Chapter 81
The celebration had reached its conclusion. While a few guests had made a hasty exit following the recent chaos, the majority simply resumed their revelry, seemingly shaking off the horror before departing for their own lands. The King remained in residence, as did Spencer Grimaldi, who still occupied his quarters at Pallesa Palace. Under normal circumstances, the Count would have already begun his journey back to the Grimaldi domain.
“Is there still no sign of her?”
In the eyes of the law, Sir Adrian Grimaldi was no more. Adrina Grimaldi was likewise recorded as deceased. Yet, in reality, only one of those identities had truly perished.
Spencer had initiated an exhaustive manhunt to recover his offspring, but the search had yielded nothing. She had vanished without a whisper, leaving a void so absolute it mirrored the grave. One might easily conclude she was truly dead, yet the truth of her survival was an open secret to those involved.
“My apologies, my lord.”
“I have no use for your regrets, Sir Knight. I requires results, not apologies. Simply execute your duties.”
The knight remained silent.
Naturally, Spencer’s suspicions fell upon the house of Woodpecker. Still, he questioned if there had ever been a meaningful link between that family and his daughter.
Reports suggested the Duke’s party was already preparing to leave before the news broke regarding Adi’s slaying of Luigi. The timing appeared to be mere chance, and Adi Grimaldi had not been spotted among their ranks. Even for a house as powerful as a dukedom, the authorities would not have been negligent in their search given that a member of the royalty and a Marquis had been lost.
“Locate her. No excuses,” Spencer commanded, his gaze fixed on Lev Zid. “Is this not the outcome you desired?”
Spencer was indifferent to whether Lev Zid sought vengeance or something else entirely from Adrina. If a man of such high caliber were to be folded into the Grimaldi bloodline, it would serve the family well. His low-born status was a hurdle, but since any union would be with a woman who was legally a ghost, he would never wield any legitimate authority within the house.
“With all respect, my lord—”
“Silence. I am finished with your explanations.”
Incompetence, however, was a trait Spencer could not stomach.
“I shall visit the Grimaldi estate before traveling to Ionad. Since you have failed in your primary objective, you will remain here for the time being. Scour this region for any sign of her, and report to Ionad only when you have something of substance.”
“As you wish,” Lev Zid replied, bowing low. Spencer offered a look of sharp irritation before standing.
This marked his final day as a guest of the Duke. Before returning north, he was required to pay his respects to the Crown. The King had avoided Spencer’s company until now, but upon learning of the Count’s impending departure, he had finally granted an audience. It was a formality, really, as they would all eventually reconvene in the capital.
As Spencer moved through the stone hallway, he encountered Marchioness Connolly coming from the other direction. While he walked alone, she was surrounded by a swarm of attendants. Her expression soured the moment she recognized him. She had remained draped in black throughout the entire festival, a silent but piercing protest of her grief and fury.
She shared the skepticism that Sir Adrian had been the one to kill Luigi. To her, the Count’s behavior was riddled with holes. Yet, the tragedy was symmetrical; she had lost a nephew, and he had lost a son. What possible advantage could a father gain from the murder of his own heir?
“A final encounter, Count.”
“Marchioness.”
“I see you linger at Pallesa Palace still.”
“I depart for Ionad shortly.”
A sharp smile touched the Marchioness’s lips. The whispers were true: Claude had allied himself with the Grimaldi family, reaching out to the very people his father had discarded. She wondered if the Prince understood the King’s reasons for keeping the Grimaldis at arm’s length. Regardless, the Count’s tenacity was remarkable; he was clawing his way back to the heart of power with ruthless resolve.
“And your own plans, Marchioness?”
“I also find myself bound for Ionad,” she said, her eyes drifting toward the window. The rain had ceased the moment the festival ended, and the landscape now glowed with the vibrant green of midsummer. Despite the warmth outside, her internal world felt frozen. The foundations of her world had crumbled.
“Since Duke Woodpecker is expected, perhaps you should look to him for support?”
“The Duke is traveling to Ionad?” she asked, surprised.
“Indeed.”
“That is unexpected. He usually avoids the capital like the plague during the winter months.”
Spencer’s genuine astonishment made the Marchioness look at him with a hint of pity. He truly was in the dark. It seemed the Grimaldi influence did not reach as far into the southern affairs as one might think.
“He isn’t traveling for the social whirl,” she clarified. “He is attending the Council session.”
“The Council?” Spencer repeated.
She gave a firm nod.
Duke Woodpecker was famously disinterested in the political theater of the capital. He was content to manage his vast holdings, and the King rarely pressured him, keeping taxes at a level that avoided friction. Consequently, the Duke was a rare sight at debates regarding the kingdom’s future.
Spencer recalled seeing him in Ionad years ago. At the time, the Duke had looked like a mere child, a boy of thirteen or fourteen. His words had been dismissed by everyone in the room.
That experience had likely taught the Duke a bitter lesson about the weight of appearances. Now that he had reached his full physical stature, however, his presence would be impossible to ignore.
“That Woodpecker…” Spencer mused. He wondered how the man had finally managed to shatter his family’s lingering curse. “You are certain he attends the Council?”
“I am,” the Marchioness replied. “The talk is that he brings a new Page with him. You’ve likely heard of Sir Bert Dean’s niece? They say her beauty is quite striking, which gives me pause.”
“A woman serving as a Page?” Spencer asked, incredulous.
“Precisely. She is training for the trials. By the time they reach the capital, she may well be a Knight.”
The idea was laughable to Spencer. Men and women were built differently; no amount of training could bridge the gap in raw power and endurance. In the heat of real combat, such a distinction was life or death.
Then again, the era of great wars had faded. In his youth, the borders were always shifting, but the current rulers were old and preferred the safety of the Council chamber to the mud of the battlefield. Perhaps in such a soft age, a woman could play at being a soldier. His own daughter had certainly possessed the skill, even if she had been forced to hide behind her brother’s identity.
“It appears the Duke wants to boast of the kingdom’s first female knight.”
“So it would seem. Though a woman of her standing would be better served by a good marriage after a few years of attention,” the Marchioness remarked.
“Sir Bert Dean could hardly arrange that. Despite his proximity to the Duke, he remains a commoner by birth.”
“True. Had she been of noble blood, she could have been fostered elsewhere to secure a proper match.”
“This girl—does she have a name of her own, or does she use Dean?”
“She has taken the Dean name, from what I gather.”
A commoner, then. Spencer dismissed her as a non-entity. However, the Marchioness seemed intent on gossiping, and he forced a polite, curious smile to mask his boredom.
“A pity. She won’t find a place as a ward then. She has likely reached the ceiling of her social climb.”
“Legally, perhaps. But if the Duke decides to make her his mistress, the rules change.”
“I should hope the Duke has better taste than that.”
“And yet,” she countered, “Prince Claude is known to ignore the divide between commoner and noble when it suits him.”
“The Prince has a high rank, but that does not equate to high standards,” Spencer remarked dryly.
The Marchioness let out a sharp, joyless laugh. She found herself in agreement, though she wondered if Claude would appreciate such a comment from his supposed ally.
“I must go and prepare. My daughter needs to be ready for what comes next.”
“So the adoption is finalized?”
“I need a loyal set of eyes in Ionad, and I cannot rely on Duke Woodpecker right now. A member of the Lintu family is a necessary move.”
“Do you believe the Duke will tolerate such a scheme?”
“He is indifferent to the people around him. As long as the house continues, I doubt he cares who fills the rooms. The Lintu family is a respectable choice.”
“If it were that simple, they would have succeeded years ago,” Spencer noted. The Lintus had been trying to infiltrate Woodpecker’s circle for ages to no avail.
“Perhaps they simply lacked the proper standing until now,” she replied. It was the reason she was involving herself with them despite their lack of history. “Regardless, I will use whatever leverage I have. If the Duke can be a tool, I shall wield him.”
She was desperate, Spencer realized.
“And what of you, Count? What is your next move?”
“I am a man of little power at the moment. Even the King avoids me.”
“But you have the Prince’s ear.”
“For the moment, yes.”
The Marchioness frowned at his choice of words. It suggested his loyalty was a temporary arrangement. She felt a wave of nausea realizing she had once tried to bring such an unstable man to Luigi’s side.
But Luigi was gone, and Claude held the cards. There were other heirs, but none who could truly challenge the Prince’s position.
“The current climate serves Prince Claude quite well,” she observed.
Spencer offered a low chuckle. It was true for now. Whether it would stay that way was a different matter entirely.
“Perhaps we shall be rivals when we next meet.”
“I was never under the impression we were on the same side, Marchioness.”
She had once believed they were, simply because they shared a vision for the future. A few small deviations had led them to this fractured state. The sting lay in the fact that Spencer Grimaldi had orchestrated it all, though his luck might be running out now that the King had soured on him.
“Then I wish for gold to fill the southern fields,” Spencer said.
“And may the northern winds lose their chill.”
“Secure your travels to Ionad.”
“Until then, Count.”
She turned and departed, her retinue following in a disciplined line. One maid paused to look back at Spencer. He caught the look and frowned, wondering what the girl could possibly be searching for in his expression.
In the palace, every glance felt like a conspiracy. Whether here or in the capital, suspicion was the air they breathed. Once she had disappeared behind the heavy doors, Spencer checked the hour. His meeting with the King was fast approaching.
