Chapter 31
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 31
"You’ve had a bit too much to drink, Sir Julian."
A towering shadow loomed between Harriet and Julian.
Julian, who had been scowling in irritation, flinched the moment he saw the interloper.
"D-Duke Kailas...!"
Even in his stupor, the fact that he recognized the man instantly suggested he wasn't nearly as drunk as he pretended to be.
As Harriet and Julian both froze, Cedric slowly approached, his gaze pinned on Julian.
"Is something the matter? Your voice hardly suits a pleasant party such as this."
"N-no, not at all! Haha! I suppose my voice simply grew a bit loud out of joy. It’s been so long since I’ve seen an old acquaintance."
At that absurd excuse, Cedric glanced toward Harriet.
"Joy at seeing an old acquaintance, you say... It seems the two of you are well-acquainted."
"Ah, w-well, not exactly... Haha!"
Julian broke into a profuse sweat, his eyes darting frantically around the room. Suddenly, he waved his hand toward a distant, empty spot. "Oh! Long time no see!" he shouted, subtly backing away.
"Someone I know is calling for me, so I must be going...!"
With that, he vanished into the crowd with a hurried stride.
Harriet clicked her tongue as she watched Julian’s retreating back. He was in full flight. The man who had been so domineering and threatening just moments ago had tucked his tail between his legs the second someone more powerful and physically imposing appeared.
She couldn't decide whether to feel relieved that the encounter had ended or bitter that her predicament made her such an easy target for threats.
Sensing a heavy gaze, she turned her head to find Cedric staring intently at her.
"They say people change after a stay at Saint Clarissa Convent. It seems the rumors were true. I barely recognize you."
She couldn't quite pinpoint what had changed, but judging by the man’s condescending look, it wasn't a compliment.
Perhaps he means, ‘Do you think you’ve actually changed just because your new guardian dressed you in expensive clothes?’
To the esteemed Duke, my life must seem pathetic and vulgar. But you know what? I don’t like you either.
Harriet barely suppressed the urge to let her lips curl into a sneer.
"I don’t know about others, but my life has been overturned so drastically it’s unrecognizable. The grace of Yawar is boundless."
"I didn't realize you were so deeply devout."
"To be precise, perhaps Your Grace knows nothing about me at all?"
Cedric let out a small laugh. It wasn't quite a sneer, but there was no warmth in it either.
"It would seem so. All your actions are quite unexpected."
His words remained carefully ambiguous, hovering in the uncomfortable space between an insult and a compliment.
But if it makes me feel this bad, it’s probably closer to an insult, isn't it?
Harriet had no desire to speak with Cedric any longer. He had been the catalyst for her last scandal; getting entangled with him again at her first social event back in High Society would only invite unnecessary trouble.
"In any case, thank you for your assistance. I believe it would be best if I removed myself from Your Grace’s sight, lest I tarnish your esteemed name. Have a pleasant evening."
Harriet grasped the hem of her skirt, offered a brief, polite curtsy, and walked away without a backward glance.
Neither of them noticed Julian watching from afar, his eyes wide with shock.
*
Left alone, Cedric leaned against the terrace railing.
"Did you see Harriet Listerwell? She’s become a completely different person! No, she’s still as brazen as ever—perhaps even more so than before."
He had only just arrived at the party when he overheard a nearby lady speaking with an air of exasperation. His interest had been piqued by the name 'Harriet Listerwell.'
So she really did leave the convent. I’d heard she was returning to Genoa, but to jump straight back into High Society...
He tried to dismiss the thought.
However, as his gaze swept over the attendees, it landed on a man with the distinct air of a swindler. He was earnestly explaining something to a woman in a green dress.
Greg Lambert? He must be hunting for a victim to rope into his family’s business.
Greg was known for boasting and exaggerating to naive country nobles or wealthy noblewomen, siphoning off their investment funds. Of course, if the Lambert family’s business actually succeeded, it wouldn't be fraud—it would be a genuine high-yield investment. The problem was that the chances of success were abysmal.
But that was simply the Lambert family’s way of doing business, and the responsibility for any investment ultimately lay with the individual. All he could do was hope the woman in the green dress would make a wise choice.
Though it looks like she’s about to fall for it.
Seeing her nodding diligently and asking questions during Greg’s spiel, it seemed the woman was already halfway convinced by his bluster.
It wasn't his concern. Cedric turned away to exchange greetings with the acquaintances who had just approached him. He inquired about their lives and well-being, exchanging information disguised as light conversation while sipping champagne.
"Marquess Pascal didn't come today, I see."
The first thing Cedric checked was the status of Marquess Pascal—the man who had tried to cut off supply lines during the war, and had once succeeded.
"Count Hayward is here instead. He mentioned that the Marquess couldn't make it due to his chronic gout."
"They say severe gout feels like being sliced by a knife. Could it be the price for opposing the Late Duke?"
Cedric let out a cold scoff.
"I don't intend to let him off the hook for mere gout. What do you suggest?"
Due to the Marquess’s incessant obstruction and near-treasonous acts, Rowan had suffered greatly and ultimately lost his life on the battlefield. Was he expected to feel pity for a man whining about joint pain while comfortably ensconced in his mansion?
In any case, I only need to keep an eye on Count Hayward today.
He already had men assigned to the matter, so it seemed he wouldn't have much to do at the party. One might think he could simply relax and enjoy himself, but Cedric loathed such occasions. Idly chattering without purpose was far too tedious.
Unable to bear it, he glanced at his watch and was inwardly surprised.
Only five minutes have passed?
The thought of enduring this until midnight made him sigh involuntarily. While he feigned a sip of his champagne, keeping his mouth shut, his acquaintances began to gossip amongst themselves.
"Oh! I saw that young lady earlier. Harriet Listerwell. Countess Fellon brought her, didn't she?"
It was Harriet Listerwell again. Not talk of the 'flowers of High Society,' but gossip about the scandal maker who had once been exiled from Genoa. At this rate, she was the most popular person in the room. It was hardly surprising; slandering others was always more entertaining than praising them.
"I heard Countess Fellon is the girl's new guardian."
"What? That’s rather odd. Given the Countess's personality, there’s no way she’d take in a grand-niece who does nothing but cause scandals."
That was true. Trisha Fellon was not the type to take a troublemaker into her home out of pity or some minor past connection.
"I’ve never touched a failing business."
The Countess's famous confidence implied that her assessment of Harriet Listerwell differed significantly from the rest of the world's. But what exactly had she found 'worth investing in'?
Cedric slowly recalled what he knew of Harriet.
For a woman rumored to chase after men, she was strangely haughty. She was also the only woman who didn't avert her eyes from mine.
Her challenging question to him—"Why? Is it funny?"—had been a fresh shock.
Had Trisha found something in that audacity? But was it truly worth enduring the ridicule of High Society?
Meanwhile, the conversation continued.
"She’s become prettier. I don’t know what she did at that convent, but her blotchy skin has completely cleared up."
"And the dress she wore today suited her so well, didn't it? It was a green silk gown; the price must have been considerable. Countess Fellon probably—"
At the mention of a 'green silk dress,' Cedric’s gaze drifted toward where Greg Lambert had been standing earlier. Greg had been spouting his nonsense to a woman in a striking green dress.
As he scanned the area, he saw the hem of that very dress disappearing toward the far terrace.
Cedric idly swirled his nearly empty champagne glass before handing it to a passing servant.
"Would you like another glass, Your Grace?" the servant asked.
Cedric looked toward the terrace again, then shook his head.
"I’d like to check the vintage of the champagne being served out there. Where can I get a glass?"