Chapter 66: The Unwanted Attention

"Still nothing?"

Marquess Gardner paced across his study for another moment before finally stopping and looking toward his waiting subordinate.

His aide, a man named Alwyn, merely shook his head.

"No, My Lord," Alwyn replied. "I’ve checked the gates twice myself. Not a single pigeon has dropped, and none of our regular runners have reported in from the Old Three Bells."

Gardner let out a sharp hiss of breath through his teeth, pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose as if trying to physically massage away a looming migraine. "Incompetence. Are we paying those cutthroats at the information guild actual coin, or are we subsidizing a local drinking club?"

"The guild has always been reliable for our household in the past, my lord," Alwyn ventured cautiously, offering a placating dip of his head. "They handled the grain dispute inquiries last autumn without a single misstep, and when we needed background tallies on the..."

"Normally, I receive a daily report, or something. But this time? Total silence. Not even the smallest whisper."

His thoughts drifted back to the royal decree, as they often did. Even now, he still couldn’t quite believe that one order had thrown years of careful political planning into disarray.

An unexpected betrothal.

Even now, the concept felt like some kind of cruel joke played by the gods. For years, Gardner had invested a fortune in social connections, political favors, and elaborate galas, all to make Celia the Grand Duke’s most suitable match. Every move had been calculated. Every appearance had been carefully planned to highlight Celia’s elegance, good manners, and refinement.

And how had it ended? With an imperial decree binding the most powerful northern Grand Duke in the realm not to a high-born lady, but to a disgraced, one-eyed foreign hostage from a defeated enemy kingdom.

Celia had been so upset that no one could comfort her.

Gardner could still vividly remember the heart-wrenching sound of his daughter’s weeping when they returned from the palace celebration where the betrothal had been formally announced. She had locked herself in her chambers, refusing meals, her tear-stained face a mask of bitter devastation.

"I never stood a chance, Father," she had sobbed into her pillows. "I thought I was competing against the other debutantes. I thought if I just wore the right silks and played the harp well enough, he would eventually look at me. But I wasn’t fighting another woman for his hand... I was fighting a man!"

Gardner had tried his level best to soothe her, pacing her carpet just as he was pacing his own study now, feeding her every comforting platitude he could dredge up from the depths of courtly cynicism.

"Hush now, child," he had told her, gently running a hand over her damp hair, though he wasn’t quite sure how to comfort her. "You mustn’t speak like that. Politics is a messy business, and royal whims shift like the spring wind. Lioren Roscaire is a Grand Duke. He cannot simply live out his days ignoring the fundamental duties of his house. He has vast estates to pass down, ancient bloodlines to maintain. He cannot remain without an heir forever. Sooner or later, he will realize the cold reality of his position, and he will need to take a woman as his true partner. This foreign arrangement is nothing more than a temporary political stunt, a way to neutralize an Ostharian prince without spilling blood. Your time will come."

He had said all the right words. He had spoken with unshakable conviction.

Lioren Roscaire was not a man who bowed to conventional pressure. Everyone in the capital knew the Grand Duke’s stubborn, fiercely independent streak. He was a walking political landmine who treated traditional court expectations with thinly veiled contempt. Still, there was a chance the Grand Duke would eventually come to his senses and realize he’d been wrong.

That mounting, nagging curiosity, fueled in equal parts by wounded pride, political anxiety, and a bitter desire to understand what sort of hold the Ostharian had over the Grand Duke, was what had ultimately driven Gardner to cross the line.

It had seemed so harmless at the time. A quiet arrangement made through an intermediary. Pay a modest sum to the information guild, have an operative watch the residence from across the street, and report back on the little details of their daily lives.

How did they look at each other? Was the general treated like an equal or a prisoner? Did the Ostharian prince still hold any influence?

He hadn’t wanted to cause trouble. He certainly hadn’t wanted his own household’s fingerprints anywhere near the operation. It was supposed to be a discreet, invisible scratch of an itch.

And now, the silence from the guild was deafening.

"Alwyn," Gardner said, breaking the heavy stillness of the room without turning around.

"Yes, My Lord?"

"Send another runner down to the Old Three Bells at once. Tell Master Alden that if I do not have a full report on my commission by midnight, I will personally see to it that his establishment is inspected by the municipal tax board until every single board in his floor is pulled up by the roots."

"Right away, My Lord," Alwyn murmured, turning sharply toward the door.

"Wait," Gardner added, his hand gripping the heavy velvet curtain by the window. He let out a slow, ragged breath, trying to smooth down the ruffled edges of his composure. "No. Leave it for an hour. I have to attend that wretched afternoon council at Count Tyren’s estate. If I’m late, the old buzzard will spend the entire evening complaining about my lack of punctuality to half the peerage."

Alwyn paused with his hand on the brass latch, looking genuinely relieved. "Shall I have the carriage brought round to the front colonnade, My Lord?"

"Yes. Bring the carriage. And tell the guards to double the detail on the coach box. I don’t feel like dealing with street urchins today."

Alwyn bowed and hurried off to carry out his orders. Not long after, Gardner’s carriage was making its way through the capital.

Sunlight streamed over the capital’s streets as Gardner’s heavy, crest-bearing carriage rattled through the wealthy merchant district toward Count Tyren’s estate.

Inside the velvet-lined cabin, the atmosphere was stiflingly warm. Gardner sat with his eyes closed, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm against his knee, trying to force his mind away from the missing spy and the infuriating Roscaire betrothal. He had a reputation to uphold, an elite noble could not afford to look harried, distracted, or paranoid in public.

When the carriage finally rolled to a smooth halt before the Count’s grand marble steps, Gardner smoothed down the front of his doublet, adjusted his lace cuffs, and stepped out into the air with all the haughty, unshakeable dignity of a man who owned half the grain supply in the provinces.

The gathering inside was predictably tedious.

For the next two hours, Gardner found himself trapped in a gilded parlor filled with self-important aristocrats sipping spiced wine and exchanging vapid pleasantries about upcoming hunting parties, tax quotas, and the scandal of the season. He played his part perfectly, nodding at the right moments, making the occasional dry remark about the merchant guilds, and wearing the practiced smile he’d perfected over forty years in court.

Still, despite his calm appearance, something continued to bother him.

It started before Gardner even reached the entrance. As his carriage approached Count Tyren’s estate, his attention wandered toward the grounds outside. Through the carriage window, he caught sight of a tall man dressed in dark robes standing near the side entrance.

At first, Gardner thought little of it. There were servants moving about the estate, after all. But something about the man’s posture caught his attention. He stood too straight, too still, and his boots made barely a sound as he walked across the gravel path.

Gardner turned his head for a better look, but the man had already moved away, disappearing behind a group of servants carrying supplies into the estate.

Nerves, Gardner told himself sharply, taking a slow sip of his amber wine. You’re imagining things because you’re worried about a missed message.

When the council meeting finally broke up in the late afternoon, Gardner politely declined the Count’s invitation to stay for a drink, citing another appointment he couldn’t afford to miss. He retrieved his cloak from the hall footman and stepped out onto the grand stone steps to wait for his carriage to be brought around from the stables.

Gardner climbed into his carriage and settled back against the seat. After exchanging a few words with the coachman, he instructed him to take the main avenue toward the commercial district. He still had one more errand to run before returning home. He wanted to pick up something for Celia.

The carriage rolled away from the estate and joined the traffic along the main avenue. A little farther down the road, Gardner spotted a shop he wanted to visit and asked the coachman to stop.

He stepped down onto the pavement and straightened his cloak before looking toward the shop.

He paused and glanced toward the narrow lane branching off from the main avenue.

A figure stood beneath the overhang of a nearby building, half-hidden from view. It was perfectly still, watching him from beneath a dark hood. Gardner couldn’t make out the man’s face, even when he tried to get a better look.

The figure didn’t move.

Gardner froze, his breath catching in his throat.

"My lord?" one of his guards asked quietly, noticing that Gardner had stopped. He followed his gaze toward the nearby corner. "Is something amiss?"

Gardner blinked hard, shaking his head as a nervous laugh escaped his lips. He looked back toward the alley, but the shadows were completely empty. The figure was gone.

"No," Gardner muttered. "It’s nothing. Just my imagination."

Gardner gave one last glance before turning away. He had no intention of wasting any more time over something he might have imagined.

"Come along. I still have something to buy."

He headed toward the nearby shops, quickly picking out a few things for Celia before returning to the carriage. His guards followed close behind, and soon enough, they were on their way back to his estate.

The carriage lurched forward, its wheels grinding loudly against the wet stones as it picked up speed toward home.

Inside the cabin, Gardner closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. But the uneasy knot in his chest only tightened, refusing to dissolve.

Slowly, almost against his will, Gardner reached for the velvet window curtain and pulled it aside just enough to glance out at the passing street.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him.