In the deepest, forgotten part of the Boleus Imperial Palace…
The air was thick with damp stone and the coppery trace of old blood. A single lantern swung from the ceiling of the interrogation room beneath the Ministry building, casting slow-moving shadows like wraiths across the cold walls. Shackled to a wooden chair bolted to the floor sat former Inspector Havart, face bruised, hair matted, lips chapped from thirst. His eyes darted toward the heavy oak door as footsteps approached.
The guards stepped aside, allowing a tall figure cloaked in navy and silver to enter.
"Good evening," said Grand Duke Edward Matthew Chambers, his voice laced with effortless cheer. "I hear you've had a rather dull stay. Shame, really. The wine here is dreadful, and the company worse."
Havart eyed him warily, unmoving.
The Grand Duke didn't seem to mind. He walked with deliberate leisure, circling the room before seating himself across from the man, perching on a stool as though they were two gentlemen catching up in a tavern.
"I brought you something better than wine." He gestured casually. A guard handed Havart a cup of water. Suspicious, but too parched to refuse, Havart drank with trembling hands.
"There we are," said the Grand Duke kindly. "Better, no?"
Havart remained silent, though his shoulders sagged slightly.
"Let's talk about your friends at the ports," Chambers said lightly, picking at an imaginary speck on his glove. "You see, I've taken quite the interest in their accounting habits. Sloppy things. Ink-stained fingers and all that."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Havart said hoarsely.
"Oh, come now," Edward smiled. "I'm not here to flay you or feed you to griffins. Frankly, I'm rather squeamish. But I do love puzzles—and I'm missing a few pieces. Help me fill in the gaps and I might forget to be the terrifying political force everyone insists I am."
Havart snorted. "You think this is a game, your grace?"
"No," Edward said, and the smile vanished. His voice dropped to a whisper, cold as steel drawn in the dark. "But you'll pray it was, if you waste my time."
A long silence stretched between them. Then, Edward leaned back, tapping a finger on his thigh.
"You took bribes," he said, not as a question. "From merchants. From shipping companies. Maybe from nobles, too."
Havart said nothing.
Edward raised his brow. "Ah. You're not denying it. That's progress."
The inspector's jaw clenched.
"How long has it been going on?" Edward continued, almost kindly. "Who paid you the most? Come now, surely there was a favorite. Was it the Sutherland line? Or did Richard Pembroke's investments yield better coin?"
That made Havart flinch.
A glint flashed in Edward's eyes. "There it is. He's involved, isn't he?"
"No," Havart rasped. "I never said—"
"Didn't have to," the Grand Duke said, voice velvet-smooth. "I'm very good at this."
He rose and walked behind the prisoner, then bent slightly, his breath brushing Havart's ear.
"You've already been replaced, Havart. They've scrubbed your name from the ledgers, doubled up your debts, and tossed your family to the wolves. Should you get out of here, you'll be taken care of. You are a liability. A loose thread."
Havart's hands trembled. "I didn't— I just looked the other way! That's all they asked!"
"So, they asked," Edward murmured. "And when you did as they asked, what did you write in return?"
"I—I don't know what you mean."
"You do." The Grand Duke leaned in again. "Where's the main ledger?"
Havart's eyes widened.
"You think we don't know about that ledger?" Edward smirked. "Havart, it will be better for you if you held our hands rather than theirs, you know. Better for your family, at least."
The prisoner's throat worked. Perhaps it was the days of torture that he'd endured or the Grand Duke's masterful questioning, but his tongue loosened this time. "I never saw it. Swear to gods. It wasn't part of the usual documentation. Only the higher-ups handled it." The Grand Duke's insinuated promise seemed to have worked. "There's a book… a black ledger. It's where they wrote down the off-record cargo. The unregistered shipments. The ones with no stamps."
"Who held it?"
"I don't know," Havart gasped. "Only heard about it. I swear!"
Edward straightened, watching him carefully.
"And what if I let you go?" he asked, with a touch of mock pity. "What happens then?"
"They'll come for me," Havart whispered, voice cracking. "They always do. Once you're caught, you're marked."
"Marked?"
Havart nodded wildly. "They have someone… no one knows his real name. Just—just The Fox. A killer. Doesn't speak. Just slips in and makes you disappear. He's real. I've seen what was left of Denmar. He tried to talk. He was—gods—he was nailed to his own warehouse doors!"
The Grand Duke's expression darkened, a chill settling over the room. Denmar was supposed to be one of their whistleblowers.
"Interesting," he murmured. Then to the guards: "We'll put our friend here somewhere safe. Somewhere The Fox can't find him."
He paused by the door, glancing back once.
"Oh, and Havart?" he said with a slight smile. "If you're lying, you'll wish The Fox had gotten to you first."
The door shut with a dull thud.
*****Let fate restore her rightful place*****
The carriage slowed, its wooden wheels crunching over gravel as the imposing silhouette of the Sutherland estate emerged through the mist.
But Bettina was still fast asleep.
Betty.
Anthony shifted slightly, careful not to wake her as he looked down at her resting head on his shoulder. Her breath was slow and warm against the wool of his coat; one gloved hand curled near her cheek like a child. The weight of her was feather-light, and yet it anchored him more deeply than anything had in years.
He hadn't meant to sit beside her. But when she drifted off, her head drooping awkwardly in sleep, something in him rebelled at the thought of letting her slump against the carriage wall. So, he'd carefully shifted beside her, coaxing her head to his shoulder, and stayed there without a word.
Now, watching her in the soft hush of early morning, he allowed himself a small, unguarded moment.
He could feel the gentle rise and fall of her breath. The faint scent of lavender oil, her favorite scent, clung to her hair. It was intoxicating.
She stirred.
A soft exhale escaped her lips as her lashes fluttered open. Her gaze landed on his shoulder—where she still rested—and then traveled up, meeting his eyes. For one suspended heartbeat, neither moved.
Then, she sat up too quickly, as though scalded.
"Oh—I—" Her fingers fluttered to her temple. "I must have dozed off. How inappropriate of me."
Anthony gave a faint smile. "You were exhausted. I thought you might rest better with a shoulder than a window."
Her cheeks colored. "Still… I should have—thank you," she added, far too formally.
A glint of amusement flashed in his eyes. "You talk like I'm one of your footmen."
"You're not?" she shot back before she could stop herself.
His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Well. That depends on how you ask."
A laugh escaped her lips, soft and reluctant. But when she turned to look out the window, the laughter died in her throat.
They had arrived.
The Sutherland estate loomed ahead, tall and grand, the stone façade kissed by ivy and the memory of rain. Its familiar blue-gray rooftops were silhouetted against the hazy morning light, and its tall glass windows reflected the gathering clouds above. Yet, despite never having seen it before—not truly—Mary Jane…er Bettina felt something stir within her. A flicker of recognition. A dream she could never remember clearly… but had surely seen this place before.
"I think I… know this place," she murmured.
Anthony tilted his head. "From childhood?"
"No," she whispered. "From a dream."
The carriage came to a halt. A liveried caretaker stepped forward from the estate's front entrance. An older man with a weathered face and snow-white beard—he bowed low with a stiffness that came from age and respect rather than subservience.
"Lady Whitman," he said, voice roughened by time. "Welcome home."
Her heart squeezed.
"Gregor," she said softly, the name surfacing from the fog of memory—or perhaps, her body's memory of another life. "You're still here."
"I serve the Sutherlands, and I serve you, my lady," he replied with a glance toward Anthony that was respectful but reserved. "Always have."
Anthony noted it but said nothing.
Gregor led them inside, and as they stepped into the entryway, the grandeur of the estate unfolded before them—polished floors, tall columns, oil portraits lining the walls, a corner desk with a large vase of flowers, and a grandfather clock. Everything preserved, untouched. Time had tiptoed through this house, not stormed it.
There, just inside the threshold, she stopped.
Her gaze was glued to the grandfather clock. It triggered another memory. A memory of a dark dream, of arguing voices, and the loud ticking of that clock. She wanted to follow those quiet steps she took in that dream to a room that she knew would be just beyond that clock, beyond that corner desk. Gregor stopped her though with his next words.
"I've had rooms prepared for you both," Gregor said, leading them down the corridor. "Your parents' bedchamber has been opened and freshened for your stay."
Bettina faltered.
Immediately she looked at Anthony, aghast, her face warming up at the thought of them possibly sharing one room.
Anthony noticed. "If it's too difficult," he said gently, "I can stay elsewhere. There's no need for awkwardness."
"No—well—I mean yes, I mean…" She turned to Gregor. "Could you show me to my old room instead?"
The older man gave a soft smile. "Of course, my lady. I'll have it prepared immediately."
Anthony remained where he was, watching her retreat with a mixture of amusement and understanding. And possibly, an ounce of disappointment.
The bedroom was smaller, less ornate than the master suite. Yet as Mary Jane stepped through the threshold, something tightened in her chest. Warm lavender wallpaper still clung to the walls, faded now, but familiar. Her… Bettina's old writing desk sat by the window. The carved wardrobe loomed in the corner, unchanged.
But it was the vanity—graceful, with a small mirror and a cushioned stool—that made her freeze.
She remembered it.
Agnes—Bettina's personal maid—brushing her hair, humming softly. Whispering secrets. Her hands deft and gentle. Another dream, one she'd written off as imagination, came flooding back with startling clarity.
Bettina stepped toward the vanity slowly, as if afraid to disturb the air.
This was where she stood.
And she had hidden things here.
With new purpose, Bettina knelt and began opening each drawer—carefully, methodically. Some were filled with faded ribbon or forgotten hairpins. Others were empty. Her fingers traced the wooden panels for inconsistencies, pushing against the backs, testing corners.
At last, behind the bottom drawer, her nail caught on a seam.
Her pulse quickened.
She tugged gently, and a small panel gave way with a soft click. Inside was a velvet-wrapped jewelry box, small enough to fit in her palm. It had a lock—tiny, silver, and worn from time.
Her heart beat loud in her ears. It was a little bit unsettling how things were turning out here.
Drawing a breath, she reached beneath her bodice and pulled out the locket that hung hidden at her throat. She unclasped it, removing the minute key tucked inside.
It fit perfectly.
Click.
The lid opened.
Inside was a folded letter—aged, but well preserved. Her hands trembled as she unfolded the parchment.
It was unfamiliar handwriting, quite different from Bettina's that she saw in her diary—but it was strong and urgent.
-----000-----
"To the trusted one reading this—
I believe Marcus is plotting something. His movements have grown secretive, his questions invasive. We must keep the main warehouse sealed, most particularly the main estate. Keep my daughter safe. Do not trust new staff. Secure the perimeter. Protect the ledgers. If anything happens to me or to my wife—submit the ledgers to his highness.
—Everton Sutherland."
-----000-----
Bettina sat in silence, the weight of the letter heavy in her lap. The name Marcus glared up at her, inked by her father's hand.
So, it wasn't an accident. He had suspected something—someone.
And he had died soon after.
It would be quite easy to confirm the legitimacy and ownership of the handwriting. But who hid this here? Did Bettina find this paper and hid it?
She closed her eyes, the letter trembling between her fingers.
Anthony's voice drifted from the corridor. "Bettina? Are you there?"
She stared at the box, the letter, the open locket in her hand.
"Yes," she said, voice calm now. Steady.
But in her heart, something had shifted. The past was no longer just a mystery. It was a warning.
*****As flesh and spirit now entwine*****
The door closed behind him with a quiet click, leaving Anthony alone in the master bedchamber—Mister and Mrs. Sutherland's former sanctuary.
The air in the room was colder than he expected. Not from lack of fire, but something else. The kind of stillness that clung to places where life had once been rich and full—and was now long gone.
He stood for a moment, unmoving.
Polished walnut furnishings gleamed beneath a fine coat of dust only recently disturbed. Faded curtains were drawn halfway across tall windows, and the bed—ornate, wide, untouched—stood at the center like a monument to a past that refused to settle.
This was her parents' room. Her only family.
The thought hit harder than he'd anticipated. Anthony stepped forward slowly, his boots whispering against the rug. He rested a hand on the carved bedpost, fingers tightening slightly.
Bettina…
Betty, he wanted to lament.
But no matter who she had been before, she was his wife now. And more than that—she was herself. Clever. Down to earth. Fierce when she needed to be, gentle even when she didn't know anyone was watching. She had become… irreplaceable. To Jason. To the Whitman household.
To him.
And now—this.
His chest tightened.
He turned to the small table by the hearth where he had left the folded portrait that Betty gave him as he entered the room. The one she'd found hidden behind a loose panel in his bedchamber. The former Earl's bedchamber.
The painted smiles of Mister and Mrs. Sutherland stared back at him, young and dignified, with Bettina between them—barely more than a child. Clearly, it was originally commissioned and created by a very accomplished artist. So clear were their features, despite the slightly faded quality of the portrait, their happy smiles reaching him.
But it wasn't the image that disturbed him.
It's what was written behind it.
Anthony picked up the small faded portrait and turned it over.
There it was. Again.
-----000-----
"Remove obstruction."
-----000-----
The ink was faded, but the words hadn't lost their menace. He had stared at them for hours on the ride here. Words that weren't poetic or loving. Words that didn't belong behind a cherished family portrait. Words written by his father's, Lord Marcus', familiar script.
They were cold. Precise. Strategic.
And likely a directive.
He let out a slow breath and turned toward the bureau, where he had carefully stowed the folded blueprint that she'd shared with him the night before along with the portrait. The old warehouse layout. She'd found it with the portrait—hidden together. Markings had been drawn over the design. A red circle around the grain storage and another near the ledger vault. The margins were scribbled with notes in her father's hand.
One phrase repeated itself more than once:
-----000-----
"Increased traffic. Watch northern gate."
-----000-----
And another:
-----000-----
"Check barrels. Cargo not matching manifests."
-----000-----
Anthony rubbed his temple.
Everything pointed to something being amiss long before the fire. Everton Sutherland had known something. Suspected sabotage. Smuggling, perhaps. Illegal use of the estate's assets.
Which brought him to the edge of the precipice.
His father.
The former Right Honorable Marcus Andrew Whitman.
A man whose legacy had paved the path Anthony walked every day. Whose influence, long thought extinguished by his grandfather's bad gambling habits, had risen once more, as if of a phoenix being reborn from the ashes. Father offered the last of their money to be invested in Sutherland Trading Company, and the Sutherlands' accepted his meager investment.
And that started it all.
He had worked like a madman until he started winning contracts, acquiring smaller businesses, silencing rivals, and eventually helped grow the respectable Sutherland company even more. His efforts then raised the Whitman name back to its original prestige and power. Debts were eventually paid off, sold heirlooms reclaimed…
And possibly—the man who also destroyed Bettina's family.
His hand curled around the edge of the desk.
It wasn't confirmation. Not yet. But if the pieces fell as they seemed to, then it pointed to a conspiracy involving the Sutherland estate's trade routes, stolen inventory, and—God help him—murder masked as tragedy.
Could his father have done that?
The same man who held Jason in his arms as a baby…who built the Whitman fleet with relentless pride and discipline?
Could a man like that destroy another noble house to eliminate an "obstruction"?
Anthony felt the sick twist in his gut.
He had never idolized his father. But he had respected him. Feared him, even. Marcus Whitman was the kind of man who carved a kingdom in coin and iron. Ruthless in business. Demanding in reputation.
Anthony had always told himself that some of those traits were necessary. That the world of trade and empire was brutal, and only the strong survived.
But murder?
His throat felt tight.
What if Bettina looked at him one day and saw his father in him?
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands.
Everything felt fragile now. Every kind glance she gave him. Every moment Jason laughed without fear. It was all built on foundations he no longer trusted.
He had let himself grow close to her. Let her into the space he had walled off after his first wife died. He had watched her rebuild herself after grief, after betrayal, after nearly dying—watched her learn to trust him.
And now this. A past that might tear them apart before he even had the chance to tell her—
No. He couldn't think like that.
He would find the truth. He owed her that.
Even if it damned his own family.
Even if it damned him.
It was the least he could do. For her.
A quiet knock sounded at the door.
"Milord," came Gregor's voice. "A light supper has been laid out in the dining hall. Shall I tell Lady Whitman?"
Anthony stood slowly, squaring his shoulders before answering.
"No," he said, voice even. "I'll fetch her."
Because no matter what ghosts haunted this house…
…he would face them with her.