He left his valet in charge of bringing in his personal belongings from the carriage and went out in search of Bettina. Honestly, he didn't feel like using this master bedroom that once belonged to people who were very important to his wife. However, he also could not refuse it since it was especially prepared for him by the caretakers of this estate.
At the foyer, he met Betty's personal attendant, Jane, carrying one of her suitcases. Upon asking Jane for Bettina's whereabouts, he went up to the wing where her old bedroom was located.
The scent of aged roses and lavender clung faintly to the air as Anthony strode through the Sutherland estate's dim corridors. Evening light, burnished gold, spilled through the tall windows as if reluctant to let go of the day. His boots tapped quietly against the stone floor, muted by the plush runner as he climbed up the stairs on the other side, heart weighed down by what he'd uncovered. He paused before another door.
Hers.
Bettina's.
He lifted a hand to knock, hesitated, then gently rapped his knuckles against the old wood.
He called out. "Bettina? Are you there?"
"Yes," her calm voice sounded from inside the closed door.
The door opened a moment later, and there she stood—barefoot, dressed in a soft cream robe over her travel gown, curls slightly disheveled from their journey. Her eyes searched his face, soft but alert.
"You're not asleep," he said quietly.
"I couldn't," she replied, stepping back to let him in.
He entered, his eyes sweeping the room—smaller than the one meant for the lady of the house, but undeniably hers. There were traces still—an embroidered cushion left on the window seat, a faded sketch pinned to the wall. The air felt charged, as though the room itself remembered her.
She walked to the vanity and picked up a folded parchment with careful fingers. "I found this."
Anthony's brows lifted slightly, and she held it out to him.
He took the letter and began to read.
The handwriting was precise and familiar—Mister Sutherland's. His words were concise, careful, but the alarm was unmistakable.
"…Marcus is plotting something…" Anthony lowered the letter, his jaw clenched. "He knew."
She nodded. "And he tried to protect what he could."
For a while, silence stretched between them, only broken by the soft ticking of a mantle clock. She sat on the edge of her childhood bed. He remained standing, staring at the letter as if willing it to provide more.
"Anthony," she said quietly. "Have you found anything in their room?"
He looked at her, pain flickering in his eyes. Then, a breath. "I wasn't able to start my search yet. I've been looking hard at the small portrait and blueprint that you've found in my bedchamber. Thank you for trusting me enough to share them with me."
A pause.
"The handwriting was very recognizable to me. They were indeed my father's handwriting. I have seen enough of his written documents to confirm that those were written by him. We have to find more solid evidence if we can. Find out how involved he was and who his cohorts were. I will help you."
Bettina's face tightened, but she said nothing at first. She reached out and touched his arm—intending it to be just a brief connection, a gesture of comfort. But the Earl laid his hand on top of hers as she said, "Thank you."
"I would like justice to be properly served this time, even if the culprit is my father. The truth must prevail." He bent his head in shame, his hand tightening on top of hers.
She could see how much it tormented him—the possibility of what they might uncover, and what it could mean for the Whitman family. Unable to help herself, Bettina embraced the Earl, wanting to soothe his conscience in the only way she knew how.
"Thank you so much, Anthony. You don't know how much your help and support mean to me."
For a moment, he leaned into her embrace, seeming to absorb the gratitude and strength that she wanted to share. Once he gathered up enough strength, he stepped back to smile at her tentatively. "If you prefer, I can move to the guest quarters. I shouldn't disturb your parents' room nor should I assume that we'd share—"
"No, it's fine," she said too quickly, then blushed. "I mean, they've already prepared that room specifically for our arrival. And I've asked to stay here. In my old room. It... helps."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Of course."
She stood, walking toward the window where the moon now cast long shadows on the floor.
"We'll go to the warehouse tomorrow," she said. "There might not be much left... but Everton Sutherland was a meticulous businessman. If there's anything to find, we have to look."
Anthony joined her by the window. He looked down at her, the firelight catching on the streaks of fatigue—and quiet determination—in her expression.
"You're stronger than I ever gave you credit for," he said softly.
She looked up, startled by the gentleness in his voice.
"I used to think you were just an immature young girl," he went on. "But I see now—you're a woman who's ready to conquer the world."
Her heart lurched as his praise wrapped around it. These past few months he, and so many others, have rained praises on her, recognitions and gratitude that she had never received before, never thought she deserved. It felt good. Too good. Her lips parted to speak, but no words came, too overcome.
He reached out and gently brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. The moment lingered, thick with emotion neither of them dared fully speak of. Not yet.
"I'll wait outside your door tomorrow," he murmured. "At first light."
And just before he left, she whispered, "Goodnight, Anthony."
He paused in the doorway, looked back at her—the moonlight catching her profile like a dream half-remembered.
"Goodnight, Betty."
Then he was gone, and the quiet of the room settled again—no longer heavy, but gently expectant.
The morning sun filtered through the charred beams of the old Sutherland warehouse, casting long slashes of gold across the dusty ground. The air still carried a faint, acrid tang of burned wood even years after the fire. Birds nested in the rafters, the rustle of wings and the occasional distant caw echoing in the eerie silence.
Lady Whitman—Mary Jane, really—pulled up short at the threshold, blinking into the dim interior. She had been here before. In her dreams. The place was exactly as she had imagined it from the dream-like impressions she occasionally remembered: shadowed, hollowed out, tired. The bones of tragedy.
"Are you certain you want to go in?" Anthony asked beside her, his voice low but steady. He scanned the warehouse like a soldier assessing a battlefield. Behind them, two of his most trusted knights as well as Jane waited, each equally alert.
"I'm sure," Bettina replied, then took a deep breath—and promptly groaned. "Ugh. These skirts are a death trap in places like this. Honestly, how did noblewomen survive exploration in full attire?"
Anthony arched a brow. "They didn't usually explore old warehouses."
"Well, they should have. We'd have found the truth years ago," she muttered. Then, glancing around with exaggerated solemnity, she asked, "Would you be offended if I wore pants instead?"
Anthony blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
Without waiting for permission, Bettina reached down, lifted the front of her gown, and revealed a pair of dark brown fitted trousers beneath. She grinned with unmistakable satisfaction at the Earl's shocked expression. Then, in one swift movement, she pulled her skirts behind and tied the excess skirt fabric with a ribbon so it bunched at her lower back like a bustle, leaving her legs free.
"There. Now I can climb like a very dignified peacock," she declared, referring to the length of her gown all gathered and bunched behind her like a folded-down peacock's tail.
Anthony choked. "You what—?"
Jane didn't bat an eye. One of the younger knights nearly tripped, jaw slack. Another one dropped his helmet in sheer shock. The other gagged on his own gasp.
Anthony looked like he'd just been stabbed with a butter knife. "Wh-what are you wearing?"
"Trousers. I borrowed it from Ferguson. Revolutionary, I know. Now, shall we?"
Jane spoke dryly, "She's more practical than you think, my lord."
Anthony was left speechless, unable to do or say anything. But when he noticed his equally shocked knights, he bellowed at them. "Nobody look at my wife!"
As one, the knights busied themselves in looking everywhere else, afraid of whatever punishment they might receive if they disregard their master's order.
He knew his wife will do whatever she wanted, no matter how much he objected, so he just followed her in, jaw set somewhere between scandalized and impressed.
Nobody, not even him, noticed how it was the very first time he referred to Lady Whitman as "his wife" out loud for others to hear.
They continued deeper into the structure, looking under scorched desks, behind fallen chests, and felt every brick that could possibly conceal hidden chambers. The interior was a maze of collapsed beams and splintered crates. Burn marks climbed the stone walls like creeping ivy. Bettina ducked beneath a fallen rafter while Anthony guided her carefully through the debris, glancing upward often.
Jane led the way, her posture tense, her eyes scanning. Bettina followed, now more agile. Anthony remained behind her, protective.
Early morning turned to late afternoon but they continued to search, not even noticing the passage of time.
"According to the news article I've read, 'there was speculation that the fire was no accident, but rather the work of ill-intended hands'," Bettina quoted having read the said article several times, trailing her fingers along the soot-blackened stone. "However, the official report blamed an accident."
"Too convenient," Anthony said. "Especially now, knowing what we do."
Bettina nodded.
They reached the furthermost corner, the old hearth—where the fire likely began—they paused. Bettina's gaze sharpened. She went on all fours and removed several fallen bricks and shrapnel. "There. Do you see that faint shimmer? It's very faint. Like… something burnt into the floor."
Mage Henry had taught her to spot magical residue, and what flickered before her eyes wasn't normal soot nor dust.
Anthony knelt beside her, brushing away the ash with a gloved hand. "It looks like… It's an arcane sigil. Old. Barely there, parts have already been erased."
Anthony moved to her side as she brushed her hand against a scorched support beam. A shimmer, almost invisible to the untrained eye, flickered beneath the char.
"It was magical," Bettina said grimly. "Someone tried to erase it, but traces remain."
Anthony swore softly. "Let's mark this," Anthony said, turning to signal one of his knights. But the movement was too sudden. Then—
Crack.
A long groan echoed above. Bettina looked up—and froze.
A charred beam, loosened possibly by their movement, teetered high above. Then it fell crashing down.
The world trembled.
"Bettina!"
She had just enough time to register Anthony's voice before he lunged. His arms wrapped around her waist, spinning her out of the path of the falling wood. The impact was sudden. Thunderous. A cloud of ash exploded around them.
She gasped as they hit the ground, Anthony's body shielding hers entirely. The beam landed hard across his back. He let out a pained grunt, one arm still cradling her head.
Dust choked the air. Splinters flew. Bettina's ears rang.
"Anthony—!" She felt the weight of him atop her; breath knocked from her lungs. "Anthony, answer me!"
He groaned.
The knights rushed in, lifting the beam with great effort as Jane helped pull Bettina out. Blood stained Anthony's coat. His breathing was shallow; pain etched into his features.
"Get the horses," Jane barked. "Now!"
"I'm fine," Anthony muttered through gritted teeth.
"You are most certainly not fine," Bettina snapped, eyes brimming with unshed tears. "You stupid, reckless—noble—idiot."
His lips twitched. "You forgot handsome."
Bettina hovered over him, her hands trembling. "You—you could've—"
"So could you," he said, and in his gaze she saw it again. That fierce, unrelenting care. The kind that didn't think. That just did. "I wasn't going to let you get crushed."
And suddenly, her mind flashed—not with the warehouse, or the fire, or the dust—but with Ethan. Her brother's terrified face. The wooden stool. The pain. Her last breath. That moment when she had thrown herself in harm's way, without a second thought.
And now—he had done the same for her.
Her throat closed.
Anthony reached for her hand. "Don't look like that. You're safe. That's all that matters."
She stared at their intertwined fingers. "You idiot. That was reckless."
He gave a weak smile. "So is loving you. But I seem to have done that too."
Bettina's breath hitched. Her fingers tightened around his. Her eyes burned, but not from ash. From impossible miracles. He loves her? Really? She who had never known what love is, other than love for one's brother or one's child? She never thought she deserved it. Especially not from someone as perfect as—
She wanted to say something back. She almost did.
But instead, she leaned forward and pressed her forehead gently to his.
"Let's get out of here," she whispered. "Together."
With everyone's help, they brought Anthony back to the Sutherland's estate so they could tend to his wounds.
While the knights carefully bandaged Lord Anthony's torso inside the master's suite, Jane approached her with a suggestion. "I think we need to bring his lordship back to the capital. The capital has better healers. We would be back there in no time at all through the teleportation pad in the town's main square."
Anthony started to protest, but another groan of pain silenced him. Bettina gently clasped his hand.
"I'll send word to Mage Henry," she said softly. "To examine the sigil. He'll know what to do."
The knights carefully lifted Anthony onto a makeshift stretcher. As they began the long journey back to the capital, Bettina glanced over her shoulder at the ruined warehouse.
There was nothing left to mourn there. Only the truth to uncover.
But first, she had to protect what remained—Anthony. And Jason.
They rode hard toward the capital, the letter safely tucked in Bettina's satchel, the weight of the past heavy on her shoulders—and the hope of justice still burning bright in her heart.
*****No force shall break this sacred sign*****
A couple of days have passed after his successful interrogation of that prick, Havart. He now had another business to attend to. Sunlight bathed the front steps of the Whitman Manor as Grand Duke Edward Chambers dismounted his horse and handed the reins to a waiting stable boy. With his long coat swept behind him and cane clicking against stone, he looked every inch the imperious statesman—until the front door opened and Jason sprinted out.
"Uncle Edward!"
"Jason!" The Grand Duke caught him with a grin and a spin, then set him down gently. "You've grown taller, lad. Soon you'll be towering over your old man."
Jason's smile faltered. "Papa's hurt."
Edward's expression turned serious. "I know. That's why I'm here."
Inside, Lady Whitman met him with a curtsy that he waved away.
"None of that. I heard about the beam," he said, eyeing her carefully. "Is he stable?"
"He's recovering," she answered. "The doctor said the spine were slightly fractured, but no internal bleeding. They healed the fracture and reknitted his broken skin."
"I'm up here," announced Lord Anthony who was on his very own Whitman Mobility Chair at the top of the stairs.
"Thank the stars. So, it's true—you two were investigating the warehouse fire?"
Lady Whitman nodded. "We found a faint sigil. A magical residue beneath the rubble. I sent word to Mage Henry to examine it further."
Edward exhaled slowly. "Then it might tie directly into our current smuggling investigation."
She blinked. "You think the fire…?"
"I think it's all connected. I think it all started back then. And I think Lord Marcus might've had more involvement than we realized." He paused, eyeing her with a mixture of admiration and mischief. "You're more troublesome than I expected, Lady Whitman."
She raised a brow. "Troublesome?"
He grinned. "In the best way. In fact, I've come to invite you and your husband to a strategic meeting. You're already doing half the work of our royal council. Might as well hear your ideas directly."
Before she could respond, he added dramatically, "Besides, if your dear Earl keeps letting puny pieces of wood defeat him, perhaps I should offer myself as a sturdier replacement."
Lady Whitman flushed scarlet. "Your Grace!"
From the stairs, Anthony's voice—raspy but loud—groaned, "I heard that, you pompous peacock."
Jason ran to his mother's side. "Uncle Edward, you're not allowed to steal Mama away!"
Edward threw his hands up. "Foiled by a pint-sized knight already!"
They all laughed—light and sincere.
Anthony, wincing slightly as he leaned against the stair rail, met his wife's gaze. Her blush lingered, but her eyes sparkled. For a moment, the pain faded behind the warmth in the room.
Edward stepped forward, voice gentler. "I'll leave the official details for later. Just focus on resting. And healing."
He squeezed Anthony's shoulder, then nodded at Bettina. "I'll return tomorrow. We'll need your mind at that meeting, Lady Whitman."
As the Grand Duke swept out, Jason tugged on his mother's hand. "Mama… you'll still pick Papa, right?"
She chuckled, leaning down to kiss his temple. "Always."
It was late afternoon and Grand Duke Chambers had just left the Whitman Manor after delivering his invitation to the Crown Prince's palace. Anthony lay propped up against pillows, shirtless beneath the bandages that crossed his ribs, along with the bandages covering his right arm, his skin bruised but his gaze quietly content.
Bettina sat at the edge of his bed, carefully ladling out a spoonful of warm broth. "Open," she said gently.
Anthony gave her a dry look. "I'm not a child."
She smiled sweetly. "No, but you are a very stubborn man, and unless you'd like to choke trying to feed yourself with that arm, along with that bandaged hand, I suggest you cooperate."
With a slight huff—and a flicker of amusement—he parted his lips and allowed the spoon in. She dabbed his mouth with a soft cloth afterward, and for a moment, their eyes lingered.
"I remember being quiet and patient myself when I fed you before," he quipped, referring to that time when her own hands were bandaged.
She blushed, remembering the first time they were so close together. "I don't remember that at all," she lied jokingly.
He swallowed, serious once more. "You didn't need to stay with me like this."
"I wanted to," she replied before she could stop herself.
Silence pressed between them—intimate, charged.
She focused on the next spoonful, cheeks warming even more. It surprised her, how natural it felt to care for him. And not in the dutiful sense of a noble wife playing the part—but truly wanting to ease his pain. She never wanted to experience that again.
Her heart fluttered when his gaze rested on her with that same quiet intensity he often wore—watchful, admiring, full of unspoken things. It wasn't possessive. It wasn't cruel. It was reverent.
He is nothing like him.
The thought struck her quietly but deeply—her stepfather, back on Earth, would have hurled the bowl at the wall if he didn't like the taste. He would've cursed, lashed out. But Anthony simply leaned into the pillows, accepting help with quiet grace, even offering her a soft smile when their hands brushed.
She found herself studying the lines of his face. The strength in his jaw, the softness in his mouth when he smiled—his dark lashes, the deep yet brilliant blue of his eyes, like a bottomless ocean that could drown her should she keep gazing straight at him.
He caught her looking and quirked a brow. "Something on my face?"
She blinked and nearly dropped the spoon. "No—just checking your color."
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Well, if the countess-turned-nurse thinks I'm not too ghastly, I'll take that as a compliment."
She gave him a teasing glare, but her voice softened. "You're recovering well. The priest said your bones were all better. And the doctor said you might be able to walk again in a few days—with help. It's just the soreness of your muscles that need to be naturally healed."
Anthony looked at her, then down at his bandaged ribs. "I'm glad it was me under that beam, not you."
Her throat tightened. "Why did you do that? You could have been—"
He reached for her hand, and this time, she didn't pull away. "Because I couldn't lose you," he said simply.
Her breath caught.
The way he said it—not with desperation, but certainty—undid something inside her. For a long moment, she didn't speak. Then she covered his hand with both of hers, holding it tight.
"I'm... glad you're safe now," she whispered.
They stayed like that for a while, looking into each other's eyes.
Anthony's gaze was fixed on her, warm and appreciative, the lines of pain on his face softened in her presence. Bettina sat beside him on the edge of the bed, going back to carefully spooning broth to his lips. Her other hand was gently curled around his.
"You're fussing," he joked once again, wanting to ease the tension that seemed to be mounting between them.
"I am tending," Bettina corrected, blowing gently on the spoonful of soup. "You may have protected me from a falling beam, but that doesn't mean you can get out of eating."
Anthony chuckled lightly, but even that small sound made him wince. She was instantly alert.
"Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," he said. "So long as you stay here."
Before she could reply, a sudden knock broke the calm. Mr. Clive, the butler, entered a moment later with a deep bow.
"Pardon the intrusion, my lord. Lady Margella has arrived. She insists on seeing you, having heard of your injury."