Chapter 22
Chapter – 22
Once the vehicle with Louisa and her performers rolled away, Alfredo turned to the Count lingering in the house.
“Why stay here rather than accompany her, my lord?”
“I’ve explained already. Matters require my review.”
Arno kept his gaze fixed on the pages, committed to his excuse. Nonsense, though.
Those pages held no official files.
Instead, Arno scanned the manuscript Louisa had abandoned, insisting it spared him any discomfort during the gathering. The text outlined a duet drama set for the evening’s event.
Louisa clearly excelled at crafting stories, Alfredo mused.
He marveled at her speed in completing the full piece in mere hours.
People pegged her interests as shallow pursuits like fashion or romance at most, yet her recent binge on literature revealed a deeper passion for reading.
Perhaps the rumors painted her wrongly as a wasteful dilettante.
She might harbor true creative depths.
Even the household staff shared that evolving view.
Alfredo himself, never her personal attendant, had once hoped she’d vanish from the premises.
Her direct servants must have yearned harder for her departure.
Louisa’s chaos included lavish garment requests, gourmet feasts, and endless outbursts, fueling their resentment beyond his own.
One servant had deliberately supplied subpar goods, only to get exposed and dismissed by Alfredo.
Her parting protest rang out.
“I acted for the Count’s sake! To speed her exit! How did she spot the inferior rug so soon? Is dismissal truly fair?”
Fair it was. Arno demanded indulgence of her every whim.
Still, as Alfredo sent her packing, the others nodded in quiet support.
Shifts emerged with the staging of Romeo and Juliet.
A few servants attended the show.
Returning with puffy faces, they gushed over its power.
“She truly rehearsed drama alongside that servant boy.”
“Tears streamed through every act. You must witness it.”
“Her heightened moods stem from creative gifts, no doubt.”
Creative gifts. Such an easy label.
The junior staff idealized makers of beauty as volatile souls worth tolerating.
Louisa’s fits had tapered off sharply anyway.
That change coincided with her rehearsals.
Her focus locked onto the stage work, rendering servants mere background.
Requests dwindled; nights passed with her absorbed in lamplight reading or frantic notations till slumber claimed her.
That dedication earned their respect.
“True creators must immerse fully to preserve their minds!”
Such intensity suggested peril in artistic temperaments.
Alfredo deemed it odd, yet the warming attitudes toward her eased his duties.
Especially since—
“My lord, admit it. Concern gnaws at you.”
Lately, Arno fixated on Louisa with unusual intensity.
Such devotion harked back to his youth.
Possibly predating their betrothal.
“Worry plagues me, yes.”
Arno raised his gaze then.
He placed the script aside, face a mask of ambiguity.
“Shall I summon transport at once—”
“Who is that servant? His identity?”
“Sir?”
Fingers drummed the script against wood.
“His origins? He mentioned none?”
“Er…”
“Family? Kin? Their whereabouts?”
Silence stretched.
Arno pressed as answers eluded Alfredo.
“Did Louisa probe any of this?”
“Never, from what I observed. She addressed him solely as servant.”
Arno’s eyes dropped to The Prince and the Pauper once more.
There, the servant embodied the “Prince.”
A figure whose garb swapped with a beggar’s, thrusting him into alien realms.
Memories surfaced of the servant’s flawless dining poise.
Those piercing glances, aristocratic cadence, elegant poise.
Should that prove mere performance, Louisa’s directorial prowess shone.
And shine it did.
Unless pretense failed.
Then he hailed from rural aristocracy at minimum.
Yet such a figure shadowed Louisa, feigning affection.
Intent clear. Leverage her through charm.
Arno’s forehead creased.
He voiced his unease.
Beauty beyond expectations filled the Mesena estate’s grand halls, leaving me awestruck.
Paintings and statues didn’t merely honor Duke Mesena; expressionist wall art and lifelike carvings evoked a gallery’s thrill.
The place rivaled any collection.
Her intent to auction these treasures for trifles baffled me.
Valuables stripped away, remnants still dazzled.
Could someone so reckless safeguard such wonders?
Catherine Herotia.
My aunt barreled forth upon spotting me, eager to mock my male escorts.
Jeanne derailed that swiftly.
Her daughter approached with greetings first.
“Good to meet again, cousin.”
“Same here.”
Catherine wedged in, impatience boiling.
“Time to meet Baron Hemia now—”
“Hold on. That jewel around your neck. Not pilfered, right?”
“…”
Jeanne’s direct jab drew smirks from onlookers. I grimaced amid the scrutiny.
High society’s games unfolded.
Like elite gatherings from my past life.
With that mindset, I replied.
“My betrothed presented it. Insisted it suited none but me. His flattery charms effortlessly.”
I amplified the tale, basking in the glow.
Focus intensified nearby.
In my old world, that piece fetched fortunes.
Catherine’s features contorted at the revelation of Arno’s generosity.
She’d craved scandal fodder. Denied.
But…
I shifted from her scowl to Jeanne’s blank stare.
Intentional probe?
Her accusation spotlighted the gem.
Framed as doubt, it primed my boast.
Her aim?
Shielding her mother from embarrassment?
Aiding me?
Confusion lingered.
“Fine, then. Stealing an item so dear to the Count could spell trouble.”
Jeanne vanished before queries flew.
Dear to the Count?
Rumors of Dienche’s diamond venture already circulated?
Nobles clustered then.
That skirmish elevated my status, ruined or not, as his intended.
I engaged them graciously.
Yet my eyes strayed to the lone indifferent soul.
Slumped against stone, deep in liquor.
Baron Jean Pierre to titles, “Molière” to fans.
Molière, indeed.
Back home, that alias cloaked a legendary dramatist and performer.
Here, a celebrated thespian bore it too.
Though presently, a sodden mess.
I averted my eyes deliberately.
No advances from me.
He’d seek me out.
