Commander of the Imperial Knights, Jerome Crowner (2)
“What was your name again? Was it Rayna?”
“It is Rachel, not Rayna, Commander.”
His short-cropped crimson hair and rugged, masculine features suited him almost too well. His massive frame and corded muscles, thick with bulging veins, made it hard to believe he was already past forty.
‘They say women still flock to him even at his age, and I can certainly see why.’
Meanwhile, the Vice Commander, who had followed him into the room, answered on my behalf before casting a sideways glance in my direction.
“She is the nanny to the Third Prince, Commander.”
“A nanny?”
At the word nanny, one of the Duke’s thick brows arched upward.
“Right. And what business does the imperial prince’s nanny have with me?”
Having evidently just returned from training, the Duke was clad in loose, comfortable attire and dripping with sweat. Roughly wiping away the perspiration with a towel handed to him by the Vice Commander, he flopped heavily onto the sofa. There was not a shred of aristocratic decorum to be found in his posture.
‘Not that it surprises me in the slightest.’
After all, the Jerome Crowner I remembered had always been that kind of man.
“Ah, I haven't even offered my guest a seat. Sit down. And you, bring us some tea.”
“Yes, Commander.”
Issuing every command with a dismissive flick of his chin, he shot me a look that silently questioned why I was still standing there. Taking the cue, I quietly lowered myself onto the sofa opposite him.
Right then, Jerome’s booming voice drifted over my head.
“Well now, how fascinating. A mere nanny with more nerve than my own men.”
Only then did I realize that I had momentarily forgotten the vast chasm between the Duke's station and my own. As I moved to rise hurriedly from my seat, the Duke waved a broad hand with an easygoing grin.
“Come now, forget the formalities. I didn't even bother to remember your name properly, so let’s call it even in rudeness.”
Then you shouldn't have brought it up in the first place.
Concealing my irritation behind a composed facade, I rose to my feet and bowed my head respectfully.
“…It is an honor to meet you. I am Rachel Brown.”
“I already heard that your name was Rachel and not Rayna. I'm not that much of a birdbrain.”
Crossing his legs with both arms draped casually across the back of the sofa, he looked thoroughly arrogant.
“So, what is this favor you wish to ask of me?”
Ordering tea only to dive straight into business before the cups had even arrived.
‘Impatient as ever.’
Sitting demurely, I met his piercing grey eyes head-on.
“It concerns Prince Edwin.”
At the mention of Edwin's name, Jerome’s brow furrowed slightly, a clear flicker of discomfort washing over his features.
“His Highness…”
“Hold on.”
Jerome raised an open palm without hesitation, cutting me off as though he already knew what I intended to say.
“Let me make one thing clear beforehand. I have no interest in tedious roles like becoming a prince’s swordsmanship tutor. I already turned down my own sister’s plea, you see.”
Before even hearing my proposition, Jerome ran a hand through his hair, his face brimmed with haughtiness.
“I refused to be the sword instructor for my one and only nephew. So if you came to ask for something similar, you’d better turn right back—”
“Rest assured, Commander. I did not come to ask for such a favor.”
“You didn't?”
Caught off guard by my response, one of Jerome's brows quirked inquisitively.
“Then what request could you possibly have regarding the Third Prince? There shouldn't be anything else.”
Just as I was about to reply, the door swung open again. The Vice Commander, who had gone to fetch refreshments, stepped back inside accompanied by a young squire. On the tray the boy held were steaming tea and delicate confections.
“I have brought the tea, Commander.”
“Ah, good work. Set it down and see yourselves out.”
At the Commander’s nod, the squire hurried forward to place the teacup on the table. It was at that precise moment—
“Ah—!”
Overcome by nerves, the squire lost his grip. The teacup slipped from his trembling hands and tumbled through the air.
Straight toward my right thigh.
“Look out—!”
Both the squire and the Vice Commander lunged forward in sheer panic. Yet I moved faster than either of them could comprehend. Instinct screamed at me to snatch the falling cup midair and catch the splashing, boiling tea before a single drop hit the floor—
‘No, stop!’
A nanny was not supposed to possess martial reflexes.
With superhuman willpower, I forcibly suppressed my instincts.
The teacup slammed into my lap, and scalding tea soaked completely through the fabric of my skirt.
“A-Are you alright?!”
“Quick, fetch a cloth!”
Flustered, the knights scrambled in total disarray, utterly at a loss. I took the towel the squire thrust into my hands and vigorously dabbed at my damp thigh.
“S-Should I fetch an ice pack?!”
“It is not that severe. Thank you for your concern.”
“P-Perhaps it would be best for you to return today, wash up, and change your clothes…”
“No.”
I shook my head with resolute firmness.
“I came today to ask a favor of His Grace the Duke. I have no intention of leaving until he grants it.”
“Step back, boy.”
At my words, Duke Crowner waved the squire away. His gaze flicked down to my drenched skirts, his brow knitting into a deep scowl.
“My apologies for that. But are you truly unharmed?”
“I am fine.”
“Did you get burned?”
“I do not believe so.”
In response to Jerome's question, I deliberately let a faint note of agitation seep into my voice.
“Even if it did burn, a thigh is hardly an area exposed to public view, so it truly does not matter. It will not impede my prospects of marriage, after all.”
For an unmarried noblewoman, suffering severe burn scars was catastrophic, as the Empire’s nobility rarely looked favorably upon brides whose bodies bore disfiguring marks. I had intentionally brought up marriage to magnify his guilt—and it seemed to work like a charm.
“Cough, hrmph.”
Pangs of conscience clearly pricking him, Jerome cleared his throat repeatedly.
“Very well. Out with it, then.”
Steam was still rising lazily from the newly poured teacup on the table.
“What favor could possibly be so important that you would insist upon it so stubbornly?”
“…Will you grant it?”
Jerome seemed to mull it over for a brief second before letting out an exasperated sigh.
“I’ll grant it. So long as it isn't something ridiculous like demanding an audience with His Majesty the Emperor or asking me to become the Third Prince's sword instructor.”
“Rest assured. I would never ask such a thing.”
A triumphant smile curved my lips at his concession.
“Instead, I ask only that you allow His Highness to join the knights' training for just three months.”
“Commander, do you genuinely intend to grant that woman’s request?”
“Why shouldn't I? She only asked to squeeze him into basic training.”
Perched on the edge of his office desk, Jerome, Commander of the Gloria Knights, flipped through a stack of paperwork as he spoke.
“It’s not like she asked me to mentor him personally, so it doesn't matter.”
“Still!”
“Besides, she claimed the Third Prince requested it himself. I have no real pretext to refuse.”
“The Second Imperial Consort will not let this slide. If Her Highness discovers that you rejected her own petition while accepting the Third Prince’s…”
“You’re getting older, Philip, and your worrying is growing right along with your years.”
He scoffed dryly at the words of his Vice Commander, Philip.
The woman who, upon having her request for her son's sword instructor rejected, had dared to threaten him by dredging up his 'true heritage.' While he had certainly been startled by her abrupt blackmail, he had never felt genuinely threatened. In the first place, his origins were an open secret known to anyone who cared to know. He had no reason whatsoever to fear her.
“Since when have I ever walked on eggshells around that Radcliffe wench?”
“…My apologies, Commander.”
“Come now, what’s there to apologize for?”
Jerome waved it off as if it were of no consequence. Yet Philip hesitated, clearly reluctant to drop the matter.
“Even so, this does not sit right with me. This is the Third Prince we are speaking of, not even the First Prince. It is best that we do not get entangled with him.”
“And why do you think that?”
“You know as well as I do, Commander. There are only three years left until the Crown Prince is officially invested. To make a move in a climate like this…”
Jerome cut Philip off mid-sentence.
“Right. You’re worried that taking the side of the Third Prince—who isn't even considered a viable contender for the throne in this political climate—might bring trouble upon our order, is that it?”
Two contenders stood vying for the throne in the current imperial court: the First Prince, Adrian Sapiens Ventrum, and the Second Prince, Lloyd Cataronian Ventrum.
Third Prince Edwin, shunned by the Emperor and utterly devoid of political backing, had long since been cast out of contention. Furthermore, the power struggle between the First and Second Princes was rapidly escalating toward its absolute peak. In the midst of such turmoil, the Gloria Knights, commanded by none other than the Empress’s own elder brother, had declared absolute neutrality.
“As you decreed, Commander, we pledged our swords in loyalty to His Majesty the Emperor alone. To suddenly involve the Third Prince…”
“I understand your concerns, but don't lose sleep over it. Even if we throw him into training, how many days do you think that frail little prince will last?”
Jerome continued in an indifferent drawl.
“After two or three days of grueling hell alongside the Third Order commoner recruits, he’ll pack up and quit on his own. All we have to do then is kick him out.”
Seeing Jerome speak with such finality, Philip could only heave a sigh and step back.
“Understood. Then I will notify the knights in advance.”
“Do that. And tell them not to make any unnecessary fuss or try to act familiar if they run into the Third Prince. I despise complicated nuisances above all else.”
“Yes, Commander.”
With a brisk, respectful nod, the Vice Commander turned and departed the office.
Left alone in the quiet room, Jerome recalled the woman he had just spoken with.
‘The Third Prince's nanny, Rachel Brown.’
A profoundly ordinary name, paired with an equally common surname. A slender, delicate frame that seemed ready to collapse at a tap, complemented by an endlessly docile demeanor. Yet somehow, she was an oddly unsettling woman who grated on his instincts.
Jerome thought back to the composure she had displayed even after scalding tea had been dumped across her lap.
“…Perhaps I ought to mention this to His Majesty first.”
Gazing out the window with razor-sharp eyes, Jerome finally pushed himself up from the desk. He stretched languidly, his massive frame unfurling like a lion stirring from slumber.
“Urrgh—desk work truly doesn't suit my blood. Time for some sparring.”
Yawning and smacking his lips, Jerome scooped up the sword leaning beside him. It was not at all difficult to envision his subordinates, who had only just finished their previous bout with him, screaming in terror once again.