The atmosphere in the Duke of Carlisle's office was wound tight as a bowstring.
"I checked everything." Elliot's voice was measured, careful. "I found nothing suspicious or questionable."
After hearing the final expense report, the Duke of Carlisle signed the last page of the approval document without looking up. His pen moved in a single, precise stroke.
With that, the work that needed to be completed in the capital was done.
"This is all?" Lennox asked, setting the pen down.
"Yes, Your Highness." The Duke's secretary nodded quickly, almost too quickly. "There are no more urgent matters at the moment."
That morning, the Duke's household had resembled a city bracing for siege. Its owner had announced — with the particular calm that his staff had learned to fear — that every piece of outstanding business in the capital would be concluded before sundown.
No one dared question the Duke of Carlisle when he spoke in that tone.
Elliot had feverishly reviewed contracts, cross-referenced financial documents, and spent half the day receiving a parade of guests who had been summoned at impossible hours. Clerks scurried through corridors with ink-stained fingers. Messengers came and went like startled birds.
Yet the most remarkable thing was this: once the last matter was settled, the Duke's residence fell silent again — as serene and undisturbed as a sky scrubbed clean after a storm.
Lennox Carlisle turned toward the window and gazed out, his expression unreadable.
With the urgent affairs behind him, he could now give his full attention to the matter that had been circling his mind all morning — the intelligence report on Juliet's recent activities and the places she had visited over the past several months.
The findings were unremarkable.
Juliet did not indulge in the pleasures of high society, and her social circle remained conspicuously narrow. Her daily life was monotonous, almost ritualistic in its consistency. She maintained no contact with suspicious individuals. The escort assigned to her — handpicked by the Duke himself — reported her every movement on the hour, without exception.
Even today, her schedule had been no different from the rest.
Like him, she had spent half the day occupied with a busy but orderly routine. It was an ordinary day in every respect, save for one detail: she was expected to return to the Duke's residence by noon, as he had invited her to dine with him.
He already knew, of course, about the incident at the temple.
"Count Casper?" Lennox murmured, turning the name over like a coin of little value.
Jude, one of his men, had reported it earlier: *"Yes, do you know the name of the Marquis of Guinness? He's his son — engaged to Princess Priscilla. When he left the temple, his face was completely blank, and he looked rather shaken. Perhaps he ran into the young lady, but I'm not entirely certain..."*
Lennox had promptly forgotten the earl's name.
The only scenario in which it would warrant his attention was if Juliet had used her blue butterfly in front of witnesses. She hadn't. So the earl was nothing.
What *did* hold his interest was an entirely different circumstance.
Contrary to his expectations, Juliet had not returned to the mansion for dinner.
"My lady has gone to the Count's mansion," Jude had reported, standing stiffly in the doorway. "She intends to return directly to the banquet hall at the Imperial Palace once her business there is concluded."
"I see."
The Count's mansion — the former home of Juliet's late father, Earl Montague — still stood within the capital's walls.
Lennox was not worried about her safety. The escort shadowing her consisted of elite knights he had trained personally. Worry was not the issue.
He rose from his chair and moved toward the desk, his steps unhurried.
"So you're clean," he murmured, almost to himself.
His fingers brushed the stack of mail lying on the table. These were letters addressed not to him, but to Juliet — invitations to various social events, their wax seals pristine and unbroken. She hadn't even opened them.
From any rational standpoint, Juliet's behavior was entirely normal. She carried out her duties with quiet diligence. She caused no trouble. The fact that she had left his residence for the day should not have concerned him in the slightest — there was nothing unusual about it.
At first glance, everything appeared exactly as it should.
And yet, the Duke of Carlisle's mood was ***foul***.
A single, elegant finger began tapping against the polished surface of the desk — slow, rhythmic, deliberate.
*But is everything truly as it appears?*
Juliet was openly avoiding him.
And it was not merely avoidance. She had wounded his pride with surgical precision. She had refused his gift — sent the necklace back as though it were a trinket unworthy of her consideration — and then left for the Count's mansion without a backward glance. Each action, taken alone, was insignificant. Together, they felt like a gauntlet thrown at his feet.
It was nothing like the Juliet Montague he knew.
Yet despite his instinct — that sharp, animal certainty whispering that something lay hidden beneath her actions — the intelligence report revealed nothing. No irregularities. No secrets. Nothing.
*Then how am I to interpret this sudden change?*
The tapping continued.
"Oh — come to think of it," Jude said abruptly, breaking the long silence as though a thought had only just surfaced. "There was one thing I forgot to mention."
Lennox's gaze shifted.
"I ran into the late Count's maid when I visited the mansion to collect the mail."
Though the Earl and his wife had passed, a handful of servants still remained at the Montague estate, maintaining the grounds to prevent its slow decay. Jude had gone there on a routine errand — to discreetly intercept any correspondence that might arrive for Juliet.
"The maid said something strange." Jude's brow furrowed. "A man has been coming to the mansion. Several times, apparently."
"A man?" The words left Lennox's mouth like the *click* of a lock engaging.
"Yes. He wanted to meet Miss Montague. He came two or three times and asked to see her. But beyond that, the maid couldn't tell me much about him."
Elliot unconsciously held his breath. His eyes remained fixed on the Duke of Carlisle, watching for the shift he knew was coming.
Only Jude — tactless, earnest Jude Heyon — failed to read the room, too caught up in the momentum of his own report.
"It was a young man — looked to be in his early twenties. I was about to bring it to your attention sooner, but then Miss Juliet decided to visit the Count's mansion herself, and the matter slipped my mind. However, since she rarely returns there, the maid most likely hasn't told her about the visitor yet."
"A man," Lennox repeated.
His face showed nothing. Not a flicker, not a crease, not a shadow.
But Elliot noticed.
The finger that had been tapping against the desk ***stopped***.
The hand resting on the armrest of his chair tightened — slowly, deliberately — until the veins across the back stood out in sharp, blue ridges beneath the skin.
"Funny," the Duke said.
His face did not look amused in the slightest.
Elliot couldn't help glancing toward the fireplace. A healthy fire blazed within it, flames licking at the iron grate, throwing warmth into the room.
And yet the temperature *plummeted*.
It wasn't his imagination. Even Jude — who moments before had been animated and cheerful — fell silent mid-breath, his spine straightening as though an invisible hand had seized him by the collar.
Elliot's mind worked quickly, assembling the pieces.
*Juliet Montague, who left the residence early this morning and has not yet returned.*
*And the Duke, who ordered a covert investigation into the movements of the woman he keeps closest.*
He had a rough idea of what was unfolding.
Elliot had served as the Duke of Carlisle's secretary for ten years. He had known every one of the Duke's mistresses. He remembered, now, that there had been one — years ago — who had brought another man into her bed in some desperate gambit to capture Lennox's attention.
*Yes. There was one like that.*
*But what happened to her?*
Elliot tried desperately to recall the answer and found, with a chill sliding down his spine, that he could not. The woman had simply... *vanished* from his memory. From everyone's memory.
A quiet voice cut through the silence like a blade drawn from its sheath.
"Elliot."
"Yes, Your Highness?"
"Release the wolves."
*Wolves* — the name given in whispered shorthand to the Duke of Carlisle's elite knights. The ones who operated in shadow. The ones who did not return empty-handed.
Elliot bowed his head low, swallowing the knot in his throat, and silently prayed that nothing terrible would come of this.
"...As you command."
---
## — The Tea House on White Poplar Street —
Arriving home after a long absence, Juliet allowed herself a brief rest before changing into fresh clothes and venturing out into the city.
The streets were alive with the frenzy of the approaching New Year's Eve ball. Along White Poplar Street — where the capital's finest clothiers and shoemakers kept their elegant storefronts — the road was choked with carriages, their lacquered doors gleaming in the pale winter light. Servants darted between them, arms full of hat boxes and garment bags, hurrying to collect gowns and shoes ordered weeks in advance for their mistresses.
Juliet moved through the bustle with quiet ease, weaving between the harried figures as though she were made of something lighter than the cold air around her.
Her destination lay just off the main thoroughfare — a small establishment called *The Tea House*, tucked behind a wrought-iron gate and a row of bare-branched birch trees.
When she stepped inside, the owner — a warm-faced woman with silver threaded through her dark hair — offered her a table in the heated parlor. Juliet declined with a polite smile.
"I'd prefer to sit in the garden, if you don't mind."
The owner raised an eyebrow but said nothing, guiding her through the back door to a small tea table nestled among the dormant flower beds. The garden was hushed and still, the air sharp with the scent of frost and sleeping earth.
Juliet settled into her chair as though the cold did not touch her.
After a few minutes, the owner returned carrying a silver tray: two crystal glasses and a transparent decanter filled with amber liquid, tiny shards of ice clinking against the sides.
Iced tea. In the dead of winter.
"Thank you," Juliet said softly.
"You're welcome," the owner replied, unable to keep the curiosity from her voice. *An odd choice for weather like this.*
She retreated to the warmth of the parlor and found herself lingering by the window, gazing out at the young woman in the garden.
Juliet had never introduced herself, but the owner already knew her name — and her story.
*Juliet Montague. Only daughter of the late Earl of Montague.*
She was quite famous, in the way that beautiful, unfortunate people tend to be.
The guests who frequented *The Tea House* were almost always gossiping about someone, but no name surfaced more reliably than hers. Some spoke with sympathy — *a girl orphaned too young, with no family left to shelter her.* Others spoke with contempt — *a shameless mistress who doesn't know her place, grasping for a title she'll never hold.*
But in the eyes of the elderly owner, the woman sitting alone in the winter garden resembled neither a helpless child nor a scheming social climber.
Through the frosted glass, she looked like a painting come to life — the luxurious fabric of her dress catching the muted light, a faint smile resting on her lips, her gaze distant and faintly thoughtful. And yet beneath the elegance, she seemed, somehow, like nothing more than an ordinary young woman of her age, sitting quietly with her own thoughts for company.
"Quite lovely," the owner murmured to herself, her breath fogging the windowpane.
*It can't be easy — being the mistress of that infamous Duke.*
She watched Juliet lift the glass of iced tea to her lips, serene and unhurried against the cold, and felt an unexpected ache bloom in her chest.
Something very much like pity.