The Emerald Bishop, Chapter 15
‘He’s done well for himself.’
Duke Gerard lifted his eyelids a fraction and peered through the thick haze of smoke at his grandson. The young man was sorting documents with ruthless efficiency, barely pausing as his aide supplied additional details. It might have stung, watching the boy who was the very image of his own late son dismantle the fortune and prestige Gerard had spent a lifetime building, yet the duke often found himself slipping into precisely this kind of melancholy reverie.
At first his face had flushed with anger, but as the minutes passed and the assets were reduced to bargain prices, he began to observe the scene as though his spirit had already left his body.
‘Cold, perhaps, but he never crossed the line.’
The wide-eyed child who had once gazed at him with such longing had grown into this towering figure who now claimed the Maderson name and holdings as his own in a single stroke. Gerard frowned and ground the lit cigar into the ashtray.
“Your Grace, are you unwell?”
Gerard shot a sharp glare at his aide’s ingratiating face.
“Why? What about me?”
“Your color seems a little—”
“You look remarkably comfortable yourself.”
The air in the study chilled instantly. Even so, the only sound was the steady scratch of Niguel’s pen across paper, and that only irritated Gerard further. At last he could contain himself no longer.
“How could my color be good when he’s stripping everything away like this?”
Niguel did not so much as glance up. He simply moved the last signed folder aside. Even from across the room, Gerard could tell the documents concerned the munitions business.
“I will purchase them all with my personal funds.”
It was the first time Niguel had spoken since entering the room.
“The shipyard, the mine, and now the munitions works as well? All out of your own pocket? Ridiculous!”
Niguel jerked his chin toward the aide without ceremony.
“Bring something to eat.”
The aide, recognizing a clear dismissal, placed the contract bearing Niguel’s signature on Gerard’s desk and fled.
Gerard flipped through the folder with a flick of his wrist. He pulled out a single sheet, glanced at it without interest, then began folding it absently. The words escaped him almost against his will.
“Boris’s daughter is here.”
“You certainly took your time mentioning it.”
“What can I do? Theophany is here as well.”
Gerard looked up with a mischievous glint in his narrowed eyes.
“They say she’s been unwell because of you.”
He took a certain satisfaction in watching his grandson’s chest expand and then slowly deflate.
“You know exactly what kind of trouble she’ll stir up, yet you still intend to accompany her on the hunt? What will you do if something worse happens?”
“You already knew she fell from her horse on purpose.”
“It would be stranger if I didn’t.”
“If you’re so clever, why couldn’t you prevent Basil’s death? You foresaw it.”
Gerard’s hand, which had been shaping the contract into something unrecognizable, froze as he reached for his now-cold tea.
“I foresaw Basil’s death?”
“Didn’t you say it yourself? That some trivial, unrelated accident could sweep through the entire Maderson household.”
Ignoring Niguel’s sigh, Gerard stared down at the finished paper boat.
“If only everything could be folded into shape this easily. Then you wouldn’t have needed to leave the country at all.”
“I would have gone abroad even after the warship was completed.”
The curt reply, devoid of any warmth, drew a weary laugh from Gerard.
“I suppose you would have. The survival of the house depended on it.”
He rose, leaving the paper boat on the desk, and walked to the window. Out of habit he rolled the end of a fresh cigar between his fingers and glanced back.
“Are you all right?”
“……It was seven years ago.”
“You still have the scar!”
“Thanks to it, I can walk without trouble. Please stop blaming yourself.”
Even as he spoke, Niguel did not look at him. Gerard studied his grandson instead—the sole heir, leaning against the chair where his jacket hung, sweeping the hair from his forehead, rolling down his shirtsleeves to reveal the thick cords of muscle beneath.
Almost without thinking, Gerard murmured, “When I saw her, I thought I was seeing Boris again.”
Only then did Niguel turn his gaze toward him, but Gerard did not notice.
“That insolent face of his, pressing a spent cartridge against me and making threats. How dare he, in this house.”
The cigar crumbled to dust in his trembling fingers.
Niguel paused while fastening his cufflinks.
“Do you still have that cartridge?”
Gerard whirled around, face reddening with disbelief at the absurd question.
“What? I threw it into the furnace. It’s probably rolling around somewhere as a lump of metal.”
Gerard’s expression darkened further. He dropped the ruined cigar onto the floor.
“I could have removed him, yet I didn’t. He died, you returned, and for a moment I thought we could finally breathe again. And now, of all things, you’re marrying someone just as troublesome?”
“The announcement is imminent. I need to keep attention to a minimum until the demonstration is over. Once that’s done, I can finally expand the armored vehicle’s mobility as I’ve always wanted.”
“So you’re enduring it. Even after hearing that ridiculous marriage news.”
Gerard lit a new cigar and stared blankly into the drifting smoke, remembering that day.
“I put you on the ship while you were still unconscious, as though sending you into exile. I wished it had all been a nightmare.”
He shook his head weakly, eyes still clouded with disbelief.
“It feels as though that dead man is still hovering around. It’s unpleasant.”
The face he turned toward his grandson was etched with deeper worry than before, making him look years older.
“I don’t want any further entanglement. I’ll handle Theophany. From what I’ve seen, she’ll accept it without much resistance.”
Niguel merely pushed his cold tea aside with an indifferent expression.
Gerard was about to press for a clearer answer when a knock sounded and the heavy paneled door opened without a sound.
Gerard brightened at the sight of Carlo entering briskly.
“You’ve finally arrived. Mr. Merrow, did you bring what I asked for?”
Only then did Carlo seem to register Niguel’s presence. He turned to him in alarm.
“The summons was sudden…… I was going to report it.”
“Report what?”
Before Carlo could stammer a reply, Gerard spoke.
“A written assurance that even if a child is born, it will not inherit the Maderson name. Magar Castle was offered as alimony.”
Niguel’s gaze slid slowly back to Carlo.
“So? Did you sign it?”
“Pardon? Ah, yes. I’ll fetch it right away—”
Niguel cut him off with a decisive gesture.
“Bring her so we can finish this.”
Carlo, understanding at once, spun on his heel and hurried out.
Through the closing door, Niguel’s voice followed.
“From now on, do not summon my people without my knowledge.”
* * *
“These are the samples and catalogs sent from the dressmaker and the department store. You may mark the numbers of anything you like. Of course, you can also note any special requests or measurements.”
The maid, who looked to be about Kayla’s age, introduced herself as Cindy. She had a neat, tidy appearance that suited the deep-blue maid’s uniform, and she added that she would be attending exclusively to Kayla during her stay at Archerfield.
Handbags, shoes, jewelry, even undergarments. It would take days to go through all the catalogs. The actual items were even more overwhelming—boxes and garment racks filled nearly the entire drawing room.
Kayla decided to choose only what was immediately necessary from the samples. For the next several hours she tried on clothes and shoes with Cindy’s help.
Finally she wrote down the measurements for her ring and middle fingers on a sheet of paper bearing the department store’s label.
She had just finished when word arrived that the duke had invited her to dinner. She hurried to prepare for the evening meal.
“Shall I draw your bath?”
Kayla politely declined; she did not wish to show her hideous scars to anyone. Cindy seemed to understand that Kayla found it awkward to be attended during bathing and accepted her wishes without protest.
When Kayla emerged from the bathroom, two entirely different dresses awaited her—cocktail dresses she had earlier dismissed, thinking there would be no occasion to wear them.
Cindy tilted her head, studying Kayla’s expression.
“Is there a dress you have in mind?”
“I’m not sure. This is my first dinner at Archerfield, so I don’t know what the atmosphere will be like.”
She hesitated between a low-saturation red dress and a blue chiffon with a grayish cast. Cindy unfolded the red dress.
“Her Highness the Princess will be dressed quite splendidly, so perhaps—”
“Cindy.”
The maid froze at the serious tone and turned.
“It’s only dinner. With the duke.”
Cindy’s cheeks flushed. She bowed and held up the blue chiffon dress instead.
“His Grace prefers garments that are elegant and refined.”
“You have excellent taste.”
Once Kayla accepted the dress, Cindy set about dressing her with every ounce of skill she possessed.
A brief knock sounded, and the door to the private sitting room opened.
The man who made everyone tense stepped inside and regarded the elegant Kayla with a slow, appraising look before offering a faint smile.