On the night the deceased was presumed to have been killed, half of the baron’s household staff had gone to Bathgate while the mistress was away, but the house wasn’t completely empty. Unless all the servants conspired to kill Alec, the murder scene must have been somewhere other than the baron’s residence.

Currently, the police were searching for the murder scene.

And the perpetrator’s true motive.

“Bronwynner Harcourt. Harcourt.”

He wrote the nanny’s name in his notebook.

* * *

[To Marchioness Francine Whitman,

This is my first greeting since the regular Whittingham ball last season.

Last year, I heard that the reputation of your Bride Training School had reached as far as Crimsworth.

I would like to enroll my ward, Miss Pemberton, a distant relative of the Count of Goldenborough, Derek Farraway, in your school, albeit belatedly. I personally guarantee the credentials of Miss Bronwynner Pemberton as the Duke of Crimsworth.

I have attached the address of the Lovedale family law office in Whittingham; if there are any necessary procedures, please discuss them through that channel.

Please convey my regards to Lady Devon.

Duke of Crimsworth, Jeremy Lovedale]

Merryweather House, the gentlemen’s social club in Whittingham boasting the longest history and tradition, was located in Northend, the northern boundary of the capital.

As befitting its tradition, Merryweather’s threshold was high. It was said that the annual membership fee exceeded the taxes a territorial lord paid to Her Majesty the Queen, but not just anyone could enter even if they paid that money. To be granted membership, one needed the consent of all fifty-some full members.

Influential family, pure bloodline, impeccable reputation, abundant wealth, enviable connections, and the member’s own dignity and charm were the main evaluation criteria. It was common for applicants to wait several years to become members, but it was worth the wait. Merryweather was one of the places where, if lucky, one could be the first to access trends in politics and business, social gossip, and even sensitive intelligence related to Rosvalt.

Of course, Jeremy had acquired the right to cross Merryweather House’s high threshold from birth.

“Lovedale!”

As Jeremy entered the game room, two men greeted him. Elliot Warshaw and Charles Cameron were both alumni of the Royal Academy where he had graduated.

When Jeremy merely nodded and headed straight for the bar, the two young men followed and sat down with him.

The bartender immediately prepared drinks.

Warshaw and Cameron were each the eldest sons of a count’s and a marquis’s family, respectively, and were set to inherit their fathers’ titles someday. Though their ranks differed, all came from distinguished families listed in the nobility genealogy of Lennox.

Honey-colored whiskey glasses were placed in front of each of them.

Warshaw spoke as if he had been waiting.

“I heard a rumor that the Duke of Crimsworth is sponsoring a young lady related to Farraway.”

Indeed, social rumors traveled fast. It was only three days ago that Jeremy had sent a letter to the former Marchioness Whitman. Perhaps one of Warshaw’s numerous girlfriends had heard the rumor somewhere and tipped him off.

‘A relative of Count Farraway’ of course referred to Bronwynner Howard, whom Jeremy had decided to enroll in the Whitman Bride Training School mid-term. In his view, Bronwynner had the qualities to become a fairly decent lady if properly taught, but one thing she could never acquire no matter how hard she tried was innate bloodline.

So he had asked—no, pressured—Derek Farraway. Conveniently, Goldenborough, Bronwynner’s hometown, was Count Farraway’s territory. The Farraway family, having been established in Goldenborough for nearly three hundred years, would naturally have collateral relatives scattered throughout the area. Finding a minor noble family among them for Bronwynner to borrow a name from was as easy as eating cold porridge. For Farraway it might not have been so simple, but for Jeremy, all he had to do was ask.

In response, Farraway had sent word that the ‘Viscount Pemberton family’ with six daughters would not care if Bronwynner became their seventh daughter.

Cameron asked.

“What wind suddenly blew your way? Have you decided to use Crimsworth’s overflowing wealth for charity?”

Jeremy emptied his glass in one gulp.

“Why don’t you ask Farraway?”

“He hasn’t been coming here lately. Must be busy.” 

Of course he would be busy. Rushing to the Pemberton family with money from Jeremy’s pocket, asking them to register Bronwynner as the viscount’s seventh daughter.

Count Farraway had become a full member of Merryweather House three years ago on Jeremy’s recommendation. However, since half the factories in Goldenborough were owned by the count’s family, he didn’t have the leisure to frequent Whittingham as often as Jeremy.

The reason Jeremy himself had decided to become Bronwynner Howard’s—now Bronwynner Pemberton’s—guardian was not unrelated to this. In Whittingham society, the Lovedale name carried more weight than Farraway.

“That’s how it turned out.”

Jeremy said only that much.

The bartender placed a new glass in front of Jeremy. Cameron leaned in.

While Warshaw had sparrow-like girlfriends who carried rumors, Cameron frequented all sorts of social gatherings in Whittingham thanks to his outgoing personality. The more the rumor spread, the more the former Marchioness Whitman would be unable to refuse their request.

Jeremy welcomed this.

“What do you mean ‘that’s how it turned out’? What kind of woman is she? Is she such an awful hag that the Duke of Crimsworth himself has to step in to find her a husband?”

The purpose of a wealthy nobleman sponsoring a young lady from a humble family is usually to marry her into a more prestigious family. Providing excellent teachers and chaperones, ordering dresses and jewels from boutiques on Evangeline Avenue, paying dowries in place of her father, and exerting influence to allow her access to places she couldn’t go on her own—in exchange for all this, what one receives is the maiden’s infinite gratitude and respect, a reputation as a noble gentleman, and a broader, more solid network. Jeremy, who already enjoyed most of these benefits, had no need to engage in such sponsorship now.

Moreover, Bronwynner was not a hag.

Rather, the problem was that she was too pretty for a former nanny without a single letter of recommendation.

Warshaw chimed in.

“Or perhaps there’s an issue with her reputation.”

Well, what issues could there be with that woman’s reputation……?

He recalled when he had put Bronwynner on his horse. On the cramped saddle, she had wanted to avoid even the inevitable contact between their bodies. Her fragile back, which had touched his chest, had trembled.

Whether she had been burned by men or was just being coy, he neither knew nor cared.

After all, she was merely someone he had hired.

“You’ll see her in Whittingham in a few weeks, so judge for yourself.”

“Ah, so that was true! They say you wrote an impertinent letter to the former Marchioness Whitman and made the old lady faint.”

Cameron burst out laughing and continued.

“If you’re trying to break Lady Devon’s pride, it’s an excellent strategy. By now, she must be burning with curiosity about who your ward is.”

In fact, this was the part of the plan that Jeremy found most distasteful. Since Her Majesty the Queen had made a promise, Devon Whitman firmly believed she would soon become Lady Crimsworth. Yet every third time they met, she pretended not to know him.

If that was her attitude, she shouldn’t appear before him so often.

He suspected she might have planted a spy at Crimsworth Court, given how Lady Devon seemed to appear wherever he went.

Just today, he had been greatly annoyed when he encountered the Whitman family carriage in the middle of Evangeline Avenue. Devon had insisted on stopping the carriage to greet him, and from behind her feather fan, she had given him a look that said she was curious about why he had personally come to that place.

It was fortunate he had been leaving Madame Floss’s boutique after finishing his business; otherwise, he might have been interrogated about what he had been doing there. If that had happened, rumors about “the dress that the Duke of Crimsworth had commissioned, bypassing all of Floss’s VIP clients” would have been rampant throughout society by now.

Warshaw pointed at Jeremy.

“Or Lady Devon might openly bully that poor girl Lovedale is sponsoring. She controls half of Whittingham’s social scene, after all.”

“Lovedale. If you want to avoid unnecessary misunderstandings, wouldn’t it be better to get engaged quickly?”

“What unnecessary misunderstandings?”

Jeremy emptied his second glass as well, and with a nod to the approaching bartender, ordered a third.

The story of a poor but pretty and wise young lady falling in love with her wealthy guardian is content that couldn’t even make it to a third-rate theater stage in this day and age. Lady Devon Whitman’s taste couldn’t be that cheap. If she wanted to become the Duchess of Crimsworth, she should have better taste than that.

But, what if…..

⌜I won’t become Your Grace’s mistress or anything like that.⌟

Remembering Bronwynner’s solemn declaration, as if making a declaration of war, he couldn’t help but laugh.

What did she take him for.

This Jeremy Lovedale was neither desperate enough to want a woman just out of a sickbed, nor shameless enough to seduce a woman far inferior to him in status and position with money. He had never needed a mistress in the first place.

With such an innocent face, yet immediately bringing up ‘Your Grace’s mistress’ when offered a job—what an ambitious woman indeed.

Still, her self-awareness was commendable. In this country, women like her could at best become a nobleman’s mistress. The fact that she didn’t harbor vain fantasies about being a lover or something similar actually made her better than Devon Whitman.

What if Devon Whitman suspected Bronwynner of being his mistress…..?

That was probably similar to what Warshaw had been about to say.

Just as Warshaw was about to speak, a slight commotion arose in the game room.

While Merryweather House was a place where only heads of carefully selected families or their sons could enter, its essence was no different from a pub where ruffians gathered in the back alleys of Whitepole. This meant that it wasn’t uncommon for young men swept up in alcohol or passion to fight over money, honor, women, and so on.

So Jeremy and Warshaw didn’t pay particular attention, and only the curious Cameron briefly got up to look into the game room.