Chapter 106
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 106
※ The file for Chapter 105 of <Garden of May> has been replaced with a corrected version as of December 21st. If you delete and redownload the chapter, you will be able to read the revised version. Please keep this in mind when using our service.
Suppressing a sudden chill, Theodore slowly wiped the exhaustion from his face. He checked his reflection one last time to adjust his clothes, then turned and headed for the banquet hall where the charity event was in full swing.
The moment the doors opened, brilliant light stabbed at his sensitive eyes. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, and in that instant, click—the sharp snap of a camera shutter echoed in the hall. He reflexively turned toward the sound and saw a massive lens aimed directly at him.
"Look this way, please!"
Even over the clamor of the banquet, the reporter's voice was piercingly loud. The shutter clicked several more times in rapid succession. Theodore stared at the man, his expression frozen, not even thinking to shield his face.
Unexpected shocks always dredged up memories, tearing through his defenses. In an instant, he felt as if he were standing in the freezing rain again. That winter, the cold, damp air of the cemetery. The sea of black-clad mourners. The reporters clamoring to wring a single tear from an eight-year-old boy. The endless line of cameras, the blinding flashes, the relentless shutter snaps, the barrage of provocative questions, and the heavy hand of the Dowager Duchess pressing down on his shoulder. That crushing, inescapable grip.
"You must endure."
A hollow, silent laugh escaped him. He really must be exhausted. It was an unwelcome memory, dragged to the surface by a momentary lapse in vigilance. He knew instantly that any reaction here would be a mistake. He was about to start walking again when—
"Wait! Your Grace! I have a question for you!"
Dodging the approaching guards, the reporter ducked under the velvet rope and shouted, his voice booming off the domed ceiling of the banquet hall.
"Please tell us why you recently changed your business investment strategy! Are you aware of the claims that this is a precursor to your exile?"
Theodore narrowed his eyes, studying the reporter. The man was incredibly young, looking like an apprentice who had barely finished his training, yet he held a state-of-the-art portable camera that had only recently hit the market. The motive was transparent. He was a disposable pawn, sent to take the fall alone. If Theodore took the bait, all the better for whoever sent him.
"I do not believe this is the appropriate time to express my views."
"Ah! Then does your recent passive stance stem from some other change of heart...?"
"Drag that bastard out!"
"According to rumors, in the early hours of yesterday morning, you deployed troops to Delta Port—Wait, wait! Let go of me! Your Grace... Your Grace!"
Guards swarmed the reporter, flanking him on both sides. Several guests frowned as the man was dragged away, his mouth gagged. After the brief disturbance, the violins resumed playing.
"Must have been one of those radical nationalists."
A man approached, offering him a glass of champagne. Theodore accepted it with an unbothered expression and returned the greeting.
"I am glad it did not escalate."
"These are turbulent times. And Your Grace's face is well-known now."
Murmurs of concern rippled through the crowd—whispering about what might have happened if that had been a gun instead of a camera—but by the time they faded, the King's congratulatory address had begun. As the crowd raised their glasses and laughed, Theodore loosened the tie constricting his throat. His mind had already returned to the incident.
The reporter had desperately shielded his camera even as he was being dragged away. That meant his primary objective had been the photograph. Before his engagement was announced, Theodore's picture had never once appeared in the newspapers—except for the hours he’d spent being photographed at the funeral when he was eight. If the photo was just for a gossip magazine, it was harmless. But if that wasn't the goal... Theodore dug his nails into the wound on his palm, the sharp pain forcing his frayed thoughts back into focus.
"My deepest apologies, Your Grace."
A middle-aged man, only just now noticing the commotion, hurried over with a polite bow. Theodore stared at the pale-faced man with cold, sunken eyes. It was Viscount Dawson, the host of tonight's charity banquet. He owned The Linden Daily, which explained why the press had been allowed such access in the first place. Furthermore, one of his sons was likely...
Theodore cut the thought short, dismissing the tedious speculation.
"He seemed to be an Ingrian."
"Pardon? Ah, yes. That section was designated for the Ingrian press. Truly, I had no idea such a thing would happen... We finalized all prior arrangements and issued strict warnings. I will immediately revoke that reporter's credentials and ensure nothing like this ever happens again—"
"He took a photograph."
"Pardon?"
Theodore pressed a hand to his throbbing temple. He was going to need another dose of stimulants.
"I would like you to handle it."
The endless excuses were tedious. Besides, there was no proof the reporter was actually with the Ingrian press. What reporter from a legitimate paper would pull such a stunt at a charity event attended by the King himself?
At Dawson's urgent signal, several guards rushed out of the hall. Theodore watched them go before turning and melting back into the crowd.
* * *
Visiting the Duke at this hour. Edgar sighed as he stepped into the hotel elevator. It was well past midnight, an unwelcome extension of his duties. He was so exhausted that under normal circumstances, he would have refused the request, even if it had come from Hailey.
But this was the Dowager Duchess of Battenberg. Her wishes had to be obeyed unconditionally. As the second son of the House of Marlborough, destined to inherit nothing without his older brother's charity, he had no choice.
It had been over seven years since he abandoned the seminary to become the Dowager Duchess's loyal agent. At first, he had clung to a foolish hope. Back then, the Dowager Duchess held absolute power over Battenberg, and her relationship with the Duke was rapidly deteriorating. In those days, Edgar had been brimming with confidence and ambition. Unlike his father, who was content to live passively as a son-in-law of the house, Edgar had been desperate to prove his own worth.
But at some point, that ambition had begun to erode. Especially after he realized that the only "work" the Dowager Duchess expected of him was to spy on the Duke.
Now, his only hope was to inherit at least a fraction of the L.M.C. Railway Company shares she controlled. He had also grown reasonably content with pocketing the extra income he siphoned off right under the Duke's nose.
Sometimes, even the most deep-seated values were bound to change. He gave a nod to the valet guarding the entrance to the study.
"He's still awake, isn't he? Open the door."
"The Duke has ordered that no one be admitted."
"What's he going to do, kill me?"
"Pardon?"
"I'll take full responsibility. Just open the door."
"I am sorry, sir."
Annoyed by the valet's stubbornness, Edgar reined in his temper and produced the Dowager Duchess's letter. Only then did the man hesitate and step aside. As the door swung open, casting a shadow over his face, Edgar reviewed the information he had recently gathered on his cousin.
The man was running himself ragged on an insane schedule. He reported to military headquarters in the morning, attended state council meetings at noon without fail, and spent his afternoons in back-to-back meetings with corporate executives late into the night. Even with such a grueling routine, he had apparently never missed a single joint military training session held for officers at dawn.
Just hearing about the schedule was suffocating. It was less a routine and more a form of self-flagellation, a severe obsession. And Edgar could only think of one reason for his cousin's drastic change.
'Because that woman ran away.'
Edgar knit his brows, trying to recall Lady Vanessa. What did she look like again? Rumored to be one of the most beautiful women in Ingram, she rarely appeared in high society. Perhaps that was why she felt less like a real person and more like a phantom conjured from sordid rumors—whispers born of her low status and the vulgar fantasies of men who wanted to take advantage of her.
While those who had caught a glimpse of Lady Vanessa clamored to praise her face and figure, almost nothing was known about her personality. No one even seemed to know the color of her eyes.
Had the Duke truly ruined himself over a woman like that? Edgar scoffed at the thought as he walked. It was absurd. Sure, a man might feel some regret after a breakup, but this? It seemed unlikely. Had his cousin ever once shown lingering attachment to anything that had "left" him?
Theodore was not the kind of man to destroy himself over something as trivial as love. Seeing the Duke sitting perfectly composed behind the massive desk in his study, Edgar smirked. See? Nothing to worry about. He's in much better shape than the rumors suggest—
"..."
Or rather, he looked...
"You lunatic."
Edgar stared at his cousin, utterly unable to believe his eyes.