The Cracks Behind the Perfect Lady

"We only gave up so gracefully because she truly became a priestess. And now look how it's turned out."

"Exactly. And of all people, with the Marquis of Zacherete, no less…!"

At that casually dropped bombshell, the eyes of the noblewomen and young ladies gathered around the table began to smolder.

"The Marquis may be brilliant at business, but she's hopeless in high society, isn't she? The only thing she knows how to do is trade."

"I'd wager she thinks of us as nothing more than gossiping women who sip tea all day. She probably has no idea how much information circulates in a room like this."

"And someone like that, becoming the Grand Duchess? Being Grand Duchess is practically the pinnacle of society. Not that position is everything, of course. Still, I absolutely cannot accept it."

"But will anything change just because we don't accept it? What matters is His Highness's heart."

"……"

And that was precisely the problem.

They could protest all they liked — call it unthinkable, call it incomprehensible — but the moment those two held their wedding, the matter would be settled.

By then, the very women trading these barbs would be wagging their tails and wearing pleasant smiles as if they'd never said a word.

It was simply the way of high society, and there was no helping it.

"Come to think of it, Countess Oscar — you have an acquaintance in the Marchioness of Zacherete, don't you? You mentioned you were classmates at the Academy."

Sylvia nodded with a gentle smile.

"Yes. That's right."

"Ah, if only the Marchioness had learned even a fraction of what you have, Countess."

"Quite. That's the one bright spot, really — that she counts among her friends a woman hailed as the model of noble ladyhood, like yourself, Countess Oscar."

"Well, whether the Marchioness will actually bother to learn is another question. Her mercantile talents, perhaps. But beyond that…"

A ripple of mocking laughter spread among the ladies.

Then one of them turned to the Countess Oscar, who had gone conspicuously quiet.

"Tell me, my lady — did you know?"

"Pardon? Ah, well…"

Flustered, Sylvia covered her mouth with her handkerchief and smiled awkwardly, letting her lashes fall and brushing a strand of hair back — every gesture polished to perfection.

The ladies' gazes clung to each of those graceful, accomplished-lady movements, their eyes full of admiration.

"No. I hadn't heard a word of it. That's why I'm so taken aback right now."

"Goodness. She didn't even tell her own friend? Isn't that a little suspicious, to say the least?"

"Undoubtedly. Something is going on. Unless she truly only became a priestess as a child would."

"Oh my, how audacious."

The noblewomen and young ladies fell to whispering in chorus — though all it produced, in the end, was more slander.

It was a perfectly ordinary tea party scene.

Inside the swaying carriage.

Sylvia, who had been frozen stiff with her mouth pressed shut the entire ride, finally bit down on her lip.

"…It's absurd. Of all people — Erna Zacherete and Bernstein."

Even now, on her way home, her heart felt heavy. Her breathing grew ragged, and her heart pounded like mad.

And what was that? The pinnacle of society? Erna Zacherete… standing above me?

In high society, of all places?

"Absolutely not."

Strength gathered in Sylvia's eyes as she vowed she would never yield on that one point.

No wonder. Things have felt off ever since I ran into the Grand Duke at the Marchioness's residence, when I went to see her about Jerold.

When the article ran the next day, and the reports about the two of them kept coming, she had truly nearly lost her mind.

What is it about that girl, anyway?!

In high society, a husband's standing mattered — and so did one's family connections — but what mattered most of all was one's own capability.

On that score, Sylvia prided herself on having spared no effort.

How she had suffered, hiding her true nature to become the perfect young lady, the perfect noblewoman at all times — honeyed and gentle, yet dignified enough never to be underestimated.

And the result: a marriage proposal from the wealthy Count Oscar, and her rise to the seat of Countess.

All of it was the fruit of her own labor.

And Erna Zacherete?

She's not without a head for business, but in the end she got this far by leaning on her parents' fortune and title… And now she means to claim even the seat of Grand Duchess without lifting a finger?

It was unfair.

Erna Zacherete deserved to struggle far more than she had.

So thinking, Sylvia stepped into the manor.

"Ah, Sylvia. There you are. I was just waiting for you."

"What is it, darling?"

A dignified, mature-looking man appeared at that moment on the second floor landing — Count Oscar, beaming as he welcomed her home.

At her husband's greeting, Sylvia flushed faintly and arranged her face into practiced delight.

There were a few things that caught her eye — the wrinkles at the corners of his mouth, his slightly thinning hair — but he was a man whose steady gaze and calm smile radiated the intellectual charm and dignity that were his signature.

And what did an age gap matter, anyway?

Thanks to his competence, the Count's business was doing reasonably well, and Sylvia lived far more comfortably than she ever had in her family home.

She smiled softly and approached her husband.

"You said you were acquainted with the Marchioness of Zacherete?"

"Pardon?"

Erna again?

Sylvia expertly smoothed the muscle twitching at the corner of her mouth.

"Ah, yes. That's right."

"Exactly how close were you two?"

"We were roommates at the Academy. She — the Marchioness, I mean — was so awkward with people that I always looked after her."

"Is that so? Well, well."

The corners of Count Oscar's mouth curled upward considerably.

"Good work. Keep staying close to the Marchioness from now on."

"I'm sorry?"

"I heard from an acquaintance who serves at the palace — it seems His Majesty is quite serious about this marriage. If the Marchioness really does wed the Grand Duke, House Zacherete will wield staggering power."

Ah — not that it isn't considerable already.

The Count grinned.

But the smile had vanished from Sylvia's face.

"Is it… truly such an enormous thing?"

"Of course it is. The union of the empire's one and only ducal house with the wealthiest marquisate in Orden? Every noble in the empire is dying for a connection to them."

"But… Erna is just Erna."

At that cautious rebellion, the Count regarded her in silence for a moment.

Then he seemed to let out a careless sigh, ran a hand through his hair, and spoke.

"Come to think of it, your father always did look down on the Marchioness of Zacherete rather oddly. I let it slide because she was your friend."

The Count's eyes glittered.

"The Marchioness of Zacherete is a remarkable woman. She built her enterprises into something this impressive at her age, and established herself as head of her house. Believe me, that is no small feat."

"……"

"She's a young woman, yes, but I think there's a great deal to learn from her. Running a business isn't something just anyone can do…"

"Society isn't something just anyone can do, either."

Sylvia, who had kept her silence, finally spoke up at the continuing litany of Erna's praises.

"There's so much to attend to — thinking ahead, reading the other party's intentions… and the information. Do you know how much valuable information one can gather through society? Not to mention one's connections."

"At her position, people gather on their own without her lifting a finger. And information can simply be bought with money."

"……"

"In any case, I'm counting on you, Sylvia. There's hardly a soul doing business in the capital who hasn't borrowed House Zacherete's hand at least once."

That was how immense Zacherete's financial power was — enough that even the vaunted ducal house could not easily overshadow it.

"I'm fortunate to have you as my wife. I suppose I ought to benefit from my connections through you, like everyone else does. Haha."

And with a wink — so, do take good care of it, won't you? — the Count turned and strolled away.

Entirely oblivious to how completely his wife's heart was boiling over, blackening as it burned.

Erna. Erna. ERNA! What is it about that girl, anyway?!

She tried, somehow, to hold on to her reason — and failed.

"AAAAAGH!"

Back in her room, Sylvia hurled the handbag she'd been carrying onto the carpet.

The servants, startled by a side of their mistress they had never seen, exchanged uneasy glances and slipped out.

She had played the perfect noblewoman even within her own household — but just now, she had no room for such pretense.

All of it was Erna Zacherete's fault.

"I'll have to do something. Anything. Because if I don't…"

Scritch. Sylvia raked her nail across her fingertip and murmured low.

The graceful smile she had maintained all these years was long gone.

How much time passed like that?

"Ah — come to think of it."

Her eyes curved into crescents. Without another moment's delay, Sylvia yanked the bell cord.

"You there."

"Yes, my lady. Is there anything you need?"

Having once more wrung every trace of venom from her voice, she summoned the maid in soft, cultured tones.

"Go to Count Valentine's residence this very moment and give Jerold a message. Tell him I wish to see him now. Ah — and one more thing."

"……?"

"Tell him to bring the 'ring' when he comes. He'll understand what I mean."

"Yes, my lady."

Having issued her orders, Sylvia turned away.

A cunning smile curled across her lips.