Chapter 39
“No, I really couldn’t…”
Jacqueline began to demur, but Evan’s smile only grew more radiant, cutting her off with practiced ease.
“I believe you’re well aware, Miss Somerset, that the middle class has seen a significant rise in status lately.”
Caught off guard by his smooth transition, Jacqueline’s eyes widened in surprise. It seemed there were still many layers to Evan she had yet to uncover.
“Yes, that’s true.”
“They have a deep-seated yearning for high society,” he continued. “They are desperate to belong, yet at the same time, they are terrified of the world they wish to enter.”
“Are you referring to the labyrinthine rules of aristocratic etiquette?”
At her question, Evan’s eyes lit up with renewed admiration. His affection for her seemed to swell once again.
Realizing she had engaged too eagerly, Jacqueline instinctively leaned back with a quiet, embarrassed “Oh,” but Evan’s enthusiasm didn’t waver. He simply leaned forward, closing the gap she had just tried to create.
The distance between them remained exactly as it had been.
“Precisely. That is why I intend to publish a manual on noble etiquette specifically tailored for the middle class.”
Jacqueline blinked, stunned by the novelty of the idea. It was a concept that had never crossed her mind, yet she had to admit it was a brilliant business prospect.
“They want in, but they are paralyzed by the fear of making a fool of themselves. They know better than anyone that a clumsy attempt at sophisticated manners is worse than no manners at all.”
“I did read a report recently about the surge of middle-class guests at social functions,” Jacqueline noted. “Wealthy merchants are being invited to the finest estates, and some are even hosting their own galas.”
“Exactly. And that is where the need lies—for men and women alike. This book would speak directly to that social anxiety.”
“And you want me to be the one to write it.”
Evan’s lips curved into a confident, self-assured smirk.
“I am certain it would be a triumph. Who could pass up a systematic guide to the secrets of the elite? It’s the perfect way to capitalize on middle-class ambition. And if it succeeds, the financial rewards for you, Miss Somerset, would be substantial.”
It was a tempting proposal. The Jacqueline of years past would have agreed on the spot.
However, the Jacqueline who had survived the collapse of her world was more cautious. She knew that such lucrative opportunities often carried hidden costs. She narrowed her eyes, studying him intently.
“The moment that book hits the shelves, I would become a pariah among the nobility. Think about it—why is our etiquette so needlessly complex? It was designed to keep outsiders out. To the aristocracy, I would be a traitor for selling their secrets.”
“Hmm…”
Evan let out a small, awkward sound, looking as though he hadn’t fully considered the social suicide he was asking her to commit. He seemed momentarily stumped.
Jacqueline’s voice took on a sharper edge.
“Or was that the plan? Did you assume that because I’m a ‘fallen noblewoman’ with nothing left to lose, I was the only one desperate enough to take the risk?”
Evan waved his hands frantically, trying to deny the accusation, but Jacqueline’s piercing gaze didn’t soften.
“I truly only wanted to help you find a way forward,” he insisted, his voice dropping to a more personal tone. “Though… I suppose I also hoped it would give me a reason to see you more often.”
This honest confession of his ulterior motive blunted Jacqueline’s irritation. He sounded genuinely sincere.
Thinking it over, the plan was actually quite sound. If the book performed as well as Evan predicted, her financial worries could vanish. Furthermore, the work wouldn’t even be difficult. She was already teaching these very things to Windsor; writing the book would simply be a matter of organizing the lessons she gave him daily.
Decision made, Jacqueline looked at him with a spark of interest.
“Would it be possible to publish it under a pen name?”
Evan slapped his knee, his face clearing instantly as the idea took hold. The lingering gloom in his expression vanished.
“That’s brilliant! Why didn’t I think of that? Yes, a pseudonym is the perfect solution.”
“But then the risk shifts to you, Mr. Knox. You would be the one the ton blames for publishing it. They might even pressure you to reveal the author.”
Evan gave her a gentle, unfazed smile.
“I appreciate your concern, Miss Somerset. But every venture has its risks, and I’ve already prepared for that eventuality. It won’t be an issue.”
Jacqueline watched him in silence, struck by his unwavering confidence. She felt as though she were seeing a side of him she hadn’t known existed. Regardless of his feelings for her, Evan was clearly a man of principle and capability. She felt she could trust him.
After a heartbeat, she nodded.
“Very well. Let’s do it. When shall we sign the contract? I’d prefer a formal written agreement to a verbal one.”
She smiled brightly at him. Evan squinted slightly, looking as though he were being dazzled by the sun—the same way he had looked the night they first danced together.
In a moving carriage, Roman Miller watched Windsor Preston with a suspicious, lingering stare.
Despite the rhythmic jolting of the coach, Roman didn’t look away. Finally, unable to hold back his curiosity, he spoke up.
“What is that?”
His gaze was fixed on Windsor’s hand, which was wrapped around a small, palm-sized object. The problem wasn’t the object itself, but the fact that it was wrapped in delicate pink paper—a color that looked absurdly out of place in the hands of the Marquess of Preston.
“It’s nothing.”
“It certainly doesn’t look like nothing. My lord, have you been seeing a lady in secret?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then what is it, truly?”
Irritated, Windsor shoved the small gift into his coat pocket. Roman’s eyes followed the movement, his suspicion now directed at the bulge in the fabric.
To escape the interrogation, Windsor turned his gaze to the window and abruptly changed the topic.
“Find me another lawyer.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The man they had interviewed today had been a total disappointment. Despite his impeccable parting, the lawyer had trembled like a leaf in Windsor’s presence. He had been so overcome with nerves that he hadn’t managed a single full sentence before Windsor gave up on him.
“I—I was at the Royal University’s School of Law… I—I graduated with… with… top, top, top marks…”
Recalling the stuttering mess, Windsor scowled and clicked his tongue. “How is a man who can’t even speak supposed to win a case in a courtroom?”
“I agree, my lord,” Roman sighed. It had been his mistake to let Windsor meet the man without a proper screening, simply because the lawyer was supposedly free from the King’s influence. He added apologetically, “I confirmed his credentials and his academic standing, but I failed to gauge his character in person. It won’t happen again.”
“Stop the carriage.”
“Sir? Ah—yes, my lord.”
At Windsor’s sharp command, Roman knocked on the wall of the coach. The vehicle slowed to a halt.
Windsor was staring out the window with an intensity that made Roman curious. He followed his master’s gaze and felt his own eyes widen. There, framed by a café window and bathed in the soft glow of the afternoon sun, was a familiar face.
“That’s Miss Somerset.”
Jacqueline was sitting across from a young man. At that moment, both of them erupted into a fit of shared laughter.
“They look quite well-matched,” Roman remarked idly.
He immediately regretted it. The temperature inside the carriage seemed to plummet. A lethal, icy aura radiated from Windsor—the same terrifying presence he displayed before a naval battle.
Roman swallowed hard. This was the cold fury that had earned Windsor the title “Devil of the Black Fleet.” It was an atmosphere so sharp it felt like it could draw blood.
Thinking he understood the source of the tension, Roman lowered his voice significantly.
“I’ll find out who he is. We should see if he’s one of the King’s men. It’s about the time His Majesty would try to compromise the new governess.”
“Don’t bother.”
“…Sir?”
Roman blinked in confusion. Windsor had already turned away from the window. His face was a mask of cold, rigid indifference.
“Evan Knox.”
“That’s his name?” Roman tried to place the name in his mental files, but came up empty. The surname Knox rang a faint bell, but ‘Evan Knox’ meant nothing to him. “Who is he?”
Windsor didn’t answer. Before Roman could press further, the Marquess spoke again, his tone final.
“Move on.”
Sensing the suffocating chill in the air, Roman gave a quick nod and signaled the driver to continue. The carriage jerked back into motion.
Evan Knox.
Windsor repeated the name silently. The man was his polar opposite—someone with a bright, easy smile that seemed to linger in the mind like a taunting mirage. And then there was Jacqueline’s expression as she laughed with him.
“They look quite well-matched.”
Roman wasn’t wrong. If the Somerset family hadn’t fallen into ruin, those two would likely be husband and wife by now.
Married.
Windsor’s hand tightened into a fist. He couldn’t quite name the sensation, but a foul, heavy feeling was settling in his gut—something thick and suffocating.
He looked back out the window at the sun-drenched street. He could still see her face in his mind’s eye, smiling at Evan with a warmth that rivaled the spring sun. She had smiled at Windsor, yes, but she gave that same genuine warmth to Evan. The thought made his stomach churn with a sudden, sharp heat.
“Roman Miller.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“I want a more thorough investigation into Miss Somerset.”
“More thorough? In what regard?” Roman asked, his voice laced with uncharacteristic hesitation. The look on Windsor’s face as he ordered a probe into Jacqueline—rather than the man she was with—was unsettling.
His eyes were cold enough to strike a man dead where he stood.
