Chapter 54

“What has occurred to distress you, Lord Dwight?” Isaac asked, his voice dripping with false concern.

“My brother, of course!” Dwight spat, pacing the floor. “The man is already a tyrant. If he secures the Ravenwell estate on top of our own, he will be absolutely insufferable. The moment he returns, I will be subjected to endless humiliation simply for having the misfortune of being the second son. No, it is far better to flee now.”

The title of tyrant belonged far more naturally to Dwight, yet he painted himself as the tragic victim of a cruel fate. Seeing his master’s desperation, Isaac’s eyes gleamed with a predatory light as he spun a web.

“Is that not terribly unjust, young master? You are a son of this house as well. Even if you choose to depart, you must not leave empty-handed. You deserve your rightful share.”

“Do you honestly believe my father or brother would give me a single copper?” Dwight scoffed. “Even the servants have sworn their loyalty to Oswald.”

While noble traditions mandated that the bulk of an estate pass to the eldest, it was customary to provide a secondary son with a respectable stipend to maintain his social standing. Of course, such rules did not apply to a black sheep who had thoroughly alienated his patriarch.

“Perhaps the people of this house are blind to your worth,” Isaac whispered, leaning in. “But would the executors of the Ravenwell estate know any better? What if you were to claim your portion directly from the Count’s holdings? You could leave this miserable place behind, secure a fortune, and establish yourself in the capital with all the luxury you deserve.”

Dwight paused, his eyes widening. “Ravenwell does lie along the carriage route to the capital… but how could I demand funds from them? I am not the heir. They would laugh me out of the manor.”

Isaac smiled, a slow, greasy curl of his lips. “You are far too naive, young master. Of course you cannot simply ask. You must present yourself with the proper documentation—as the Baron’s chosen heir.”

“The heir?” Dwight’s breath hitched. For all his domestic cruelty, the prospect of outright fraud made his heart race. “Are you suggesting we forge legal documents to deceive the Count’s estate?”

Isaac let out a soft, reassuring chuckle, coaxing his foolish master like a child. “Deceive? Let us not use such harsh terms, young master. The Ravenwell estate loses nothing; they are merely releasing a fraction of the inheritance that will eventually belong to your family anyway. And from your perspective, you are only securing the portion that is rightfully yours.”

“I suppose… when you put it that way…”

“Exactly. Besides, how long will it take your esteemed brother to wind down his embassy duties and return? If you arrive at Ravenwell first to oversee the transition of the property, they should be grateful for your diligence.”

Dwight, ever a master of self-justification, eagerly devoured the bait. To lodge at the Count’s estate, bask in the deference due to an heir, collect a massive windfall, and depart for the high life in the capital—it was an exquisite plan.

“I shall bring Selena as well,” Dwight declared, his chest swelling with newfound confidence.

Within days, the conspiracy took shape. Isaac proved to be a master of forgery. In short order, he fabricated a family accord declaring Dwight the sole designated heir, purloined the Baron’s personal seal from the butler’s desk, and drafted a formal letter of introduction to the Ravenwell estate.

During this frantic window, Dwight visited Selena daily, painting glorious pictures of their future in the capital. When he first proposed the flight, her reaction was sharp with suspicion.

“Do not play games with me, Lord Dwight,” she warned, crossing her arms.

“I am entirely serious, Selena. I am suffocating in this stagnant town, and I know you are too. Surely you have heard of the Count’s passing? Our family is set to inherit a staggering fortune. On our way to the capital, we will stop at Ravenwell so I can collect my share. It will be more than enough to drape you in silk and afford you a life of unimaginable luxury.”

The capital. Opulence. A fortune. The words acted like a drug on Selena’s ambition, eroding her usual caution. Moreover, the young lord she had assumed was bound to another had chosen her above all others, willing to abandon his home for her sake. The temptation proved irresistible.

“…Very well,” she murmured, her gaze steady. “But on one condition: you must swear to never touch a playing card again.”

Dwight balked slightly at the demand, but he quickly nodded. Once they reached the grand parlors of the capital, there would be a thousand new amusements to occupy his mind; cards would surely lose their luster.

Thus, at the tender age of nineteen, the naive Ms. Selena Moro placed her entire future in Dwight’s hands. Under the cover of dawn, she packed her finest dresses, gathered the jewelry she had accumulated, took the secret savings her mother had received from a mysterious benefactor, and slipped away from the Graymont estate undetected.

Yet their grand adventure soured almost immediately.

Selena, accustomed to the comforts of her fantasies, quickly grew miserable after a single day inside the cramped, jarring carriage. Dwight, too, found his infatuation rapidly cooling.

In town, her aloof demeanor had seemed alluringly haughty; confined together for hours on end, her relentless chatter became an agonizing chore. Furthermore, though he had painstakingly coached her on how to comport herself—knowing that traveling with a common woman would invite scrutiny—her attempts at nobility were an embarrassment.

Is she truly this dim-witted? Dwight fumed silently as they sat in the inn’s ground-floor dining room the following morning. I spent hours explaining table manners, yet she still clatters her silver against the porcelain like a peasant.

Oblivious to his mounting disgust, Selena continued to complain about her aching limbs, the endless road, and the dreadfulness of the carriage. She then began to pester him with questions about Ravenwell—how much longer the journey would take, and whether the manor was as grand as the rumors claimed.

For Dwight, whose father had only ever taken Oswald on visits to the Ravenwell estate, the questions scraped against a raw, sensitive wound.

His expression turned ice-cold.

“You ask far too many questions during breakfast, Miss Moro,” he snapped, cutting her off.

The harsh reminder of her assumed identity struck Selena like a blow. She fell silent, her chest tightening as she realized the charming suitor who had wooed her in the town square had vanished, replaced by a cold, petulant stranger.

An oppressive silence settled over the table.

With Dwight refusing to utter another word, Selena nervously shredded her bread, her appetite entirely ruined. When she finally looked down, she realized a flurry of crumbs had blanketed the lap of her favorite gown—the very dress she had saved for their departure.

“Oh! Goodness…!”

She scrambled to her feet, frantically brushing at her skirt, only for her handkerchief to slip from her fingers and flutter to the floor. Before she could retrieve it, a handsome, dark-haired man stepped forward, retrieving the linen with an effortless, fluid grace.

Though Dwight had been glaring at Selena moments before, the sudden flush on her cheeks as she thanked the stranger ignited a sharp flare of possessive irritation. He glared at the interloper, but the man merely offered a warm, disarming smile.

“Forgive the intrusion,” the stranger said, turning his gaze to Dwight. “But are you not Lord Dwight?”

Dwight’s brow furrowed. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”

“Was there a single student at school who did not know of you, my lord?” the man chuckled. “You were quite the legend among us.”

Though Dwight had never been celebrated for his academic achievements, his reputation as a notorious troublemaker had indeed made him a figure of fascination among the rebellious factions of the student body. His chest swelled with vanity.

“Did you attend St. Aldwyn’s College?” Dwight asked, his posture straightening.

“Indeed. St. Aldwyn’s,” the man replied, extending a hand with an easy, polished charm. “It is an absolute honor to meet you again. I am Leon.”

Leon possessed a silver tongue. Within minutes, his easy camaraderie had dissolved Dwight’s defenses. He seamlessly settled the bill for their lodging and breakfast, mentioning that his own journey to the capital mirrored theirs. When he politely asked if he might share their carriage, Dwight agreed without a second thought. A witty, high-born companion was exactly what he needed to rescue him from Selena’s tedious company.

“We intend to lodge at the Ravenwell estate for a month or so,” Dwight offered grandly. “You must join us there.”

“The Count’s estate?” Leon murmured, raising an eyebrow in polite surprise. “Surely an uninvited wanderer like myself would be an imposition in such a grand house?”

“Not at all,” Isaac chimed in from behind his master, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. Yet his tone remained haughty as he sought to establish their dominance. “Our young master is the designated heir to the Ravenwell estate. You would be his guest.”

A shadow of intense calculation flickered across Leon’s eyes for a fraction of a second before vanishing behind his affable smile. “Ah, I see,” he murmured, climbing into the carriage with practiced grace.

While Leon’s presence vastly improved the journey, Dwight’s satisfaction evaporated the moment they passed through the gates of Ravenwell.

What is this pathetic hovel? he sneered inwardly.

The estate was shockingly quiet, almost spartan.

While a kinder observer might have praised its refined, modest elegance, Dwight saw only a shabby, low-budget operation unworthy of a countship.

The servants’ greeting was perfunctory, and the furniture lacked the opulent gold leaf he associated with high nobility.

The only redeeming feature was the eldest son of the house—an Omega of such breathtaking beauty that Dwight’s breath caught in his throat. Yet, what use was a beautiful male Omega to his immediate financial needs? Dwight’s anxiety began to mount, a dread that was quickly confirmed when Isaac slipped into his chamber with a grim face.

“Young master,” the valet whispered, his voice stripped of its usual bravado. “It seems the Ravenwell coffers are entirely empty.”