Chapter 55
“Um… would it be possible for me to join you both next time? When you go out to find cicada shells, I mean. I promise I won’t be a bother—I’ll just stay by your side and collect them quietly. Truly.”
“Aha ha.”
Jacqueline couldn’t help but let out a genuine laugh. The young boy looked up at her, tilting his head in innocent confusion at her sudden amusement, before a smile broke across his own face and he began to giggle along with her.
“Of course, Benjamin. You are always more than welcome to join us.”
“Thank you, Miss Somerset.”
Jacqueline reached up to brush away a stray tear that had escaped her eye, biting her lip to steady herself. A sudden wave of emotion threatened to overwhelm her. Perhaps it was merely the way the summer sun streamed through the window, its brilliance almost too much to bear.
The season was reaching its peak.
Windsor stepped down from his carriage, his fingers deftly working the buttons of his jacket. The gathered crowd of reporters stationed before the courthouse fell into a stunned silence at the sight of him.
The lull lasted only a heartbeat before they descended upon him like a swarm of hungry insects. Without a shred of decorum, they began shouting over one another, hurling a barrage of questions his way.
“Lord Preston, are you here today as a witness for the prosecution? What prompted this?”
“Wasn’t Miss Jacqueline Somerset scheduled to testify? Why is she not in attendance?”
“Word is circulating that after Miss Somerset’s initial report against James Hammington, several anonymous members of the nobility filed their own charges. Can you confirm who these individuals are?”
“What is your professional opinion on the likely verdict of this trial?”
The press circled Windsor like persistent gnats, their presence so thick he could barely manage a single step forward.
“Clear the way! Move back, all of you!”
Roman muscled his way through the throng to carve out a path. He scowled, muttering a quiet curse as the reporters rushed back into the space he cleared as quickly as he could push them away.
Through it all, Windsor’s expression remained an impenetrable mask.
“This way, my lord.”
Roman finally forced a gap through the crowd. Belatedly realizing the Marquess had arrived, the court officers scrambled out to form a human cordon, finally forcing the reporters back a few paces. Windsor took a moment to brush the street dust from his sleeves before resuming his stride.
Suddenly, one reporter’s voice cut through the din.
“A moment, Lord Preston! Why involve yourself in the charges against James Hammington? Did you not consider how this might stain the reputation of House Preston? Do you truly find no shame in appearing in open court, surrounded by such a spectacle?”
Windsor stopped dead. He turned slowly, his gaze fixing on the man who had spoken. The reporter flinched, the words dying in his throat as he froze under that heavy stare.
Windsor Preston was a man of legendary, ethereal beauty. It was not a soft or feminine grace, yet there was no other descriptor that fit him so perfectly. That perfection, however, was edged with a lethal intensity that left the reporter gaping in silence.
“Dishonorable?” Windsor repeated coolly.
“To my mind, the only true dishonor is to witness a crime and turn a blind eye. I have spent my life defending justice, and I have no intention of stopping now. Do not expect me to show mercy to those who break the law, sir.”
The Devil of the Black Fleet.
The old moniker flickered in the reporter’s mind. This was the man who had commanded the seas, the legendary “Guardian of the Ocean” who had bled for the kingdom. When he spoke of justice, the word carried the weight of iron.
The reporter fell silent. Windsor turned back and continued on his way.
Even amidst the surrounding chaos, he moved with a singular, quiet dignity. The press, cowed by his presence, did not dare utter another word. With every hair perfectly in place, he vanished into the courthouse.
“Hmph!”
Roman, casting a final, arrogant look over his shoulder at the stunned journalists, dusted off his own coat and followed his master inside.
The news broke almost immediately in a special edition. By mid-afternoon, the entire city knew the Marquess of Preston had stood as a witness for the prosecution.
In the wake of such a scandal, the fact that Jacqueline Somerset had been the one to initially expose James Hammington was largely forgotten. Even the news of other defrauded nobles joining the suit failed to hold the public’s interest for long.
The spotlight belonged to one man. Whether they admired his principles or mocked his willingness to involve himself in a common legal battle over money, Windsor Preston was now the indisputable center of every conversation in high society.
Windsor, however, remained entirely indifferent to the rumors. Their opinions were of no consequence to him. He was a man accustomed to standing alone against the gale, navigating the storm with his own two hands.
“The evening papers will be out shortly. It’s going to be quite loud for a while,” Roman remarked.
Windsor ignored the comment, walking straight to his desk. As he began to shrug off his jacket, Roman moved to assist him.
“I can manage this myself.”
“Most men of your station wouldn’t dream of it,” Roman noted.
Windsor hung the garment on the rack and took his seat. Roman shrugged and stepped to the other side of the desk.
“And what exactly defines a ‘typical noble’?” Windsor asked, his tone dry.
“I may not be an expert on the aristocracy, but I know they generally don’t hang up their own coats—and they certainly don’t volunteer for witness duty.”
Windsor’s brow twitched at the assistant’s cheek. He looked at Roman—who had followed him all the way back to the manor—with a look of mounting irritation.
“Is there a reason you are still here?”
Roman bit back the urge to say he was only staying to see the Marquess finally lose his temper. Instead, he reached into his coat and produced an envelope.
“This is the dossier for the new governess. We were quite fortunate; I expected a long search, but we found a candidate sooner than I hoped.”
Windsor stared at the letter, his face unreadable.
“Her name is Miss Meghan Wilson,” Roman continued. “A graduate of the Cornwall Girls’ Boarding School with prior experience in the Cornwall area. She recently moved to the capital in search of a new post.”
“Isn’t Cornwall Girls’ Boarding School a middle-class institution?”
“It is, but its reputation is stellar. It’s incredibly selective—rigorous exams, multiple interviews for both the student and the parents. The quality of education is top-tier.”
“Benjamin is set to attend the Yorkshire Boarding School next year—a place where the sons of the highest peerage congregate. I’m not dismissing the school, Roman, but if the educational gap is too wide, the hire is pointless.”
Roman raised an eyebrow. It sounded very much like Windsor was looking for reasons to say no.
Does he simply dislike the idea of her?
“At least look over the introduction,” Roman urged, scratching his head. “She was a brilliant student and is very well-bred. Her father is a merchant, so she spent much of her youth traveling abroad—her command of foreign languages is exceptional.”
“Benjamin requires a mentor who can instill the specific refinements of the nobility.”
“My lord, the odds of finding a noble-born governess through an agency are nearly zero, regardless of the child’s rank. Miss Wilson is an outstanding candidate.” Roman paused, then added pointedly, “You cannot keep Miss Somerset here forever. Eventually, you will have to explain her presence to His Majesty. Do not forget she was sent by the King to watch you.”
Windsor didn’t answer. He merely stared at the envelope with a piercing intensity. Roman, unable to decipher his master’s thoughts, let out a quiet sigh.
“Very well. I shall inform her the position is no longer available and continue the search.”
“No,” Windsor interrupted. The irritation that had clouded his face a moment ago vanished, replaced by a cold focus.
Roman stood a bit straighter. He had expected a flare-up of temper, but Windsor simply took the envelope and opened it. After a moment of silence, the Marquess looked up.
“Tell Miss Wilson to be here at two o’clock tomorrow. I will interview her myself.”
“Understood. I’ll see to it immediately.”
Roman, realizing his window for witnessing a theatrical outburst had closed, decided it was best to make a swift exit.
Once the door clicked shut, Windsor leaned back in his chair. His eyes were hard. His gaze drifted from the letter to a desk drawer, which he pulled open. He reached inside and withdrew a wrinkled handkerchief.
The pale pink silk was adorned with delicate, elegant embroidery.
He squeezed it in his palm, the fabric bunching further. With a sudden motion, he stood, tossed the handkerchief into the wastebasket, and strode out of the study.
He would dismiss Jacqueline Somerset today. As the master of this house, he could not allow his home to be destabilized by further complications. It was time for a cold, rational decision—the kind a captain makes for the safety of his crew.
“Betty, would you mind bringing me some tea?”
Jacqueline stepped into the parlor, her voice heavy with fatigue.
“Of course, Miss Somerset.”
As the maid left, Jacqueline allowed her shoulders to slump. She rubbed her eyes and sighed. Writing a book was proving far more difficult than she had anticipated. She found herself constantly revising and deleting, horrified by the clunkiness of her own prose. After hours of work, she had barely produced three pages.
Betty returned shortly with a tray of tea and biscuits. Jacqueline forced herself to sit upright and offered a tired but grateful smile.
“Thank you, Betty.”
“My pleasure, miss.”
As Jacqueline lifted the cup to her lips, her gaze drifted to the newspaper on the table. It was crisp and unfolded—the afternoon edition.
She reached for it, intending only a brief distraction from her own writing, but the illustration on the front page stopped her heart. Her hands began to shake, the paper rattling as she scanned the lead article.
“A witness for the prosecution? Why would Lord Preston…?”
She stood up abruptly, her mind racing. In the drawing, Windsor Preston looked out with a face of stone, while the text beneath it was scathing. Her breath hitched as she saw her own name in print.
“It remains a mystery why Lord Windsor Preston appeared as the primary witness in place of Miss Jacqueline Somerset, the individual who first brought the charges against James Hammington.”
