing, her face tight with anger. “That’s not the point!”
She looked so genuinely distressed that her eyes were beginning to well up. Classie reached out and gave her cheek a playful tug.
“Don’t be silly. The year is ending, so I used the holiday as an excuse to invite him to visit us.”
The tears vanished instantly. “An invitation? You invited him? Then why the cakes?”
“Think about it. We don’t know his family or where he lives. I asked you to find out, but you never did. So, I sent the gifts to Sir Kishin and asked him to relay the message. It would have been rude to send something only for Dernick, so I got one for Kishin too. Do you understand now?”
Merran’s anger evaporated, replaced by a deep blush and a quick nod of agreement. Classie felt a wave of relief. The 20th was secured; Merran would be staying home.
Later that evening, Viscount Heimer returned to his residence, presenting his wife with a collection of fabric swatches he’d picked up from a tailor.
“Are these the ones you were looking for?”
“They are. Thank you so much.”
Florence pulled her husband into a warm embrace before eagerly flipping through the album, a happy tune on her lips. The Viscount watched her with a sense of deep contentment.
He had once dreaded their arranged marriage, clinging to youthful fantasies of romance. He’d been particularly wary of Florence, given her close ties to the notorious Classie Kalashi.
However, within a month of their union, he had been completely won over. She wasn’t the wild woman the rumors suggested. She was a person of immense courage and unwavering loyalty, standing by a friend the rest of the world had discarded. To him, she was the most enchanting woman alive.
“Don’t overthink it,” he said, stepping closer to press a series of kisses to her cheek. “Whatever you choose will look perfect because you’re the one wearing it.”
Florence giggled, gently nudging him away. “That’s sweet, but these aren’t for me. I’m picking out a gift for Classie.”
The Viscount’s smile faltered slightly. “Why for her?”
“Because her luck might be changing for the better!”
“In what way?”
Florence closed the book and held it up, her eyes sparkling with excitement over the top of the cover. “A certain gentleman has taken an interest in her. And… he happens to be the heir to Grand Duke Siwil.”
