Chapter 45
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Bastard.
The word hit Jacqueline like a physical blow, and her expression froze into a mask of icy disdain. Despite his elevation to the rank of Marquess of Preston—a position that commanded universal deference—he remained shackled by the circumstances of his birth.
Jacqueline burned to retort, to lash out with a sharp defense, but the words died in her throat. Instead, she stood with white-knuckled fists at her sides, her gaze boring into Parker with fierce intensity.
He merely arched an eyebrow, undeterred.
“His Majesty feels a great deal of pity for Master Benjamin. What possible virtues could the boy cultivate under the influence of a man as worthless as Lord Preston? For the child’s own sake, is it not obvious that his guardian must be replaced?”
He paused, letting the implication settle.
“Consider it carefully. Between the two of them, who truly offers the better future for Master Benjamin? I am certain the boy himself would far prefer the prestige of becoming a member of the royal family.”
Jacqueline remained resolutely silent. She was acutely aware that if she spoke now, her composure would shatter, and she might say something she would later regret.
Seeing her standing there as motionless and unyielding as a marble statue, Parker took a diplomatic step back.
“I understand that this is a weighty matter, Miss Somerset. It is only natural that you would find it difficult to reach a decision immediately.”
He rose from his seat, looking down at her with a calm, patronizing air.
“I have fulfilled my duty by conveying His Majesty’s wishes, so I shall depart for now. Please forgive the intrusion of seeking you out privately, away from the prying eyes of Lord Preston. You may send your formal response from the capital whenever it suits you. My door is always open. I trust you will make the wise choice, Miss Somerset.”
“There is no need for concern, Mr. O’Brien.”
The Countess of Somerset stood to escort him out, a rare, thin smile touching the corners of her mouth.
“I will take it upon myself to guide my daughter and ensure she sees reason. Please reassure His Majesty that he has no cause for anxiety.”
“Very well, madam. I shall make it a point to inform His Majesty of exactly how diligently you have worked on his behalf.”
“Oh, you are too kind—though I certainly appreciate the sentiment.”
Jacqueline could only stare blankly at the contract resting on the table. Her thoughts were a tangled, knotted mess, leaving her so overwhelmed she didn’t even know where to begin unraveling the chaos.
A few moments later, the distant rattle of a carriage signaled Parker’s departure from the estate. Jacqueline bit her lip hard and squeezed her eyes shut.
Neither Jacqueline, lost in thought in the drawing room, nor the Countess at the front door, nor even the meticulously careful Parker O’Brien noticed the figure concealed within the shadows of the shrubbery.
“Repeat that.”
Windsor’s voice turned dangerously quiet, the temperature in the room seemingly plummeting in an instant. It wasn’t merely a trick of the imagination.
Roman instinctively snapped to attention, his spine going rigid. The relaxed expression he usually wore vanished, replaced by a mask of professional tension.
The man sitting across from him was no longer the polished Marquess of Preston; he was the Devil of the Black Fleet, Major Preston. It was a distinction Roman knew he must never forget.
Clasping his hands behind his back and lifting his chin, Roman continued in the stiff, formal posture of a raw recruit.
“Miss Somerset held a meeting with Parker O’Brien, the royal lawyer. He arrived in Southfield this morning and spent approximately one hour at Mrs. Brown’s residence before departing. While the specifics of their dialogue remain unknown, it likely aligns with our previous suspicions.”
Windsor fixed Roman with a freezing stare, as if struggling to process the report. Roman’s shoulders tightened further, the muscles in his neck straining under the pressure.
Windsor swallowed hard, finally breaking the suffocating silence.
“And what of the Countess of Somerset’s health?”
Roman felt a lump in his throat and forced himself to swallow. Though Windsor’s tone hadn’t shifted an octave, his fury was palpable.
That hollow, heatless voice exerted a crushing weight on anyone caught in its path. Unfortunately for Roman Miller, he was the only target available today.
He let out a dry, forced cough to clear the tension in his throat before he could find his voice. Even then, the oppressive atmosphere didn’t lift.
“She appears to be in perfectly good health, sir. She hasn’t left the house, but that is her custom. Crucially, no doctors have been summoned to the residence. When she appeared at the door to bid O’Brien farewell, she seemed entirely hale.”
“…I see.”
Windsor gave a sharp, minimal nod. His frozen gaze remained fixed on a void in the air—until, quite suddenly, the corner of his mouth quirked upward in a grimace.
“So, the story of her mother’s illness was nothing more than a ruse to escape me. And she used that time to rendezvous with the King’s counsel…?”
“But sir, wasn’t this inevitable? We knew that, eventually, His Majesty’s faction would attempt to recruit Miss Somerset.”
He was right—Windsor had expected this. Only days earlier, he had actually looked forward to such a moment, thinking it would give him the perfect justification to dismiss her permanently.
So why was he currently seething?
He felt a sense of bewilderment at the violent emotions churning within him. Usually, his internal world was as disciplined and steady as a calm sea.
He was a man of moderation; he never allowed himself to be swept away by joy, nor did he permit anger to cloud his judgment.
He knew that the moment a commander lost his cool, he lost the ability to lead. Rationality was the requirement for a captain responsible for hundreds of lives.
So why this rage?
Windsor asked himself the question again, his fingers curling into a tight fist atop the mahogany desk. The fire in his chest showed no sign of dying down.
He saw her face again in his mind—pale, tear-streaked, and desperate. He remembered the way she had begged to return to Southfield, claiming her mother was on the verge of death, her eyes shimmering with a convincing, pathetic grief.
It had been a calculated performance. A lie designed to play him for a fool.
And Windsor, oblivious to the deception, had fallen for it completely. He had berated William, scrambled to find the fastest transport, and ordered carriages prepared in a frantic rush.
You must have found it hilarious, Jacqueline Somerset. What a grand joke I was to you.
His expression darkened, his jaw set in a hard line. His eyes remained fixed on nothingness, his lips curved in a mockery of a smile.
He had never been the type to offer grace to those who betrayed him. A freezing voice sliced through the air.
“Secure a new governess.”
“Understood, sir. That will make fourteen.”
Roman let out a heavy sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. He began to mumble to himself about drafting a new advertisement for the agency, but he stopped mid-sentence.
His eyes drifted back to Windsor, whose gaze was now as sharp and cold as polished steel. His superior was genuinely incensed.
Windsor had personally dismissed twelve governesses already. He had even been present when the ninth was caught attempting to kidnap Benjamin.
Even then, Windsor hadn’t lost his temper. He had dealt with the situation with a chilling, clinical efficiency that had left the woman trembling on her knees, begging for mercy.
Windsor Preston was the most pragmatic soul Roman had ever known. He didn’t scream at his subordinates for their idiocy.
Instead, he dismantled them with logic.
—“I’d honestly prefer it if you just screamed at me or gave me a lashing, Major. When you talk like that, I feel like the most pathetic fool on the planet. I can’t take it…”
Roman remembered a young soldier breaking down in tears after such a lecture. He had understood the sentiment perfectly; he’d watched the entire exchange.
—“Soldier, do you comprehend the gravity of your failure? In the brief moment you chose to succumb to your exhaustion, a pirate boarding party could have reached our hull. It takes less than fifteen minutes.”
—“I—I’m so sorry, sir…”
—“By the time we noticed, their hooks would be in our rails. Your laziness could have cost the lives of every one of the three hundred and forty sailors on this vessel. Their families would have spent their lives cursing your name. Or perhaps, if the pirates felt merciful, four or five might have survived as slaves.”
—“Please… I’m sorry…”
—“If an apology could resurrect the Royal Fleet after its annihilation, the world would be a very simple place, wouldn’t it?”
Even as a bystander, Roman had felt the sting of those words—a psychological wound deeper than any physical blade.
Once Windsor had left, Roman had shared a cigarette with the sobbing boy and offered a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. There were no words of comfort to give because Windsor’s assessment was unassailable.
Falling asleep on watch was a death sentence for a crew.
Of course, the safety of a fleet didn’t hinge on a single sentry, and Windsor’s hypothetical massacre was a worst-case scenario—but his logic was flawless.
It was the lack of any room for defense that made it so brutal. All Roman could say back then was, “Why did you have to let the Major be the one to catch you?”
Shaking off the memory, Roman looked at his commander.
Was he truly this angry? Had Miss Somerset succeeded where the King had failed, finally breaking the man’s legendary composure?
Roman tilted his head in confusion. Windsor looked like stone, his face hard with fury, yet he hadn’t raised his voice or lashed out. It was hard to gauge the true depth of the storm.
Then again, with Miss Somerset gone, Windsor had no one left to direct that anger toward.
“Is there something else you wish to say, Roman Miller?”
“…No, sir. I’ll see to the task immediately.”
The use of his full name signaled the end of the conversation. Roman masked his surprise, bowed, and retreated from the office. Only after the door clicked shut did he allow himself a moment to breathe.
“I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she gets back. I wouldn’t miss that show for the world.”
He whispered the thought quietly, knowing how sensitive his superior’s ears were, and hurried down the hall.
He had to get to the employment agency. After everything that had happened, no self-respecting noble would dare recommend a governess to Windsor Preston ever again.
Jacqueline stepped out of her childhood bedroom, her bags packed and ready. As she made her way downstairs, Mrs. Brown met her with a sad, longing look.
“Must you go so soon? I was hoping for a few more days.”
“I’m sorry, Auntie. There are things I have to finish.”
“You’ve carried such a heavy burden, Jackie.”
Mrs. Brown pulled her into a warm hug, her hands tracing comforting circles on Jacqueline’s back.
“Just remember: this home is always yours. If the world gets to be too much, come back to our quiet little village. I can always manage to keep one more person fed and happy.”
“Thank you. I’ve missed Southfield so much—the peace and the quiet. But I need to see this through. I have to stand on my own two feet and take charge of my life. I can’t hide behind others forever.”
“My little girl has grown into such a woman,” Mrs. Brown said, her eyes welling with pride as she cupped Jacqueline’s face.
“Don’t you dare forget what I told you, Jackie.”
The sharp, stern voice cut through the air from behind them. Slowly, Jacqueline turned to face her mother.
