Chapter 69
Though no one had breathed a word of the legal proceedings to the young boy, the morning papers were saturated with the topic, each headline speculating on who would triumph in today’s courtroom battle.
The prevailing opinion favored the King. Despite the early hour, credible rumors were already spreading that Benjamin Preston would be moving into the royal palace before the week was out.
“Have a safe trip, Uncle.”
Benjamin’s farewell was barely a whisper. The crushing realization that this might be their final parting brought him to the brink of tears he had fought so hard to suppress.
He endured the ache by biting his lower lip until it paled. When the urge to sob persisted, he squeezed his small hands into tight, white-knuckled fists.
The future Marquess of Preston could not weep. He refused to let his uncle down.
Sensing the boy’s struggle, Windsor’s voice drifted down from above.
“Keep your emotions off your face, Benjamin. Those who scent weakness will use it as an opening to strike. No matter the hardship or the pain, you must remain unshakeable.”
“Yes, Uncle!”
Benjamin snapped his heels together and raised his chin, standing as stiffly as a new recruit awaiting orders.
Only then did Windsor offer a sharp, approving nod.
Watching from the sidelines, Jacqueline felt a faint scowl touch her features. She longed to intervene, to tell the boy, “Even a Marquess of Preston is allowed to feel sorrow. If you bury your feelings like this, they will only rot inside you.”
Her philosophy on upbringing was a world away from Windsor’s, and since he had agreed to respect her methods, she knew she could speak freely without fear of reprimand.
Yet today, she bit her tongue. Windsor wasn’t entirely wrong. This was a private exchange between a man and his heir—a dynamic she had no right to disrupt.
All Jacqueline could offer the boy was a sanctuary—a place to breathe while he strained to maintain his composure. She told herself that, for now, it would have to be enough.
After all, the reality Benjamin Preston was destined to inherit would be far from the gentle, romantic world she wished for him.
“Safe travels, Lord Preston.”
At the sound of Jacqueline’s voice, Windsor’s attention snapped toward her. Their eyes met, and he gave a curt nod.
“Since our lessons began behind schedule, it is only right they conclude later than usual.”
“Do not worry about us. Have you forgotten anything?”
Windsor paused, checking his gloved hand and the cane held in his left. He reached into his waistcoat to confirm his silk handkerchief was in its place before nodding once more.
“No. I have everything.”
With that, Windsor turned to depart. He had descended halfway down the grand entrance steps when he suddenly halted.
He pivoted his upper body to look back at his nephew. Seeing the boy’s lingering melancholy, Benjamin immediately corrected his posture, standing tall.
“I shall return.”
Benjamin’s eyes rounded in shock. Without another word, as if he hadn’t just shattered his usual cold silence, Windsor turned back and strode toward the waiting carriage.
“Yes, Uncle!” Benjamin called out, a moment too late.
Windsor gave a nearly imperceptible nod—so slight it was almost a trick of the light—and stepped into the coach.
Benjamin watched, mesmerized. Clad in his black formal attire, Windsor’s silhouette was the living image of the “Devil of the Black Fleet.”
His uncle was marching off to war against a terrifying foe, and he was doing it all for Benjamin.
He walked with an indifferent stride, solitary and imposing. There were no hundreds of naval officers following in his wake this time; he was heading onto the battlefield entirely alone.
And yet, he had promised, “I shall return.” He had given his word that he would come back.
“…Uncle,” Benjamin murmured under his breath.
The driver snapped the reins, and the heavy wheels began to turn. Benjamin remained frozen in place, watching until the carriage vanished past the estate gates.
“Benjamin, we should head inside.”
Despite Jacqueline’s gentle tug, the boy’s gaze remained fixed on the empty gateway, as if trying to catch one last glimpse of his uncle’s shadow. Windsor had always been this way—distant and cold, yet never truly unkind.
To Benjamin, the man was a titan—a figure of awe he had desperately wanted to emulate since the very first time he saw his portrait in the news.
“Benjamin?”
Jacqueline looked at him with concern. The boy seemed lost in a trance, his eyes locked on the road where the carriage had disappeared.
Suddenly, Benjamin squeezed his fists tight and turned to look up at her.
“Miss Somerset.”
“Yes? What is it?”
The sorrow had vanished from his eyes, replaced by a burning, crystalline resolve. Jacqueline was startled by the sudden transformation in his spirit.
“I have a favor to ask of you.”
“A favor? Tell me.”
Benjamin hesitated, his lips trembling. It was clear he was warring with himself over whether he should even speak the words aloud.
Jacqueline realized this was the first time the boy had ever asked her for anything. She was determined not to fail him.
She knelt down so they were eye-to-eye and spoke in a soft, encouraging tone.
“It’s alright. You can tell me. If it is within my power to help, I promise I will.”
Benjamin finally spoke. It took only a few seconds for Jacqueline’s confusion to melt into pure, unadulterated shock.
The entrance to the courthouse was swarmed by a sea of journalists and curious onlookers who had failed to secure a seat inside.
Gentlemen in top hats and ladies shielding themselves with parasols attempted to maintain an air of dignified detachment, watching the Preston carriage from a distance.
They tried to look as though they were merely passing the time in conversation, but their eyes never strayed from the unfolding drama.
“It’s him! Lord Preston!”
“He’s here!”
As the shouting began, Roman opened the carriage door, his face a mask of stern authority. Reporters lunged forward like a pack of starving wolves.
Having anticipated this, Roman moved with practiced efficiency. He used one arm to hold the mob at bay while the other braced the door open.
But the press was relentless, shoving against him in their desperation. Finally, Roman snapped.
“Back off! Get back! Will any of you take the blame if we’re late for the session? Honestly—when I pass this job to my successor, I’ll make sure they’re trained to handle you properly. But right now, my hands are tied!”
He threw them a murderous look, but the reporters were undeterred.
“I mean it! Move!”
In the midst of the chaos, Windsor stepped out. With measured, graceful movements, he descended to the pavement.
Once settled, he began to calmly fasten the buttons of his frock coat. Seeing the courthouse guards rushing to assist, the reporters began screaming their questions.
“Lord Preston! This public trial is a first for the kingdom! What is your reaction to Sir Adams’ ruling?”
“The Crown’s legal team has voiced outrage over the public nature of these proceedings. Do you have a response?”
“What is your stance on the Chief Justice’s unilateral decision?”
Roman, who had been scowling just a moment ago, allowed a small, smug grin to touch his lips. The thought of the royal lawyers fuming behind closed doors was deeply satisfying.
We’re going to win—in fact, we’ve won before the first word is even spoken.
Squaring his shoulders, Roman began physically clearing a path through the throng.
“Out of the way! Are you deaf? Move! Honestly, none of you understand plain English. My hound at home has better manners than this lot!”
Muttering under his breath, Roman shot an annoyed glare at the sluggish guards. “Do your jobs and clear these people out!”
Windsor ignored the noise entirely, taking his first step toward the building. The crowd moved with him, a singular, heaving wave of humanity.
“How do you see this ending today? Are you certain of a win?”
“There are rumors that if His Majesty takes custody of Master Benjamin, you intend to resign your title. Is there any truth to that?”
“On the other hand, some say you might lose on purpose because the boy is a burden to your authority. How do you respond?”
Windsor stopped dead. The guards, finally in position, began to shove the reporters back with force.
They formed a protective ring around the Marquess, but the press still craned their necks through the gaps, desperate for a quote.
“Let’s keep moving, my lord. They aren’t worth the breath,” Roman urged, his face flushed with heat.
But Windsor remained motionless. Beyond the wall of reporters, commoners stood on their toes for a glimpse of him, while the nobility watched with practiced, cold curiosity.
Slowly, Windsor turned his head. His eyes scanned the crowd until they locked onto the reporter who had asked the final question.
The man withered under that heavy, predatory gaze. Windsor’s voice, cool and indifferent, cut through the din and brought a sudden, chilling silence to the street.
“Both of your theories rely on the assumption that I will lose.”
“I—well, yes, but many believe—”
“If I am victorious today, does that not render your questions moot?”
The reporter’s voice died in his throat. His earlier bravado evaporated instantly. Standing face-to-face with Windsor Preston was a far more terrifying experience than he had ever imagined.
Windsor turned away without a second look and resumed his walk. The guards fell in around him like a phalanx.
They marched into the courthouse and were swallowed by the shadows of the grand hall.
A reporter let out a long, shaky breath and tilted his head. “But still…”
“What was that? Is he actually suggesting he can win against the King?”
The comment sparked a wave of cynical laughter. Even the man who had asked the question rubbed the back of his neck and chucked.
“Right… that would be impossible, wouldn’t it?”
Inside the courtroom, the air was thick with tension. Every bench was occupied, and the back of the room was a solid wall of spectators standing shoulder-to-shoulder.
No one was foolish enough to miss the trial of the century.
Evan and the King’s legal representatives were already in their seats. The royal lawyers were huddled in a frantic, low-voiced conference, while Evan sat apart, ignoring their existence as he reviewed his briefs.
Roman took his place behind Windsor and leaned down to whisper, “His Majesty will not be attending in person.”
Windsor nodded once. It was exactly what he had expected. Whether the King had never intended to come or had been scared off by the presence of the public remained to be seen.
Regardless, it was a tactical advantage for Windsor. At the very least, the King wouldn’t be sitting across the aisle, using the sheer weight of his crown to intimidate the bench.
A single moment of pride is often the catalyst for a total collapse. That rule didn’t just apply to Windsor; it applied to kings as well. He was prepared to wait for the exact moment the King grew complacent, then he would strike.
The time was coming to hoist the flag of victory over the enemy’s ship.
“You have arrived, Lord Preston.”
