Chapter 53

Meanwhile, huddled in his seat aboard the capital-bound train, Dwight struggled to quiet the frantic hammering of his chest. For a long, agonizing stretch, he remained suspended in a volatile mixture of sheer terror and exhilarating anticipation.

He exhaled a ragged breath of relief at his escape, yet the reprieve proved fleeting. Whenever his mind drifted back to the crimson droplets weeping from the old butler’s fresh wound, or the ferocious, hunting glare of the Count’s young heir pursuing him, an icy tremor seized his limbs. He had been reared—after a fashion—as the pampered scion of a noble house, and never before had he soiled his own hands with such brutal business. Had his fate always been hardwired toward some catastrophic ruin, just as his father had endlessly spat and sneered whenever their eyes met?

Mr. Dwight Percival Hollingsworth was the undisputed shame, the walking calamity of the Graymont barony. Unlike his elder brother, Oswald, who had absorbed their father’s rigid doctrines to become the very picture of an upright gentleman, the petulant, malicious younger son had long since defaulted on his family’s favor.

— “Tsk. You cannot perform a single, solitary task with competence,” the Baron had sneered, clicking his tongue in profound disgust. “If you could only mimic a sixteenth of your brother’s grace. What in heaven’s name am I to do with you?”

The Baron’s scathing condemnation had proven prophetic.

After scraping through public school on the razor’s edge of multiple expulsions, Dwight eschewed both university and military service, slinking back to the family estate. There, he spent his days drowning in spirits and squandering his hours in gambling dens. His father’s thunderous rebukes rained down almost daily, and Oswald threatened him with exile more than once, but Dwight’s contrition never outlasted the echo of their voices. He would cower momentarily, only to warp further into malice. Before long, even the estate’s lowest servants whispered of him as the good-for-nothing young master.

Ultimately, the Baron resolved to sweep his defective son under the rug.

Unless some unavoidable social obligation arose, the family patriarch barred Dwight from public view, weaving flimsy excuses for his absence. “He has caught a severe chill after reading through the night,” the Baron would offer, or, “He remains deeply buried within his studies.”

While neighboring estates came to admire the Baron’s second son as a devoted scholar, the servants of Graymont laughed behind their sleeves. “The only letters our young master ever studies,” they mocked, “are the suits on his playing cards and the labels on his whiskey bottles.”

Yet, even for a wretch like Dwight, a break in the clouds eventually emerged.

— “Dwight. While I am away, I beg of you—do not invite disaster.”

Oswald had been dispatched to an overseas embassy. Though his parting words were laced with his usual quiet humiliation, the departure of the brother who had always choked the air from his lungs felt like a sudden, glorious reprieve.

Then, a merciful madness claimed the Baron’s mind.

As his illness deepened, plunging the manor’s servants into solemn grief, Dwight alone strutted through the corridors in triumph. No one remained to curb his excesses. Whether he drank himself into a stupor at midday or caroused at the town’s gentleman’s club, his whims went entirely unchecked. But after several months of uninterrupted indulgence, reality caught up with him in the form of the estate’s financial manager.

“Forgive the intrusion, young master,” the clerk murmured, his voice tight with long-suppressed dread. “But it is only September, and this year’s household allowance has already run entirely dry.”

A sudden, hot spike of fury flared at the nape of Dwight’s neck. Having flung gold about with blind, decadent abandon, the sudden reality check felt like an insult. Worse than the shock, however, was the sheer indignity of it. They were a baronial house, for God’s sake! How pathetic, how utterly destitute did they have to be for a few months of sport to drive them to the brink of ruin?

Dwight tilted his chin upward, his gaze hardening as he pressed the manager. “Why are you bringing this drivel to me? If the coffers are empty, it is solely because you have failed to manage your duties.”

The financial manager swallowed a heavy sigh, bowing his head to conceal his exhaustion. “That is not the case, sir… Might I suggest finding a pastime other than écarté? And perhaps if you curbed your consumption of whiskey? The rare, imported brands you have ordered by the dozen are—”

Enraged by the mention of his drinking, Dwight snatched up his crystal glass and hurled it directly at the man’s head. The heavy tumbler shattered against the clerk’s forehead, splitting the flesh. As blood began to stream down the man’s face, Dwight screamed over his bleeding victim. “How dare you lecture me on how I spend my own father’s coin! You are a servant! Learn your place and keep your filthy mouth shut!”

After that violent outburst, the servants, already pushed to their limits by Dwight’s tyrannical temper, withdrew entirely. While the household turned its back on him in quiet disgust, only one opportunistic soul chose to cling to his side.

“Ah, what an unbearable burden you must carry, young master,” cooed Isaac, Dwight’s personal valet. “A gentleman of your standing requires broad social horizons, yet those ledger-hugging clerks always find some triviality to whine about. Who are you, after all? Are you not the very pillar of the Hollingsworth family?”

Isaac’s reputation throughout the estate was scarcely better than Dwight’s own. Dark rumors followed him like a shadow—whispers of stolen funds, forged letters of recommendation, and a low-born background that should have barred him from noble service entirely. Though the Baron had long sought to dismiss the sly, untrustworthy valet, Dwight’s ferocious tantrums had shielded him. Dwight adored the man; Isaac possessed a rare gift for speaking exactly what his master wished to hear.

“Exactly,” Dwight scoffed, his pride restored. “All this fuss over a few coins of pocket change. My mood is thoroughly ruined. Come, Isaac, let us head into town.”

With Isaac trailing a step behind, Dwight made his way to a modest cottage perched at the edge of the commercial district—his customary stop before heading to the high-stakes tables of the gentleman’s club.

“Selena!”

At his sharp call, Ms. Selena Moro pushed open the window, her expression cool and aloof. The illegitimate daughter of a local seamstress, she knew nothing of her father, yet her striking beauty was undeniable. The dirt path outside her fence had been worn smooth by the boots of countless suitors.

“Why are you back here?” she asked, leaning against the sill.

“Why else?” Dwight smirked, stepping closer. “I have come to offer a tribute to the town’s finest beauty.”

He proffered a small token, but her expression remained unimpressed. Selena had never trusted Dwight. His handsome gold locks and noble title occasionally stirred her heart, but his high birth was precisely what gave her pause. Her mother’s bitter warnings echoed constantly in her ears: never trust a highborn man. It was, after all, the very reason Selena had been left fatherless.

Furthermore, though she remained ignorant of the full depth of his ruinous reputation—including the fact that his profligacy made him entirely unmarriageable—she assumed a young lord of his standing must already have a highborn fiancée tucked away somewhere.

“Your tongue is always so sweet,” she scoffed, snatching the parcel. But as she unrolled it, her features hardened. “What is this?”

Inside lay a few sticky confections, clearly pilfered from his family’s kitchen. While other men offered fine fabrics and silver trinkets, he brought her table scraps.

“I have work to finish, Lord Dwight,” she said coldly, sliding the latch shut. “Go play your cards.”

Dwight clicked his tongue in irritation, muttering about the haughty pretensions of a lowborn wench, before turning his boots toward the club.

Still, so long as his overbearing brother and ailing father remained out of the picture, Dwight ruled his little world like a king. He foolishly believed this golden age would last forever.

“Have you heard? Count Ravenwell has passed away.”

“Good heavens. Is it true the estate is left with only an Omega son and a daughter?”

“Does this mean the title falls to us? Will our eldest young master become a count?”

The whispers of the servants fell upon Dwight’s ears like poison. What should have been a glorious triumph for his house felt like a personal insult. It was already a bitter pill to swallow that Oswald would inherit the barony simply by virtue of escaping the womb first. But now, his brother was to inherit a countship as well? The sheer injustice of it made his blood boil.

Consumed by venomous envy, Dwight took to his bed for two days, venting his fury solely on the servants who dared enter his chambers. When he finally mustered the will to venture back into town, fate intercepted him in the foyer.

“Good morning, young master,” the postman greeted him, bowing politely.

Dwight was about to brush past with his usual lofty disdain when a sudden thought froze him in his tracks.

“Tell me,” Dwight demanded, turning back. “Have any letters arrived from Savar? Not just today—any within the past week?”

If Oswald were indeed destined to claim the Ravenwell inheritance, the official correspondence would have originated from his diplomatic post. The postman knit his brows, searching his memory before shaking his head. “No, sir, I recall no international posts from Savar. However, a letter was dispatched from this household to the eldest young master’s station just a few days ago.”

“When?” Dwight’s eyes narrowed. “On what day?”

“Last Wednesday, I believe.”

Wednesday. The very morning after Dwight had split the financial manager’s forehead open with a whiskey glass. The servants had been whispering for weeks about sending word to Oswald to curb Dwight’s behavior.

The bastards actually went over my head, Dwight realized, his stomach twisting.

Oswald already ruled over him with an iron fist, acting as though the barony were already his. If he discovered Dwight had depleted the estate’s coffers in his absence, Dwight would be utterly destroyed. The envy that had bedridden him for days was instantly replaced by a cold, paralyzing dread.

“Isaac,” Dwight hissed, cornering his valet in the study. “We must leave. I cannot stay in this wretched house a moment longer.”