Chapter 6
“The authorities took Merran into custody?”
Classie nearly choked, the vegetable broth she was sipping splashing back into her bowl.
Anna, her lady’s maid, reacted instantly by offering a clean cloth.
While she dabbed at her lips to dry the spill, Classie’s forehead creased with worry. She couldn’t understand how such a thing had happened.
Naturally, her first assumption was that her niece had sparked some sort of romantic scandal. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Merran had a persistent habit of pursuing every man Classie showed the slightest interest in.
In Classie’s experience, however, the girl didn’t actually care for the men themselves. She simply enjoyed the hunt; once she successfully sabotaged Classie’s chances, she would discard the suitors without a second thought. Afterward, she would return to Classie’s side, acting like a devoted, fluffy chick trailing its mother, all sweetness and light.
Given that pattern, it seemed unlikely she would have caused a scene by chasing after a married aristocrat.
“It happened at the Rayburton gala last night,” Anna explained, her voice tight with disapproval. “I told you both that staying home was the better choice. Apparently, an item went missing during the event.”
Classie felt a wave of relief that it wasn’t a matter of the heart, yet the news remained baffling. She set the cloth aside, her expression darkening. She knew Merran well enough to know that thievery wasn’t part of her character.
Anna agreed immediately. There was no reason for a girl like Merran to steal from anyone. She was well-provided for, receiving generous allowances from Classie’s parents, her older sister, and even her brothers. Even her biological father, Marquess Omel, though he had never been part of her daily life, ensured she wanted for nothing by sending substantial funds every month.
The news killed Classie’s appetite. She pushed her cup away with a dismissive gesture, signaling she was finished.
“Take it,” she muttered. “I can’t swallow another drop.”
“But my lady, you’ve barely touched it,” Anna pleaded.
Classie shook her head. The thought of Merran being hauled away made it impossible to eat. She needed her strength, as Anna pointed out, especially after the grueling fever she had just endured, but she simply had no desire for food.
Struggling to her feet, Classie checked the hour. She asked how much time had passed and if anyone had been sent to check on the girl.
“Ledon went,” Anna replied, “but the guards blocked his path at the gates. It’s been maybe two hours since they took her—”
The sound of a heavy knock at the front entrance cut Anna off.
The maid’s face lit up with hope. She turned and sprinted down the corridor toward the stairs. Classie attempted to keep pace, but her limbs felt like lead. Her strength failed her halfway there, and she nearly collapsed. Realizing she couldn’t make it to the door, she slumped onto a nearby sofa to wait. If it was Merran, Anna would bring her up immediately.
When the maid finally reappeared, however, her face was pale. She told Classie she needed to go into hiding at once.
Classie, who had been resting with her eyes shut, looked up in confusion. The idea of hiding seemed absurd. She demanded to know where Merran was.
Anna’s eyes darted toward the hallway, her fear palpable. While standard soldiers had no right to trespass on a noble estate, the Palace Guards were a different breed. They served only the throne. The Emperor used them as a blunt instrument to keep the nobility in check, often dismissing their arrogance by claiming his personal guard was simply too spirited to control.
“What is the meaning of this?” Classie asked, forcing herself upright despite the lingering vertigo. She reached for the walking stick propped against her furniture.
Anna looked horrified, realizing Classie intended to go downstairs. She tried to block the way, explaining that Merran had likely been framed and that Classie would only be implicated if she showed herself.
“That is precisely why I won’t hide,” Classie countered.
Anna wouldn’t budge. She argued that they didn’t even know the charges yet and that the capital wasn’t like their home province. Here, the streets were crawling with powerful rivals. She insisted that at least one of them had to remain free to navigate the situation and find out the truth.
The maid took Classie’s hand, her grip trembling. Anna had been a pillar of strength for both women since their childhood, rarely showing a hint of cowardice. For her to be this terrified was a grave omen.
Classie finally relented. She wasn’t as intimidated by the guards as Anna was, but she looked a mess. She was still in her nightwear, her hair was matted with sweat, and her mind was foggy from illness. She was in no state to command a room of hostile men.
She pulled a heavy winter cloak over her nightgown to hide her appearance. Anna headed down the main staircase to act as a distraction while Classie moved toward the back of the house. She navigated toward a narrow set of service stairs near the kitchen, hoping to slip out unnoticed.
She stopped halfway down when the sound of deep, unfamiliar voices drifted up from below. The guards had already breached the house. Their reputation for ignoring protocol was proving true; they were searching the premises without a second thought.
Classie wondered what kind of nightmare Merran had stumbled into. Since the exit was blocked, she stayed low, trying to peer through the window to see who was outside. She leaned forward, balancing on her toes for a better angle.
Her body betrayed her. A sudden cramp locked her leg, she lost her balance, and she tumbled through the opening.
She landed hard on a wide architectural ledge just below the sill. The impact sent a jolt of pain through her spine. She looked back up at the window, cursing her own clumsiness. Jumping the rest of the way seemed dangerous, but she spotted a rope nearby.
Despite her weakness, Classie was confident in her upper body strength. She decided to use the cord to slide down. As she descended, she caught her reflection in a first-floor window—and realized she wasn’t alone.
Standing directly beneath her was a man with silver hair. He looked as though he had just woken up, yet he was smiling calmly with his arms held out to break her fall.
“Come down,” he said, his voice smooth and reassuring. “I’ve got you.”
Classie froze. She knew that voice. It belonged to the blood-soaked stranger who had forced his way into her carriage the previous night.
The man’s grin widened. In that moment, the pieces fell into place. This entire ordeal—the guards, the search, Merran’s arrest—was because this man was using his position to hunt down the identification she had taken from him.
Rage boiled over. He was the reason she was sick and the reason her household was in chaos. In a fit of temper, she kicked out at him with her slippered foot. The shoe missed him entirely, thumping harmlessly onto the grass.
The man laughed as he watched the pink footwear roll away. He teased her, suggesting she must really trust him if she was willing to lose her shoes while he held her. He even jokingly invited her to throw the second one.
Classie was so consumed by anger that she forgot her legs were useless. She wanted nothing more than to smash that stolen ID into his face. She tried to shift her weight to climb down further, but her muscles went limp. Her grip failed, and she began to fall.
The world blurred as she pitched backward, the sky replacing the stone walls of the manor.
Then, she saw him.
A man with hair the color of flames appeared like a vision. He was so breathtakingly handsome that Classie momentarily wondered if she had died and met a celestial being. She stared at him, her hands frozen in mid-air, completely disoriented.
The sharp sting of pain in her lower back and the burn in her palms snapped her back to reality. Tears pricked her eyes.
The “angel” spoke, but his voice was freezing. He asked, with clear irritation, if he was required to keep holding her.
Classie gasped. She wasn’t dead, and she hadn’t fallen into the grass. This newcomer had caught her.
A mocking laugh came from the side. The silver-haired man had stepped back, watching the scene with amusement. He looked at the redhead and spoke with a smirk.
“That’s her, Kishin. She’s the one who made off with your papers.”
