Chapter : 23
Suddenly, she felt it had been a good decision to ask Jacqueline for help. Mrs. Ritz’s eyes, as she watched Jacqueline’s back, were now filled with trust.
Jacqueline looked at the room next to the entrance and asked,
“Is this the cloakroom, ma’am?”
“Yes. On the day of the banquet, John will take and store the gentlemen’s coats and hats. Amy will be in the room for the ladies.”
“It would be better to prepare two more mirrors for the ladies. If many of them gather to freshen up, the waiting time will get long. Looking at the guest list, there are quite a lot of invitees.”
“Understood, miss. John, bring two more mirrors into this room.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The two moved through the entrance, cloakroom, reception room, smoking room, and finally to the banquet hall, as if they were nobles attending the event themselves.
Having attended countless banquets, Jacqueline pointed out shortcomings with a sharp eye, and Mrs. Ritz immediately accepted her suggestions.
“Bold-colored flowers don’t suit this place. People will say they’re trying too hard to stand out. In high society, if something is too flashy or too plain, it invites gossip. There are always people looking for something to criticize. It would be better to replace them with lighter-colored flowers.”
“I’ll inform the gardener. I’ll have him prepare more peach-colored carnations.”
“A good idea, Mrs. Ritz. Ah, this tablecloth is excellent at a glance. Is it made from recently imported fabric? I think I saw it in a catalogue.”
“That’s correct, Miss Jacqueline.”
“An excellent choice. Some ladies will surely take interest in this tablecloth. You seem to have a keen sense for trends.”
At the praise, Mrs. Ritz couldn’t hide her quiet pride. As Jacqueline moved toward the dining room, she asked,
“How will the meal be arranged?”
“There will be plenty of light refreshments like sandwiches and biscuits. However, a few important guests will dine separately with the marquis. Only those we cannot afford to neglect.”
The maids were secretly surprised at how seriously Mrs. Ritz consulted with Jacqueline. Whether Jacqueline realized it or not, her standing in the Preston household had just risen a level.
No longer just a governess, but someone capable of advising on banquet preparations. It was the beginning of an unexpected change.
Windsor scanned the guest list with his eyes. Just then, a knock sounded, and the door opened. From the footsteps alone, he already knew who it was.
“What I told you to prepare?”
Roman, who had just entered, paused. Windsor hadn’t even looked up, yet his question was directed precisely at him.
Momentarily flustered, Roman quickly composed himself, thinking, Ah, right—this man was the Devil of the Black Fleet.
“It will arrive shortly.”
“Shortly?”
Only then did Windsor slowly put down his pen and look at him. Roman straightened his back, reminded once again that Windsor Preston disliked ambiguity.
“It will arrive in fifteen minutes.”
“Good.”
Only after escaping that gaze did Roman finally relax a bit. Though Windsor had been discharged from the navy for years, he still felt like a soldier on the front lines.
After checking the time, Windsor lowered his gaze back to the guest list.
“My lord.”
Roman spoke cautiously. There was no verbal response, but it was clear Windsor was listening.
After all, he was the Devil of the Black Fleet—someone who could grasp everything happening around him even in his sleep.
“Are you truly not going to send an invitation to His Majesty the King? It may already be late, but even now—”
“Roman Miller.”
“Yes, sir!”
At the sound of his full name, Roman’s body stiffened again. It wasn’t cowardice—it was instinct carved into his bones.
Anyone who had seen Windsor mercilessly slaughter enemies amid a storm of bullets would react the same way.
No matter how much trust or respect he held, Roman knew he would never feel completely at ease around him. Windsor Preston was not a man to be taken lightly.
Like a shark fallen into the bushes, he was hiding his teeth for now—but if he ever found deep waters again, he would devour everything within them.
“That matter is no longer up for discussion. Understood?”
“Yes, understood.”
Right then, there was a knock. As Roman turned his head, William entered.
“Viscount James Hemington has arrived.”
“I’ll go now.”
“He is waiting in the reception room.”
Windsor rose and left the study. Following behind, Roman asked with a doubtful expression,
“James Hemington?”
But there was no reply. Used to it, Roman simply shrugged and followed him downstairs.
“Ah.”
Windsor suddenly turned as if remembering something.
“Go and fetch Miss Somerset.”
“Miss Somerset… the governess?”
Windsor pulled out his pocket watch. Click. Opening it, he spoke indifferently,
“Eight minutes remain until her lesson ends. Wait outside, and bring her once it’s finished.”
“…Yes, sir.”
Not five minutes. Not ten. Eight.
Roman shook his head at the precision.
Nobles were notorious for having no sense of time. Being thirty minutes late to a banquet was practically considered polite, and arranging a meeting could take days.
Windsor, however, was still closer to a soldier than a noble. Roman wondered if he would ever become as leisurely as one.
Scratching his head, Roman headed toward Benjamin’s room.
Only then did Windsor resume walking. As he entered the reception room, James Hemington sprang to his feet, nervously rubbing his palms.
With an overly friendly smile, he greeted him.
“To receive your reply in just a day—thank you, Sir Preston. I’ve been quite anxious, as this is rather urgent.”
Instead of answering, Windsor sat across from him. As if waiting, William served tea. Windsor calmly poured himself a cup and brought it to his lips.
James licked his lips repeatedly, fidgeting with his teacup before breaking the silence.
“Haha… this is a mine you’ll never be able to purchase at this price again. It’s a golden opportunity for you, Sir Preston. I guarantee you won’t regret it.”
“Did you bring the documents?”
“Of course.”
Relieved that Windsor showed interest, James quickly laid out several papers.
A land deed and a report analyzing the minerals in the mine.
“I must emphasize—if my wife weren’t ill, I would never sell this land. Once the minerals are extracted, you’ll make five times your investment. No—ten, even twenty times is possible.”
At that moment, a knock interrupted him. Irritated, James glanced toward the door.
“Come in.”
At Windsor’s permission, James leaned back reluctantly.
The door opened, revealing Roman and Jacqueline.
“You called for—”
Jacqueline froze mid-sentence when she saw the visitor. She was shocked twice—once by the fact that the guest was James Hemington, and again by the documents on the table.
James, not recognizing them, simply watched, eager to finish the deal.
“Sir Preston!”
Jacqueline cried urgently. Windsor raised a hand, silencing her.
In the stillness, the faint sound of a carriage could be heard.
Windsor handed the documents to Roman.
“A land deed and a mineral analysis report, apparently.”
“Hm.”
Roman examined them carefully. Jacqueline bit her lower lip, clearly holding back words.
Walking to the window and holding the paper to the light, Roman spoke casually,
“This is rather crude, isn’t it, my lord?”
James’ eyes widened. “What do you mean—”
But Roman was faster.
“The deed is dated a hundred years ago. Back then, paper was made from cotton fibers—entirely handmade. But this paper is machine-produced. Paper factories only appeared about fifty years ago. The timeline doesn’t match.”
James was speechless. Flustered, he tried to recover,
“Well, that is—!”
But again, Roman cut him off.
“This is a forgery.”
“It’s not!”
James turned desperately to Windsor.
“I don’t know how this happened, but this has been passed down in my family—”
“Miss Jacqueline Somerset.”
“…Yes, Sir Preston.”
Jacqueline nodded.
“Somerset?” James muttered, then realized who she was. His face fell.
Outside, the sound of a carriage stopping echoed. Faint voices drifted in.
Windsor listened calmly, then spoke,
“The police have arrived outside.”
“!”
The one startled was James. He jumped to his feet and stepped back.
Through the window, a carriage bearing the Metropolitan Police insignia could be seen.
Jacqueline looked at Windsor with steady eyes as he continued,
“Whether or not to press charges against James Hemington for fraud—that is entirely Miss Somerset’s decision.”
Jacqueline imagined what would follow if she did.
Her name would once again appear in newspapers. Even her late father’s name would be dragged into it.
A noble deceived by a mere swindler would become a subject of ridicule—and the honor of the late Baron Somerset would fall into disgrace.