BPOTWC Chapter 16

Maximilian asked, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Benson startled, waving both hands quickly.

"Ah—it's nothing, Your Grace."

"That's odd, for 'nothing.' Your guard distance is unusually close today."

In truth, Benson had stayed close at Maximilian's side ever since returning from his encounter with Madam Betsy a short while ago.

Partly, he wanted to test for himself the astonishing thing he had heard.

'The Duchess is a fake.'

What Betsy had whispered in his ear had been almost impossible to believe.

'Perhaps His Grace has noticed it too, sir. He's been keeping strangely apart from the Duchess of late... he must be gathering proof, mustn't he.'

When Benson had looked at her as though he couldn't believe it, Betsy had pleaded with him, on the verge of tears.

'The whole reason I ended up here in the first place was that I told my lady we ought to confess the truth to His Grace. And for that, my lady threw me into this trap of a cell…….'

Ridiculous talk. Benson shook his head, denying her words outright.

But Betsy had gazed at him with such earnest pleading, and asked again.

'Watch His Grace closely, sir. Away from prying eyes, you'll soon see for yourself—he keeps an odd distance from the Duchess.'

No. Couldn't be.

Anyone in the household knew the Duke and Duchess of Sheridan to be a devoted couple who kept the correct courtesies toward one another.

Distance? Between them?

Benson had told himself this was certainly not the case, and yet, somehow, he could not simply shake off Betsy's words.

'If… if His Grace really has been carrying such a burden alone, and if Madam Betsy really was punished for trying to make a confession of conscience…….'

Then Madam Betsy might well have been caught in a trap.

'But the Duchess is not the sort of person who would ever do such a thing.'

Unable to reach a conclusion, Benson had decided, for the time being, to do as Betsy said and watch the Duke closely.

Particularly, to note how he behaved toward the Duchess.

If he showed even the slightest discomfort…….

Then Benson intended to hear Betsy out once more.

If his lady truly was a fraud, that was something that could never be forgiven.

"Sir Benson?"

At Maximilian's second call, Benson quickly straightened his posture.

"You are the single most important person in Sheridan, Your Grace. Guarding you closely is only natural."

"Is that so. Mind that your watch on Clarisse doesn't slacken, either."

"Yes, sir."

"And……."

Having finished issuing his instructions, Maximilian turned to look at Quentin.

"Your pen has stopped moving for some time now, Quentin. I doubt it's because you're watching over me."

"Can't you tell?! I'm jealous of you, Your Grace!"

"Do I possess something worth envying?"

"You're a married man!"

"Is that… something to be envious of?"

Maximilian murmured this with a bitter expression.

"Yes! My stomach even hurts! I've never once had a first love—not once!"

Quentin's blubbering went on.

"…That's rough."

"I want a feverish first love, the kind you read about! Ah, surely His Grace must have had such a time in his own life once?"

For some reason, in that instant, Maximilian's expression darkened, and fast.

So much so that even Quentin—oblivious, still groaning on about it—faltered.

Benson did not miss it.

'This makes it seem as though Madam Betsy's words might really be true after all.'

That His Grace had, in private, been keeping his distance from the Duchess.

Now that he thought of it, even a moment ago, when accepting Clarisse's dinner invitation, His Grace had seemed somehow uncomfortable about it too.

'Perhaps I haven't truly understood my lord after all, up to now.'

If his master really had been suffering all this time, unable to find the proof that his wife was a fraud.

'Then perhaps… this isn't something I can simply let pass lightly.'

Benson clenched both fists and made up his mind.

Betsy sat waiting for Benson to come back, puffed up with triumph.

Whether or not the Duke truly suspected Brielle, she couldn't say—but wasn't it a fact that he found his own wife distasteful?

Benson would certainly be able to read the awkwardness between them.

'Once that happens…….'

She had already thought through the next step.

First, she would have Benson bring Brielle's mother, "Mrs. Uzae," to Sheridan.

Fetching some sick woman rotting alone in a hut the Count's household had all but thrown away—that was nothing, beneath the notice of a ducal knight.

Once Mrs. Uzae appeared, Brielle would naturally have no choice but to kneel before the Duke and confess the truth.

If it came to this, Betsy would have earned herself real credit—the woman who saved the Duke from a scheming, black-hearted fraud of a duchess.

The Duke was a fair man; he would never overlook such a service.

And if, on top of that, she wept and pleaded—"I had no choice, Your Grace, Count Darlington forced my hand!"—a man of such fine character would surely, happily, take her under his protection.

She had no wish to spend her whole life stuck in this dump of a town, but for now, she had no other choice.

She had no choice but to survive, even if it meant selling out Brielle and Mrs. Uzae to the Duke.

'Will they be executed, do you think?'

Betsy tapped her toes and smirked to herself.

And honestly, it had pissed her off no end—some servant girl, who did she think she was, prancing around playing real duchess.

Getting to live it up just because her hair happened to match her young mistress's—yeah, that pissed her off too.

'Serves her right. Hope she just keels over and dies.'

That Mrs. Uzae too, always wheezing and half-dead as she was, would be executed right alongside her, as an accomplice.

If the matter grew any larger from here, it was possible that her true masters, the Darlington household, might become entangled as well, but…

'What do I care? I'm going to keep living here either way. If things go well, I might even get a reward out of it.'

She felt no particular anxiety that things might not go according to plan.

The ducal couple's relationship was as stiff as two mismatched pieces of wood forced together.

There was no way that relationship would suddenly change in just the past few days.

Absolutely not.

The following evening, in the ground-floor dining hall of the Sheridan estate.

Unlike other nobles, Maximilian did not typically hold a formal dinner every night. The dining hall, normally reserved for important guests, had its candles lit once more, this time for no one but the household itself.

Maximilian wore a suit fitting for dinner, and the Duchess had dressed in a gown to match.

Benson stood behind them both.

The Duke personally escorted his wife to her seat, observing every courtesy. But throughout this, no conversation passed between them.

In fact, their eyes never once met.

The Duchess glanced at the Duke now and then, but the Duke of Sheridan seemed to ignore this entirely, as unmoving as a block of stone.

And that awkward air, hanging over them.

Benson found it strange that he was only now realizing this.

Why hadn't he noticed?

'Well… His Grace has always been a blunt man to begin with.'

No—even so, the Duke of Sheridan was a man who looked properly into another person's eyes when speaking with them.

And yet he hadn't once met his wife's gaze throughout his entire escort of her.

Just then, Clarisse entered the hall, her hand in Rosalie's.

The girl, her white cheeks flushed pink, looked thoroughly excited at the mere word "dinner."

Even so, she offered the ducal couple a proper, unhurried bow of greeting.

The large red ribbon perched atop her pink hair swayed each time she moved her head.

"Thank you for inviting me to dinner today."

"We were waiting for you," the Duke said, rising from his seat and personally leading the girl to her own chair.

"I can sit by myself!"

"No."

He pushed her chair in for her as she sat.

"A prisoner does not move alone."

He answered, meeting the eyes of Clarisse, who had lifted her chin high.

Compared to how he treated his own wife, this actually looked more natural—to an almost absurd degree.

'There's nothing more to see here.'

Benson decided it would be best to go and see Betsy again this evening.

Turning the clock back roughly a day before that dinner, to the previous night.

Having brushed her teeth and combed her hair with great care, Clarisse changed into her nightgown and kissed Mallangie.

"What do I do? Me, having dinner with the Duke and Duchess—I'm so nervous I could die."

"Mrrph." (It's just a meal, what's there to worry about.)

"But dinners have always been called a 'place for socializing.' And socializing means making the people around you happy. This will be my first meal like that."

Clarisse held Mallangie cradled in both hands, sinking deep into thought.

"Isn't there some way I can make the two of them happy?"

"Mrrph." (Ask the inner wall. Nothing that thing doesn't know.)

"I think I should try to come up with something myself."

"Mrrph." (Time-saving.)

"That's true, I suppose."

Clarisse knew well that the time given to her was not nearly as generous as it was for other people.

Which meant she needed to spend less time worrying, and more time acting.

She placed her hand against the inner wall's stone by her bedroom window.

"Good evening."

〈A good evening to you, Clarisse, most gracious child that you are. A night of such lovely moonlight this is, if it please you to know it.〉

Tonight happened to be the night of the full moon.

Thanks to the grateful gift of moonlight pouring down its mana, the inner wall answered in a voice far livelier than usual.

〈Word of it has reached these humble ears, indeed it has. Clarisse is to dine with His Grace and Her Ladyship this very night, is that not so?〉

"Yes—is there a way I could make them happy?"

〈But of course there is, indeed there is! Truth be told, one matter has long stood unresolved between the two of them, and it has left every last stone of this inner wall quite fit to burst with worry, if it please Clarisse to know.〉

"What is it?"

Clarisse pressed herself close against the wall, drawn in by such a promising story.