Chapter 26
The musicians were never intended to be the center of attention. In keeping with tradition, they performed from behind a heavy velvet curtain, ensuring their presence did not intrude upon the nobility’s sophisticated diversions.
From time to time, the conductor would steal a glance through the fabric to monitor the room’s pulse, but the players themselves remained entirely concealed. They greeted the arriving guests with spirited melodies, playing until the last noble had crossed the threshold. The voices of the piano, violin, and flute rose in a seamless, elegant tapestry of sound.
Suddenly, Windsor’s gaze sharpened. He stared at the curtain with such intensity it seemed he intended to see right through it.
Watching him, a young debutante let out a faint, breathless gasp. She raised her decorative fan to hide her lips as she leaned toward her companion.
“Look at Lord Preston,” she whispered. “Does he not look as though an angel carved him from marble?”
“Given his reputation,” her friend replied dryly, “it might be more accurate to say he was sculpted by a devil.”
“That hardly matters! How can I possibly convince him to grant me a dance?”
“Don’t get your hopes up. Lord Preston has never been known to dance with anyone. Your chances are nonexistent.”
Whether viewed with admiration or disdain, Windsor Preston was a man who commanded the room. It was this magnetic, polarizing presence that fueled the endless stream of gossip surrounding him. While many sought to tarnish his name, just as many held him in high regard—his exploits as a naval commander had earned him the undisputed status of a national hero.
There was an edge to him that set him apart from the average aristocrat—a palpable, almost suffocating tension that radiated from his person. This aura acted as both a lure and a warning; it made him fascinating to behold but far too intimidating to approach. Consequently, the ladies were content to admire him from a safe distance.
“Announcing the guest of honor for this evening’s festivities: Master Benjamin Preston!”
At the servant’s booming cry, the tempo of the music shifted. Standing at the top of the grand staircase, William gave Benjamin a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “It is time, young master,” he whispered.
With a gentle, unintentional nudge, Benjamin found himself stepping out from the shadows and onto the landing of the spiral stairs.
The young boy swallowed hard, his heart sinking as he looked down. The brilliance of the chandeliers washed over the plush red carpet below. He felt the weight of hundreds of invisible eyes pressing in on him from every corner of the hall. A sudden tremor seized his legs, and his feet felt as though they had turned to lead, refusing to budge.
“Master Benjamin, you must proceed,” William urged from his hidden spot behind the wall, his voice tight with anxiety.
The orchestra’s music swelled into a grander, more triumphant movement, and the soft chatter of the ballroom died away instantly. Every soul in the room was now staring at Benjamin Preston, the sole heir to the Preston legacy.
I have to do this. I can’t let Uncle down.
Steeling himself, Benjamin forced his trembling limbs to move. He took one tentative step, then another. As he came into view, the guests erupted into cheers. The sudden thunder of applause made him swallow again. His heart was racing as if he had just bolted across the entire estate; it thrashed against his ribs so violently he feared it might burst out if he lost his focus for even a second.
Tears began to prick at his eyes. The sheer scale of it all terrified him—the sea of watching faces and the suffocating pressure of a world where even the smallest stumble would be judged.
Don’t cry. Uncle is watching.
Benjamin bit his lip hard and instinctively glanced to the side.
“Oh?”
His eyes widened. Through a gap in the curtain, he found himself looking directly at the person seated at the piano.
At a banquet, the orchestra functioned much like the seasoning in a gourmet meal: essential for depth, yet never meant to be the main course. While they were invisible to the guests on the floor, the musicians were clearly visible from the elevated vantage point of the stairs. Benjamin realized with a jolt that he knew the pianist.
“…Miss Somerset?” he breathed, stunned.
Jacqueline pressed a single finger to her lips in a silent plea for discretion. “Shh,” she mouthed.
Her expression was warm and encouraging. Beneath her pale, slender fingers, the piano keys danced, producing a sequence of bright, lively notes. The melody felt like a gentle hand against his back, nudging him forward. Benjamin offered her a tiny, nearly imperceptible nod of gratitude.
I can do this! Miss Somerset is right there.
Squaring his shoulders, Benjamin lifted his chin and continued his descent. The piano music seemed to drift through the air like a physical support, settling lightly on his shoulders to steady him.
Jacqueline Somerset was Benjamin’s governess—the thirteenth one he had been assigned, to be precise. But she was different from all the stern women who had come before her. The reason was simple: she was fun.
With that thought, Benjamin’s pace quickened. The stiffness left his legs, and his movements became fluid and natural. He thought of the afternoons they had spent collecting cicada shells and the time they had turned a massive wall into a canvas for their drawings. With every step down the stairs, a new happy memory surfaced. He couldn’t help but steal another look at her.
When their eyes met this time, Jacqueline pulled a ridiculous, comical face. Benjamin fought the urge to giggle. He had been taught that a true gentleman never acknowledges a lady’s minor embarrassments, so no matter how silly Miss Somerset looked, he remained stoic.
The music stayed perfectly in sync with his stride as he moved with newfound grace and poise. When he finally reached the marble floor at the base of the stairs, he took his place in the center of the hall with quiet confidence.
Though he could no longer see Jacqueline, her music remained a constant companion—warm and radiant, echoing the sound of her laughter.
The conductor, having kept a sharp eye on the proceedings, finally lowered his baton, bringing the performance to a close. Benjamin, looking solemn but composed, surveyed the crowd of adults. The speech he had practiced countless times with his plush bear, Colin, flowed from his lips without a hitch.
“I thank you all for joining me to celebrate my birthday.”
Baron Haines let out a booming, appreciative laugh.
“Spoken like a true Preston! You have a remarkable sense of composure, young man—quite unlike my own brood.”
“Thank you, Lord Haines. I hope to meet Thunderbolt one day.”
“Good heavens! You’ve heard of Thunderbolt? Why, certainly! Tomorrow, if Lord Preston permits…”
“A very happy birthday to you, Master Benjamin.”
Viscount Jeffman stepped in, cutting off the Baron’s excited rambling to offer his own well-wishes. Benjamin thanked him politely.
It was then that Count Saltrein spoke, his voice dripping with cynical venom.
“Whether he truly becomes the master of House Preston remains a matter of debate. One wonders if Lord Windsor will actually relinquish his power to a nephew—or if he intends to simply devour the estate for himself.”
The comment was like cold water on a fire. Viscount Jeffman tried to cover the awkwardness with a hollow laugh, treating it as a jest, but the tension in the room only thickened. Glancing nervously at Windsor, Jeffman added, “Lord Saltrein must be overindulging in the champagne already.”
Benjamin realized then that this unpleasant man was the infamous Count Saltrein. His expression turned uncharacteristically dark. Miss Somerset had warned him to steer clear of such characters.
“Drunk? I am perfectly sober. I’m simply saying what everyone else is thinking. Stop the charade and speak the truth for once.”
“That is quite enough, Saltrein,” Jeffman hissed, looking toward Windsor again. Benjamin followed his gaze, worried for his uncle.
Windsor’s lips curled into a faint, chilling smile. He was a man of immense self-control, capable of ignoring insults hurled at his own person. However, with so many witnesses present, silence would only embolden Saltrein and give his lies the weight of fact. More importantly, this was Benjamin’s night. As the boy’s guardian, Windsor would not allow Saltrein to ruin it.
“There is no need to turn a minor nuisance into a major adversary,” Jacqueline’s voice whispered in his mind.
Windsor let out a soft, mocking huff. You are still wrong, Miss Somerset. Small enemies must be crushed before they have the chance to grow.
Just as Windsor prepared to intervene—
“It has been quite some time, Lord Saltrein.”
The voice was light and carried a hint of amusement. Both Windsor and Saltrein turned toward the sound. Jacqueline had stepped out from behind the curtain, a polite, social smile fixed on her face. Saltrein studied her for a moment before nodding slowly.
“Ah… the Somerset girl. Though ‘Earl’ is a title that hardly fits your father these days. What were you doing back there?” He paused, then erupted into a condescending sneer. “I see now! You’re playing the part of both governess and common minstrel. How utterly pathetic.”
Windsor tilted his head, his neck popping with an audible, menacing crack. Benjamin’s eyes lit up with excitement. The Devil of the Black Fleet is coming!
But before Windsor could take a step toward the man, Jacqueline glided past him, her pleasant expression never wavering.
The crowd began to buzz with hushed whispers.
“Is that Jacqueline Somerset?”
“The girl from the fallen house?”
“They say it takes generations to recover from such a loss, but the Somersets have nothing left. Destitute, the lot of them.”
“If you shook her father, nothing but dust would fall out.”
Jacqueline ignored the barbs and addressed Saltrein with impeccable poise. “Has it been three years? Or perhaps four? It has been an age, yet I see you haven’t changed in the slightest.”
Saltrein puffed out his chest, preening as if he had been complimented. “Well, when one enjoys the finest food and tailoring…”
“I was referring specifically to your penchant for trouble,” Jacqueline interrupted smoothly. “I remember it as if it were yesterday—the scene you caused at Duke Butler’s gala. You were escorted out, were you not? And if I recall, invitations were quite scarce for you after that.”
“You—how dare you!”
Saltrein’s face flushed a deep crimson, but Jacqueline remained the picture of serenity.
“Actually, seeing you unchanged is quite a relief. I would have been worried otherwise. They say people only truly change when they are facing their end. I am glad to see you will likely live a very long life—fueled by all that fine catering, of course.”
Saltrein was paralyzed with rage, his face shifting from red to an alarming shade of purple. Somewhere in the room, a stifled giggle broke the silence, signaling that the guests were siding with her.
“If one considers his reputation as the ‘outlaw of banquets,’ Miss Somerset isn’t far off the mark,” someone whispered.
“I’ve lost track of how many parties he’s ruined!” another added.
“He drove every guest from my own salon once. It was humiliating! Now, people refuse to attend if they see his name on the list.”
“No one has had the courage to say it to his face until now, but he really ought to learn some discretion.”
