Chapter 8
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While executing Windsor’s commands, Roman had never harbored the slightest hope of victory—or even the expectation that they would return alive.
Yet, against all odds, they had liberated the merchant ship from the pirates, decimated more than half of the enemy’s ten-vessel fleet, and held their ground with grim persistence until reinforcements arrived. The surviving marauders eventually surrendered, trapped within the unbreakable circle of the Black Fleet.
Roman remembered that day with haunting clarity. Standing amidst the thick, acrid clouds of gunpowder smoke, Windsor had looked less like a man and more like a devil.
The sight had been so terrifying that rumors circulated of literal horns sprouting from Windsor’s head. Roman couldn’t even bring himself to debunk the tales; in the heat of battle, he thought he might have seen them too.
Regardless of the supernatural details, the engagement became the stuff of legend, whispered about by sailors and outlaws alike for years to come. It was the moment the moniker “Demon of the Black Fleet” was etched into history.
Looking at Windsor now—possessing a beauty that felt almost non-human—Roman found himself revisiting a familiar thought: would anyone ever be capable of cracking that frigid, stoic mask? No matter how he turned the idea over in his mind, he couldn’t envision a world where Windsor lost his cool.
If such a miracle were to occur, the catalyst would surely be His Majesty the King.
Currently, the monarch was the prime suspect. He had been relentlessly prodding Windsor’s patience, and Roman sensed it was only a matter of time before his commander finally reached a breaking point.
Roman secretly hoped he would be present for the explosion. It promised to be a spectacle far too entertaining to miss.
“This is an invitation to the royal banquet taking place this weekend, my lord.”
“What does my schedule look like?”
“Nothing of great importance. A few minor appointments, but they are all easily rescheduled.”
“Then find me an appointment that is both vital and impossible to move.”
“Hmm.”
Roman let out a noncommittal grunt, a subtle way of voicing his disapproval.
“Since we arrived in the capital, you’ve snubbed His Majesty’s banquet invitations five times already. We’ve run out of believable excuses.”
“Then inform them I am busy attending my own funeral.”
Roman stood frozen for a moment, his face twisting into a frown.
“As your devoted subordinate, I feel compelled to tell you, my lord—you have absolutely no gift for comedy.”
Windsor’s brow twitched upward. It was impossible to tell if he was offended by the critique or if he hadn’t been joking in the first place.
Roman scratched his forehead and adopted a more cautious tone.
“The King won’t let it slide this time. My sources indicate the custody trial preparations are nearly finished. Naturally, the King will hand-pick the judge. Since he appoints the Chief Justice, rigging the outcome will be child’s play for him. Wouldn’t it be wiser to simply offer a gesture of submission before this spirals out of control?”
“One concession leads to two, and two leads to three. Roman Miller, recite article four of the naval code of conduct.”
“Sir! Never negotiate with the enemy, sir!”
Roman’s heels clicked together and his chin snapped up. In an instant, the polished aide vanished, replaced by a disciplined soldier.
It was only after the words left his mouth that he cursed himself inwardly; years of conditioning had turned his body into a machine that reacted before his brain could intervene.
Rubbing his forehead again, Roman asked, “The enemy? You’re referring to His Majesty?”
“The King will never be satisfied with a single bow.”
“That’s true enough. One only has to look at Gallup—the ninth tutor—who actually tried to abduct Master Benjamin. But what exactly is the King’s endgame?”
“Who can say.”
Windsor drummed his fingers against his leg, lost in thought. Suddenly, his eyes sharpened. The rhythmic tapping of his hand froze.
His voice was like ice as it filtered through his teeth.
“He is a covetous old man who refuses to relinquish the throne to his son, despite having a grandson of his own. His obsession with Benjamin is difficult to fathom.”
Roman remained silent, visualizing the King’s face and that of the Crown Prince, who had occupied his station for two decades without advancement.
“Furthermore,” Windsor continued, “the moment Benjamin enters the King’s orbit, the Crown Prince will react. He will stop at nothing to ensure the King’s favor doesn’t shift toward the boy. We cannot forget that Benjamin is third in the line of succession. Every contingency must be accounted for.”
“I see your point. Do you think His Majesty intends to use Master Benjamin as a lightning rod? A way to distract the Crown Prince while he reinforces his own power?”
Windsor offered no confirmation. He was not a man given to speculation without evidence. Instead, he fixed Roman with a steady look.
“Secure a top-tier lawyer. Someone beyond the reach of royal influence.”
“Skilled and independent of the crown? That is a tall order, my lord. Extremely difficult.”
Roman gave a weary sigh but nodded nonetheless. His commander’s word was law.
William had spent a lifetime as the butler of House Preston, yet he couldn’t recall ever feeling this bewildered.
Upon entering the room, the words died in his throat. Even with his decades of experience, he had no idea how to address the scene before him.
His aging eyes wandered over the walls, which were now a chaotic kaleidoscope of color. A strained groan escaped him.
Jacqueline, by contrast, seemed remarkably composed. In fact, she was the only one in the room who didn’t look like she was on the verge of a breakdown.
She turned her gaze to Benjamin, who was staring miserably at the floor. His lips were set in a hard line and his small hands were shaking.
Even in his distress, the boy sat with a rigid, upright posture. It was a poignant reminder that the Preston heir was expected to maintain his dignity even in the depths of sorrow.
“Benjamin.”
Jacqueline spoke his name softly. The boy looked up, his expression guarded and hesitant, before he finally spoke.
“Are you leaving us today, Miss Somerset?”
“Well…”
Jacqueline paused, as if weighing the question, and then looked at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“I wonder.”
“Would it make you sad if I did?”
The boy didn’t answer immediately. A heavy silence filled the room.
Just as William prepared to intervene, Jacqueline let out a melodic laugh—Benjamin had given a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
Jacqueline felt an overwhelming urge to pull the child into a hug, but she restrained herself. The boundaries between them were not hers to cross so easily.
Suppressing the slight tremble in her own hands, she leaned in and whispered, “I am still getting to know Lord Preston, but he strikes me as a logical man. I believe if I explain the situation clearly, he will understand. Now, Benjamin, why don’t you go and wash up while I speak with him? You have paint even in your hair! When you’re clean, perhaps we can have some cookies together?”
“…Alright.”
Benjamin, smeared from head to toe in vibrant pigments, tried to wipe his cheek, only to leave a long blue streak across his skin.
The sight made William let out a pained sound.
“I’ll see you shortly, Benjamin.”
With those parting words, Jacqueline stepped out. Benjamin watched her go, his eyes clouded with the desperate hope that he would actually see her again.
She went straight to her quarters to change, and exactly half an hour later, she stood before the study door and knocked.
“We were expecting you, Miss Somerset.”
The door was opened not by Windsor, but by a man with a pleasant face. Recognizing him as the aide from earlier, Jacqueline gave him a polite, slightly distant nod.
Her movements were the picture of grace; her posture suggested a quiet, refined pride.
The man observed her with a look of intrigue before stepping aside to let her pass.
“Please, enter.”
“Thank you.”
Jacqueline walked into the room with her head held high. The door clicked shut behind her.
A faint whisper seemed to brush past her ear: “Good luck.” She spun around, startled, but the aide was gone.
She was alone with Windsor.
Windsor stood and moved toward the seating area. Jacqueline waited until he reached the sofa before sitting down with practiced elegance.
An oppressive silence stretched between them. Neither was willing to be the first to break it. Though the weight of the atmosphere was crushing, Jacqueline bore it with poise.
“Miss Somerset.”
Windsor finally spoke. His voice was flat and clinical, yet it held an undeniable authority.
Jacqueline met his eyes, a small, composed smile on her face and her hands resting perfectly in her lap.
“I am listening, Lord Preston.”
Windsor’s expression became unreadable. Everything about her—her speech, her bearing, her very aura—screamed of high-born breeding. It was exactly what one would expect from a graduate of the Bristol Girls’ Boarding School.
The kingdom was full of private academies. Plenty of wealthy merchants and landowners, desperate to rub shoulders with the elite, sent their children to such schools, and many institutions had popped up just to take their money.
However, Bristol was in a league of its own, unrivaled in its prestige and history.
Though it had modernized slightly, its roots as a convent kept it far more traditional and conservative than its peers. It remained a fortress for the aristocracy, closed to the middle class—and Jacqueline had finished her studies there with top honors.
Jacqueline Somerset.
He had recruited her because she was uniquely qualified to mentor Benjamin. She wouldn’t just teach him facts; she would naturally pass on the etiquette and social grace that were part of her very identity.
That was a world Windsor knew nothing about.
He could protect Benjamin from the court and hire the best scholars, but he couldn’t teach the boy how to move through high society. Windsor had been raised by an opera singer, far removed from the Preston lineage, and had never learned the unspoken rules of the nobility.
He went to great lengths to hide this fact, avoiding the dance floor at balls and staying away from the social drinking circles. People called him arrogant, but he didn’t care. His only priority was the survival of his house.
But he wanted more for Benjamin. He wanted the boy to be a perfect noble—it was his debt to Jeffrey Preston.
Jacqueline was the key. She had everything he lacked. But there was a glaring problem.
“Do you have an explanation, Miss Somerset, for the state of the room I just walked into?”
“An explanation?”
