46.
“Hmm. Nngh. It’s a bit like telepathy.”
Lancelot’s eyes cooled. Even if he pretended otherwise, he had clearly expected a different answer.
Did I disappoint him? Anita hurriedly waved her hands, rushing to explain.
“I just meant that we’ve known each other so long that we can sense things without a word.”
“And the answer to my question?”
“How I knew you were upset? Well… your responses get slower.”
Lancelot remained silent—a quiet admission.
“I know why you slow down. You’re holding back so you won’t raise your voice, aren’t you? And you look at me… how should I put it? As if you’re going to devour me.”
At the word ‘devour,’ Lancelot looked away.
It was merely a metaphor, but he must have found it unsettling.
“So, which part upset you? I’ll be careful from now on.”
“You don’t have to be careful. Do as you please. Just as you have for the past ten years.”
*Do as I please.* The tone was almost patronizing, like someone speaking to a child.
*Is he actually supporting me? Or is he being sarcastic about my behavior over the last decade?*
Anita asked, bewildered.
“Then, can I keep talking about Major Bimark?”
No answer.
“You won’t let me?”
He pretended not to hear, rolling up his shirt sleeves instead.
*I guess not. Maybe he just dislikes Major Bimark.*
If he dislikes the topic, what’s the point of continuing? Just as she resigned herself to silence, Lancelot spoke.
“If you promise to sleep in the bed, you can.”
Answering like that made it impossible to tell exactly how much he loathed the man.
Lancelot climbed into bed, leaned his back against the headboard, and gestured for Anita to sit beside him.
“Now, tell me your story. What about George Pager?”
When he tapped the mattress, it was difficult for even a deeply troubled Anita to resist.
She sat beside him and began to talk eagerly about the man she had met that morning. At first, she poured her heart into the conversation to dilute the tension, but soon, without realizing it, they were simply chatting—naturally, on the bed.
“I’ll go with you.”
Lancelot, who had been nodding occasionally, finally spoke up the moment she mentioned her next appointment with George.
Anita blinked, surprised.
“To his house? Why?”
“Because I won’t send you alone to the house of a man who doesn’t even know who you are.”
I was grateful, but worry took precedence.
“Even if he’s a bit eccentric, my father introduced him. He said he had a wife, too…”
“Wife or children, if I can’t trust him, I can’t trust him.”
“Above all, George Pager seems to loathe nobles. Will that be alright?”
He paused for a brief moment before answering, as if it were a trivial matter.
“It’s not as if I absolutely have to visit as Duke Edenbahir.”
It was a statement that left her feeling uneasy.
That day, unable to overcome Lancelot’s persistence, Anita eventually occupied the bed. She had always thought her own stubbornness was second to none, but she was helpless before him.
*To think that even in this, the one who loves more has to yield.*
It felt truly unfair.
***
The next morning, Anita was frantic.
Deciding what to wear while thinking of George, who despised the aristocracy, was one thing, but the real issue was Lancelot, who had insisted on following her.
He wore simple clothes unbefitting his status—though she had no idea where he’d found them. Even in a dull, cheap suit, Lancelot’s presence radiated a glow that made him impossible to ignore.
Which meant it was all the more of a problem.
“How should I introduce you to Mr. George?”
He answered nonchalantly.
“As your cousin.”
Certainly, a cousin wouldn’t necessarily be a noble.
“Cousin… C-can’t I just say you’re my brother?”
“Do you want to be called sister? If you want to hear it, I’ll do it for you.”
“…I think cousin is better.”
Perhaps the reason I always lose is because I am the one with less courage.
*In the end, I’ve ended up deceiving Mr. George again.*
I’m sorry, Mr. George.
The destination was a wheat field on the outskirts of Hixen. They parked the car quite a distance from George’s residence and walked along a dirt path. As they moved further from the capital, the scenery grew quiet and cozy. While the industrial zone between Shavalon and Hixen was filled with factories, this area was still vast, green, and open.
Even in the sweltering heat, watching the grass sway like waves in the wind made the humidity seem to fade.
“Is this the place?”
George’s home was the most dilapidated building in the area.
Perhaps he had been watching the fence; as soon as they arrived, he stepped out to meet them.
“Welcome, Duchess. And this person is…?”
Due to Lancelot’s striking appearance, there was a faint wariness in George’s gaze.
“This is my cousin.”
“I am Gunter. I was worried about Anita going alone, so I accompanied her.”
George didn’t seem entirely convinced, but he accepted Lancelot’s handshake without comment.
“Given the Duchess’s situation, I understand. It’s humble, but please come in. I have prepared tea.”
Anita followed George inside.
*I’m used to this from traveling with Father, but Lancelot…*
Usually, children of noble families raised in luxury were reluctant to even step into mud. Fortunately, Lancelot didn’t seem to mind the muddy yard.
*Creeeak.*
The old wooden door rattled open.
The interior was tidy, contradicting the ramshackle exterior. She assumed he had cleaned all night to welcome her.
Since the house was narrow, there was no separate parlor. George, leading them inside, turned to Anita.
“My wife is lying down on the second floor. Would you like to meet her?”
Ah. So that was the bedroom.
“No, that would be uncomfortable for her. I… I didn’t know what kind of illness she had, so I brought some fruit.”
George looked delighted and took the gift. Seeing his smiling face as he mentioned his wife’s potential recovery warmed her heart.
“Please wait a moment. I will bring out some tea and refreshments.”
While George was gone, Anita looked around.
Newspapers were neatly stacked under the table. Seeing the article summarizing the commotion at her wedding included, it seemed he had been tracking the Boellony and Edenbahir families for some time.
The bookshelf against the wall was packed. On the right were legal volumes, and on the left were accounting books—all of them brand new.
*It doesn’t look like he farms. Does he do accounting?*
On the desk lay thick ledgers filled with complex calculations—high-digit numbers and simple mathematical tasks that looked like requests from universities.
But what surprised her most was the lack of a calculator.
*Could he have calculated all of this mentally?*
That was amazing. It seemed George earned his living through this work. Given the volume of his tasks, he must have had an excellent reputation.
*It would be great if he could manage the Edenbahir assets.*
An asset manager with deep knowledge of law, accounting, and genius-level mental math. It was impossible not to covet his skills.
She stood next to Lancelot, who was staring at a small painting hanging by the window: a portrait of a young couple.
“Isn’t it magnificent? It’s a painting my daughter drew.”
George approached, setting the teacups down. Anita looked back, surprised.
“It’s wonderful. Truly. Is your daughter a painter?”
“She would have been. If she were still alive.”
Oh, dear.
“Don’t make such a face. If not for Mr. Vincent Boellony, I would have lost my wife as well.”
“…Is your wife’s illness related to your daughter?”
George nodded impassively.
“My daughter had an excellent talent. She was accepted for early admission to the De Muncel School in Shavalon.”
*Trickle.* Red-black tea fell into the old cup.
“I worked without rest for a year to save her entrance fee. However… unfortunately, on the day of the ceremony, she was struck by a carriage. She lost consciousness and left us a few days later.”
George’s expression darkened.
“They say accidents can happen anywhere, but if that accident was intentional, the story changes, doesn’t it?”
“That is true.”
“The owner of the carriage that killed my child was Baron Norbert. And coincidentally, exactly one week after my child’s admission was canceled, I saw that the Norbert family’s only son had been offered an additional admission.”