Chapter 70
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Noticing him, Evan rose from his chair and offered his hand. Windsor took it with a brief, firm shake before sitting down. Roman moved to the spectator’s gallery, taking the seat directly behind Windsor.
In a departure from his usual manner, Evan greeted Windsor with a mask of total neutrality. He appeared as grim and focused as a soldier on the brink of a decisive engagement.
Windsor remained still, his eyes slowly tracking across the room to study the royal legal team positioned opposite them.
Following his gaze, Evan provided a clinical breakdown of the opposition.
“From left to right: Archer Madison, Fabro Myers, Kale Banks, and finally, Parker O’Brien.”
Windsor’s attention stalled on Parker O’Brien—the very lawyer who had tracked Jacqueline down in Southfield.
“Archer Madison is their most battle-hardened veteran,” Evan noted, “but none of them are amateur. Keep a particularly close watch on Parker O’Brien.”
Evan paused, a faint crease appearing between his brows. A sliver of contempt bled into his professional veneer.
“The man is infamous for his ruthlessness; he’ll do anything for a win. Be exceptionally careful with your words around him. He is an expert at twisting the slightest slip into a weapon.”
Windsor offered no verbal reply, giving only a curt nod. Sensing the weight of a stare, Parker—who had been whispering to a colleague—looked up.
Their eyes locked. Windsor did not flinch or look away, prompting Parker to arch an inquisitive eyebrow.
After a moment, Parker offered a shallow, mocking bow before turning back to his conversation with Kale. Even these seasoned litigators, veterans of a thousand legal battles, seemed to be vibrating with an unusual nervous energy today.
“Who’s your money on?”
“I’m siding with His Majesty.”
“Common sense. I was planning to back the King myself.”
The trial had not even officially commenced, yet the verdict of the room already felt decided. Evan, staring rigidly ahead, spoke through a tight jaw.
“This will be an uphill climb, Lord Preston. I hope you’ve prepared yourself.”
“I have never known a fight that wasn’t,” Windsor replied calmly.
Struck by the cool retort, Evan glanced over. Windsor’s face was as unreadable as ever.
However, the air surrounding the Marquess was as sharp and lethal as a whetted blade. Seeing that steel in his client, Evan nodded in silent acknowledgement.
Suddenly, a bailiff’s voice cut through the murmurs.
“Silence in the court! All rise for the presiding judge!”
The courtroom went instantly still, as if a bucket of ice water had been tossed over the crowd. The noblewomen who had been whispering about Windsor’s striking features and the gentlemen speculating on the outcome all fell silent at once.
The heavy doors creaked open, and a judge adorned in a traditional white wig marched toward the bench. His expression was a stony mask, giving nothing away to the prying eyes of the gallery.
Harrison White.
Windsor watched him approach—his gaze steady and almost pitying, like a man watching a fish thrashing in the King’s net.
The judge cleared his throat and opened the proceedings in a gravelly tone.
“We are here to begin the hearing regarding the legal guardianship of Master Benjamin Preston.”
The silence in the hall deepened. A single, shared thought pulsed through the room: Finally.
The sound of a nervous swallow carried clearly in the stillness. Every trial ended with a victor and a victim, and regardless of who came out on top, this case was destined to be the scandal of the season.
In the capital, no other matter held such a magnetic pull on the public’s fascination.
The spectators watched with bated breath, feeling the weight of the historical moment, their eyes darting to every movement as if a single missed detail would be a tragedy.
“Plaintiff, you may present your opening argument.”
The judge’s voice was dry as bone as he addressed the royal lawyers. In a transparent attempt to appear impartial, he directed an even more severe scowl toward the King’s team.
It was a clumsy bit of theater, yet effective enough to fool the gullible.
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
Archer Madison, the lead counsel, stood first. He swept his gaze across the gallery before beginning in a measured, resonant voice.
“I offer my profound respects for your attendance today, Lord Preston.”
Parker O’Brien offered a greeting of his own to Windsor, who was now seated in the witness stand. Those watching the exchange nodded to one another, approving of the formal decorum.
The gallery, as if by instinct, turned their heads toward the plaintiff’s table. Three lawyers sat in a row; His Majesty the King was nowhere to be seen.
It was to be expected. High-ranking royals rarely graced a common courtroom with their presence, preferring to act through their legal proxies.
Normally, when a high noble was required to testify, the doors were barred to the public, leaving only the judge, the lawyers, and a clerk to witness the affair.
This marked a historical precedent: a noble’s trial held in the bright light of public scrutiny—and not just any noble, but the Marquess of Preston himself.
The room was thick with a mixture of voyeurism and thrill. Journalists, terrified of missing a syllable, licked their pencil tips and leaned forward with strained ears.
They were desperate to see how Windsor Preston would withstand the pressure of a cross-examination—and what it would take to make his legendary composure crack.
Windsor sat perfectly still, staring ahead with a neutral gaze. A few ladies let out involuntary sighs at the sight of his chiseled features, and for once, no one judged them for it.
He was a masterpiece of masculine beauty. His golden hair was swept back with effortless grace, and his features were so flawlessly symmetrical they bordered on the divine.
Yet there was nothing delicate about him. His jawline was rugged and his features bold; no one would ever mistake his handsomeness for anything other than formidable.
Perhaps a remnant of his days as a naval major, he carried an undeniable weight of command—an aura that was as intimidating as it was magnetic.
He had donned a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles for the session, which added a layer of intellectual austerity to his commanding presence.
“I have several questions for Lord Preston. I ask for your patience if my inquiries seem blunt, as I am bound by a sacred duty to uncover the absolute truth.”
Parker met Windsor’s gaze with predatory confidence.
The lawyer knew his odds were excellent. He had spent his life in courtrooms while Windsor had spent his at sea or in the barracks. Experience was on his side.
While the public nature of the trial was a risk, Parker saw it as a ladder.
Toppling a man like Windsor Preston in front of the world would send his career into the stratosphere. He could already see the piles of gold from future clients and the deluge of invitations to the most exclusive salons in the city.
Masking his inner triumph, Parker addressed Windsor, determined to show the Marquess no mercy.
“Lord Preston, you are currently petitioning for the guardianship of your nephew, Master Benjamin Preston. However, the court must consider whether you possess the necessary qualifications for such a responsibility.”
Windsor remained silent, merely shifting his eyes to meet Parker’s. Seeing that unshakable calm, Parker’s eyes flickered with a brief surprise before settling into a thin, knowing smile.
He was certain that arrogant facade was about to crumble.
“Lord Preston, it is a fact that you are the illegitimate son of the late Marquess Bentley Preston. Is that not so?”
A ripple of murmurs surged through the gallery. While the fact was common knowledge, hearing it weaponized in open court gave it a fresh, stinging edge.
Parker’s smile widened. In the arena of the law, one had to go for the throat. Some might call it a low blow, but to him, it was a tactical necessity to shatter an opponent’s psychological defenses.
He wanted to seize the momentum immediately. He expected Windsor to recoil or lash out, providing an opening for an even more vicious follow-up.
He predicted a slow descent into emotional instability. It was only a matter of minutes before the Great Windsor Preston was brought low.
But then—
“That is correct.”
Windsor’s voice was flat, devoid of any hint of shame. He acknowledged his birth as if it were a simple, unremarkable fact of history.
So, he wants to play the stoic, Parker thought. Let’s see how long that lasts.
Suppressing a sneer, Parker continued.
“Until two years ago, you held no noble standing whatsoever. As a boy, you worked for wages under the care of your mother, who was a common opera singer. You later joined the navy and achieved the rank of major—but let us be honest, that is hardly the upbringing of a peer of the realm.”
Parker struck with surgical precision, feigning a tone of regret while twisting the knife into Windsor’s past. He was highlighting the “imposter” in the room, aiming directly at the insecurities he assumed Windsor must harbor.
Windsor, however, was a fortress. Without a flicker of emotion, he asked, “Is there a point you’re trying to make?”
“The point? There are several!”
The tension in the room was palpable, a physical weight pressing down on the spectators. The very air seemed to hum with the heat of the confrontation.
Parker threw his arms out in a grand, theatrical gesture and barked a laugh.
“The point is this!”
With the entire room’s attention locked onto him, Parker raised his volume to reach the back of the gallery.
“I must question whether Lord Preston is capable of providing the refinement required to mold Master Benjamin into a true gentleman! How can a man born out of wedlock, who spent his formative years in the shadow of poverty, possibly understand or instill the virtues of the nobility?”
“I am deeply invested in Benjamin’s upbringing,” Windsor countered. “I have secured the finest specialists to ensure his education is both rigorous and comprehensive.”
“Ah, his education?”
Parker began to pace, his footsteps echoing with deliberate, rhythmic clicks on the courtroom floor.
After a moment of feigned reflection, he spun back toward Windsor.
“I have heard a different account of that education. Tell me, how many tutors has Master Benjamin cycled through? I am told the current one is his thirteenth.”
Windsor didn’t flinch. He simply gave a small nod, inviting the man to proceed.
“Thirteen tutors in a mere two years is a staggering turnover rate. It suggests that perhaps Lord Preston is placing an unbearable amount of pressure on the child. Or perhaps, because you are not a noble—oh, my apologies. I should say, since you were not a noble.”
Parker let the insult hang in the air before offering a hollow apology. Though Windsor remained impassive, Parker kept the pressure on.
He knew that a knockout wasn’t always a single punch; sometimes, it was the steady drip of small, agonizing jabs that finally broke a man.
“There are whispers that perhaps Lord Preston, having grown up outside the aristocracy, simply doesn’t know what a boy like Benjamin needs to learn. Which do you think it is, Counselor?”
“Counselor.”
“Parker O’Brien. You may use my name.”
Parker spoke with an easy, arrogant confidence. Windsor, his expression cold and unblinking, replied in a voice like ice.
“Very well, Counselor.”
“…Right.”
Parker’s eyes sharpened for a second, but he quickly shrugged it off as if the dismissal meant nothing to him.
