Chapter 31

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Translator: Harry Potta

Chapter: 31

Chapter Title: The Curt Reply

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“D-Duke?”

It was less a question than a threat. Cold sweat beaded on Diane's brow. Fear choked her breath. But it was too late to turn back—she'd already crossed the river.

“I-I was foolish.”

Diane sobbed.

“Our family fortunes suddenly declined, and we needed a large sum of money. I couldn't resist the temptation just once. Just once, I swear. I touched the ledgers. Please believe me, Your Grace.”

Diane shook with convulsive tremors, desperately pleading her case.

“Lady Blanchett found out. She used it as leverage to...”

“A waste of time.”

Johann rose from his seat. He gave a low order to the police chief standing beside him.

“Handle the charges as you see fit.”

“Understood.”

Handle the charges as he saw fit. It meant no mere embezzlement wrap-up. If he wanted her on the gallows, this man could fabricate anything.

Tears streamed down Diane's face, now shrouded in terror.

“Your Grace!”

Diane shot to her feet and threw herself at Johann's knees, clinging desperately.

“Please believe me! I was just following orders... I mean, Lady Leopold...”

Johann's brow furrowed in disgust, and the officers rushed in, dragging her back and forcing her into the chair.

“Your Grace!”

Diane wailed like a banshee.

“Diane Brooke.”

From the shadows beyond the lantern's reach, a voice called her name.

For the first time, hearing it was as sweet as she'd imagined. If only this weren't an interrogation room, it would have been perfect. Reality was far too cruel.

“To think you saw me as such a fool.”

One hand in his pocket, he approached slowly. His footsteps thudded heavily.

Leaning over the table, his face emerged into the light. Cold eyes pierced her sharply. Diane held her breath.

“I'm quite curious how you treated my wife.”

“W-Wait. Your Grace! Your Grace!”

Diane stood to grab the man turning away coldly. Officers roughly pinned her shoulders.

She groaned but still cried out to Johann.

“Your Grace!!!”

With a heavy clang, the interrogation room's iron door opened and slammed shut. Pale-faced, Diane trembled violently.

“Would you mind confirming this, Miss Brooke?”

It was Morris.

Diane stared blankly at the documents he placed before her. Fund flows into the Brooke family accounts. Confessions from her accomplice fence. Their transaction ledgers. Nothing registered.

Then, at the edge of her vision, a single postcard-sized letter. Diane reached out, hands shaking, and lifted it. Her bloodshot eyes burned redder.

Olivia Blanchett.

Childlike, clumsy script, as if only recently learned.

The handwriting of that lowly bastard child, no less.

How dare she.

“Aaagh!”

Her ragged, fury-choked breaths erupted into a roar that echoed down the dark corridor beyond the interrogation room door.

Moving the scandal-ridden Raiden Police Headquarters had become easier than before.

The investigation into Diane Brooke was underway, and the disappearance of the maid who'd left Great Hill—her whereabouts unknown—gained sudden momentum.

Johann closed the bribery ledger he'd been reviewing.

Jack, the fence on Longborn Street, had meticulously recorded the flow of stolen goods he'd handled and the names of every cop he'd bribed.

According to the ledger, the jewels Diane had siphoned off went to a single jeweler.

The buyer, 'Gloria' Jewelers, had long operated by dismantling stolen pieces and reselling them as new designs.

But the pink diamond necklace, infamous from the tragic tale of the twin princesses, they hadn't dared touch.

Little did they know it would be their undoing.

The search turned up Count Carter Elaine as the purchaser of the necklace in question. His wife, Bianca Elaine, was a friend Olivia had made in Britt.

At last, the puzzle clicked into place.

The revealed truth left Johann feeling hollow. A chuckle escaped him.

It felt like getting socked by his ex-wife—square in the unguarded jaw. Yet the feeling wasn't so bad.

Johann ordered Carter Elaine removed from the suspect list. He didn't want Olivia dragged into scandal at the end of it.

He had no desire to reignite his former wife's barely quelled controversy. That was all.

Of course, Olivia had likely sent the letter herself to save Elaine's husband. The outcome was the same regardless.

Johann set the ledger aside, pulled letter paper from a drawer, and laid it out flat. Time to reply.

To Olivia.

His first letter to his wife.

The morning sun fully risen, the Bichen River sparkled with scales of light. Breakfast done, Olivia sat on the window-seat sofa, gazing at the long gift box from Edgar.

A gentle early-summer breeze rustled the lemon-yellow ribbon. Untying the sky-blue box's bow and lifting the lid revealed a pristine white racket.

“Do you like it?”

Mrs. Marie set down the coffee saucer and asked.

Olivia, gripping the racket from the box, looked up at Mrs. Marie with a satisfied smile.

“The grip feels perfect. Like an old friend.”

Olivia stood. Taking a light swing, she marveled repeatedly. It was worlds apart from the hotel rentals.

“I love it.”

The weight was just right—not too light—and the head size ideal.

Her fingers tracing the smooth oval head snagged on something textured. Turning the racket, she saw her initials, Olivia Blanchett, embroidered in white thread on the left shoulder. A soft smile spread.

“Drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

Mrs. Marie watched Olivia's childlike glee a moment, smiled contentedly, and left with the empty tray.

Olivia's eyes lingered on the elegantly embroidered initials. The slanted script was handsome. She wanted to dash to the court and swing it right then.

“M-Miss?”

Anne's urgent cry pierced the morning calm. Olivia glanced at the maid running up, racket in hand. Uncharacteristically flustered.

“What is it, Anne?”

“A-a letter arrived.”

“A letter?”

Olivia's eyes widened slightly. Only Edgar and Elaine knew this address. Maybe from Elaine, curious about the necklace.

Setting the racket aside, Olivia took the letter.

“!”

Atop the elegant stationery in the white envelope's gold-trimmed edge, an elegant hand caught her eye.

Olivia stiffened in shock, as stunned as Anne.

“......No way. How did he find out?”

Olivia had never dreamed her handwriting was distinctive. Johann solving the riddle so neatly was astonishing anew.

“He caught the thief, I bet.”

Anne's eyes blazed.

“This quickly?”

Only three days since sending the letter to Johann. Olivia's parted lips wouldn't close.

Steadying her breath, Olivia slowly opened the envelope and drew out the paper.

“......”

Not a word on Diane Brooke, whom she'd been dying to know about. Nothing on the necklace's fate.

The reply was as curt and aristocratic as the chill in his aristocratic script—utterly absurd.

“From Johann?”

Edgar echoed Gerald's report, his expression surprised.

“Yes.”

“And the contents?”

“He burned it immediately—couldn't confirm.”

“I see.”

Silence fell once more.

Edgar gazed out the carriage window. Leaving the city behind, it sped toward quiet suburbs lush with greenery. Deepened leaves gleamed in the morning sun.

A letter from Johann...

Leaning deep into the seat, Edgar pondered languidly.

What business could he have with his divorced wife to send a personal letter? And right now, on the cusp of his engagement to the Krantz Archduchy's princess.

What on earth for?

Sunlight poured through denser foliage between blooming flowers and leaves. The piercing glare oddly grated on his nerves.

Johann never moved without gain. So why him?

Edgar's doubts lingered.

That international mail Olivia had sent via her maid—was it to Johann after all?

But why now?

The carriage veered onto a quiet path, and after ten-odd minutes, straight-mowed lawn paths stretched on either side. At the end loomed a grand red building.

Dumblin Cricket & Tennis Club.

Their destination today.

As Edgar mulled, the carriage circled the central fountain and halted at the entrance.

Above the ivy-draped entrance, crossed rackets wreathed in laurel gleamed golden in the sun.

“Welcome, Marquis Lancelot.”

A club staffer bowed deeply to Edgar descending the carriage. He nodded curtly in reply. The manager had come out too, forewarned.

“They're waiting.”

“Good.”

Edgar smiled and followed the man up the broad stairs to the building. He set thoughts of Johann aside for now.

Henry MacDowell—crisp white shirt, green cardigan, white slacks—greeted Edgar at a round table with tea and fresh green grapes.

“Come in.”

“It's been too long.”

Entering the reception room, Edgar bowed to the man. By the sunlit window, his face bore a formal smile.

“Sit.”

“Yes.”

Edgar sat primly, smiling. Watching him, Henry thought to himself.

Foxy bastard.