"The Cornwell county's mines," Beatrice said, "supply nearly a third of the Empire's mana-compatible armament materials. Iron and copper — the grade used specifically for magical weapons and artillery." She kept her eyes on him. "My father built those contracts over two decades. Quietly."
A pause.
"My brother has different ideas about who should benefit from them."
She let that sit for a moment.
"Viscount Burdois visited Cornwell Estate recently. I imagine that is not news to Your Grace."
Verdante listened. The air around him remained still and cold.
"I hear you, Miss Beatrice. But how does it concern me?"
She had hoped she wouldn't have to say it plainly. A man like him, in rooms like this his entire life — she had thought implication would be enough.
It wasn't.
"You support the Second Prince." She said it evenly, without making it a question. "My county's resources have always aligned with that interest. I intend to keep them that way — if I hold the title." A breath. "If I don't, I can't speak for what direction they go."
She didn't dress it up further. There was nothing left to dress up.
"What Miss Cornwell is asking for, plainly, is my support" Verdante concluded. "Though I must ask, what will I gain from it? I do understand the situation could shift the current political tide. But the movement of resources is not, in itself, reason enough for my involvement."
Beatrice had anticipated this.
"Your Grace is correct. The resources alone are not the point." She turned slightly toward him. "The county has the mines. What it does not have — what it has never had — is the infrastructure to do anything beyond supplying the Imperial military under existing contracts."
She kept her voice level.
"If that changed — if the county became a destination rather than a source — the implications would be considerable. Weaponsmiths, armoursmiths, the entire trade that follows them. A market of that scale does not appear quietly. It draws people, coin, and influence in equal measure." A pause. "The faction that establishes its presence there first would not simply benefit from the economy. It would be woven into the county's foundation before anyone else thought to look."
She met his eyes.
"What I am proposing is a direct supply arrangement between Cornwell county and the Earldom of Everleigh. Raw materials — iron, copper, the grade your smithies would not easily source elsewhere — at a preferential rate." She kept her tone even. "Preferential, not charitable. The county's margins must be sustained. But the Earldom would have consistent, priority access to materials that currently go almost entirely to Imperial contracts."
A brief pause.
"I cannot build what needs to be built alone, Your Grace. But I can supply the foundation. What I need is someone with the connections to build on top of it."
Verdante seemed to consider the proposal for a moment when one of his stewards appeared at the balcony entrance, approached quietly and spoke close to his ear. Verdante's expression didn't shift. He simply nodded.
"Forgive my rudeness, Miss Cornwell." He turned to her with a brief incline of his head. "The Empress has summoned me. I shall be in touch."
And then he was gone.
Beatrice stood alone on the balcony.
The air moved again — she noticed it immediately. A faint evening breeze returning to the gardens below, the loose tendrils at her face stirring slightly. As though the balcony itself had exhaled.
She didn't know what to make of it. The conversation had been too short, his reaction too contained. She had no measure of where she stood — whether she had said too much, too little, or exactly enough.
She picked up her champagne glass from the railing. It had gone warm.
She drank it anyway.
Not wanting to go inside the banquet again, she remained on the balcony, looking down at the gardens below. Young couples moved through the lantern-lit paths, unhurried — hands loosely linked, heads tilted toward each other, voices too low to carry up to where she stood.
She watched them for a while.
She had never really thought about it much. There had always been something more pressing — her studies, the estate, and then her parents, and then everything after. Romance had existed at the edges of her life the way it existed in the background of any gathering like this. Present, unremarkable, belonging to other people.
She wondered sometimes if she had simply never had the room for it. Or if the room had always been there and she had just kept filling it with other things.
She didn't have an answer. She wasn't sure she had ever looked for one.
Below, a young man said something that made the woman beside him laugh — a real laugh, unguarded, her head tipping back slightly.
Beatrice looked away.
She thought to herself, how it would feel to laugh like that.
She sighed. Perhaps the wine was getting to her. Taking small steps, she came back inside.
The warmth of the banquet hall settled around her immediately — the low hum of conversation, the candlelight, the particular closeness of too many people in an elegant space. She hadn't congratulated the Marchioness yet. It was long overdue.
She found her near the far end of the hall, dismissing a maid with a quiet word. Beatrice approached with a composed smile.
"Marchioness Hodgson." She offered a graceful curtsy. "Forgive me for not finding you sooner. The evening has been rather full. I wished to offer my congratulations personally — a top ten placement is no small distinction. You must be very proud."
The Marchioness turned to her with genuine warmth. "Miss Cornwell, how lovely. He has worked terribly hard — I confess I worried more than I let on." She took Beatrice's hand briefly in both of hers. "You look absolutely wonderful this evening, my dear."
"You are too kind, Marchioness."
"Nonsense." The Marchioness glanced across the room with the quiet purpose of a woman who had hosted enough gatherings to always know exactly where everyone was. "Come — there are some people I would very much like you to meet."
Beatrice followed without hesitation.
The Marchioness led her to a small cluster of women near the east side of the hall — three of them, seated with the particular ease of people who did not need to perform comfort because they had long since stopped caring whether anyone watched. They were older, impeccably dressed, and they looked up at Beatrice's approach with the collective attention of people accustomed to forming opinions quickly.
"Lady Ashcroft, Lady Merenvale, Countess Duvaine — may I introduce Miss Beatrice Cornwell. The late Count Cornwell's eldest."
The name landed the way it always did. A brief shift in the air.
Lady Ashcroft, the eldest of the three, looked her over with eyes that missed nothing. "Cornwell." She said it the way one confirms a fact. "You have your mother's bearing."
"So I have been told, my Lady." Beatrice held her gaze pleasantly.
Lady Merenvale, sharper featured and less warm, tilted her head slightly. "Your brother has been managing the estate admirably, from what I hear. You must be grateful to have him."
The words were perfectly pleasant. The implication was not.
"Tremendously," Beatrice said, her smile not shifting by a degree. "He has always been most attentive."
Lady Ashcroft made a small sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "Attentive." She seemed to find the word amusing. "Yes, the Cornwell boy has made quite the impression this season. Very sociable. One sees him everywhere."
"He has always enjoyed company," Beatrice agreed pleasantly.
"And you?" Lady Merenvale again, her eyes steady. "You are rather less visible, Miss Cornwell. One hardly knew you were in the county at all, these past months."
It was a pointed observation dressed as idle curiosity. The subtext was clear enough — where have you been while your brother has been building.
"Grief has a way of keeping one close to home," Beatrice said, her voice soft enough to be sincere and measured enough to be a deflection. "I am sure you understand, my Lady."
A brief silence fell over the group.
It was Countess Duvaine who finally spoke. Her voice was unhurried, almost disinterested.
"Your mother was a remarkable woman, Miss Cornwell." She set her glass down with the particular deliberateness of someone who chose every gesture carefully. "I knew her, many years ago. Before she married your father." Her eyes settled on Beatrice with an attention that felt like assessment. "You carry yourself well. Whether you carry anything else of hers remains to be seen."
The Marchioness smiled diplomatically into her champagne.
Beatrice held the Countess's gaze without blinking.
"I suppose that is what evenings like this are for," she said. "To find out."
The conversation carried on for another quarter of an hour. Lady Ashcroft had opinions on the new trade routes opening through the southern provinces. Lady Merenvale steered things twice toward the subject of marriage prospects with the practiced ease of someone who considered it a public service. Countess Duvaine said little and observed everything. Beatrice contributed exactly as much as was expected of her and not a word more.
It was only when she reached for her glass and found it empty that she noticed the warmth sitting behind her eyes. The hall felt slightly closer than it had before. The candlelight a touch brighter.
She had lost count of how many glasses she'd had.
Taking her leave of the group with a graceful curtsy and the appropriate parting words, she made her way toward the entrance, her steps measured and deliberate. The cool air of the corridor was a relief.
She was nearly at the doors when she heard her name.
"Miss Cornwell."
She turned. Aldric Bachour stood a few paces behind her, his expression attentive in that particular way of his.
"Allow me to arrange a carriage for you. It would be no trouble at all."
"That will not be necessary," Beatrice said pleasantly. "Mine is already waiting."
"Then permit me to see you out."
She looked at him for a moment. There was nothing objectionable in the offer. Nothing she could refuse without it appearing strange.
"You are kind," she said simply, and turned toward the doors.
He walked beside her at a respectful distance, said nothing on the way out, which she noted. The night air met them at the entrance — cool and sharp after the warmth of the hall. Her carriage was already pulled up along the gravel path, the footman waiting.
She stepped in without looking back, settling into her seat as the door closed behind her.
Through the window, she caught a last glimpse of him standing at the bottom of the steps. He was smiling — unhurried, quiet, as though the evening had gone exactly as he had hoped.
Beatrice faced forward and said nothing for the entirety of the ride home.