*Clop-clop. Clop-clop.*
Hearing the familiar clatter of hooves, Emily—who had just scattered grain for the geese—set the basket on the windowsill and ran from the house.
"My lady!"
She was beside herself with worry about Eloise, who had gone off alone to Blissbury in a freight wagon.
*She catches colds especially easily in spring!*
In summer and autumn, Eloise ran around the fields like a newborn foal. But in winter and spring, she fell ill from the slightest cold snap.
Emily and Mrs. Severton knew this perfectly well and protected her like the apple of their eye all winter—but she'd left without a shawl or even a hat!
And she'd even driven the cart herself!
Emily remembered the mocking words of her friend, who worked as a servant in the house opposite, for Mrs. Ogilvy.
> "Doesn't a maid's status depend on which lady she serves?"
With these words, the friend had begun to praise the exquisite and refined taste of Mrs. Ogilvy's daughters.
She spoke figuratively, but the idea was simple.
*"I pity you, since you serve such a lady as Eloise."*
Of course, Emily couldn't take it anymore. She'd attacked her friend and grabbed her hated hair.
"Our lady is a thousand times better than yours—whom even their *suitors* abandon because of their malicious natures! And our lady just dresses simply, but if she went to Cambon and bought a new dress, yours wouldn't even come *close*, understand?"
"So what if she's twenty-six and still not married?"
Their childish quarrel had stopped only when their mistresses returned home.
Well-bred ladies couldn't stand it when their maids raised their voices.
Be that as it may, after those words Emily—seething with indignation—had set out Eloise's best hats and shawls at the entrance.
But her mistress, unaware of the servant's feelings, had run from the house in one dress, as if she herself were a servant.
*Today, even if they call me impudent, I am obliged to tell my lady everything I think.*
With firm resolve, Emily approached the cart.
*Was there really so much to pick up at Blissbury?*
The wagon, which had been empty on the way there, was now filled with something bulky.
"My lady! I've told you so many times to at least take a shawl... My lady?"
She was sure Eloise would just wave her hand and ask her to stop grumbling.
But Eloise—with a face as if she had seen a ghost—pulled a large bundle of papers from the cart and quickly slipped into the house.
Then she stopped by the fireplace in the living room and said to Emily, who was about to follow:
"Don't come in."
"What? My lady, what is—"
"Please, Emily. Can you wait outside until I call you?"
Eloise's unusually harsh tone and expression made Emily forget her intention to scold—and retreat.
---
As soon as Emily left, Eloise untied the bundle and began throwing papers into the fireplace.
**Whoosh!**
Dancing tongues of flame instantly engulfed the paper.
Eloise's face flushed with heat from the sudden fire.
She continued to throw papers into the flames. Both the sheets with anonymous bodies and the sheets with Lieutenant Colonel Ryan's face turned to ash in an instant.
This still didn't seem enough. She crumbled the remaining lumps of ash with a poker.
"*Cough!*"
The hot ashes that rose made her cough violently, but Eloise's hands did not stop.
Only after a long while—when the fire that had devoured everything had died down—did Eloise collapse into a chair and mutter:
**"What kind of person *is* this?"**
These words about the impudent fellow who had been haunting her mind since she left Blissbury were spoken into the void.
---
## — The Mirror —
*"What kind of woman is this?"*
At the same hour, Ryan emerged from the bathroom, dried his hair with a towel, and returned to his room.
The clean chamber had retained its original beauty well. Items that were long out of fashion might have seemed tacky, but thanks to careful maintenance, they retained their vintage charm.
He'd understood this from the very beginning. The servants and the estate manager cared for this place with great love.
So when he'd seen a suspicious maid on the stairs, he'd felt so irritated—as if he had already become a part of this estate.
*For a servant, she was wearing a nice dress. But her hair was disheveled, and she was missing a hat and shawl...*
None of the noble ladies he had seen walked around like that.
Therefore, he was certain she was a servant who had stolen her mistress's clothes.
One way or another, he had been going to catch her in the act of theft and hand her over to the authorities, but...
He rummaged in the pocket of his uniform—dirty from helping to pull a carriage out of the mud.
A crumpled drawing fell out—one the woman hadn't had time to retrieve.
Ryan squinted at the sheet of paper depicting a naked man, as if looking at the most disgusting thing in the world.
*The drawing was quite good.*
He would have even praised it—if the face in the portrait hadn't belonged to Lieutenant Colonel Ryan Wilgrave.
He threw the drawing onto the table, walked over to the fireplace, and looked at his reflection in the mirror.
From there, a stubborn man with black hair and blue eyes stared back.
"Ryan Thornton."
He muttered the name he was *using now*.
"We'll live under this name for a while."
He chuckled as he looked at his reflection in the mirror.
At himself—whose name before coming here had been **Ryan Wilgrave**.
---
A long time ago—the day he first saw a portrait that supposedly depicted him—he had burst into rare, loud laughter.
After all, they'd sent him a painting depicting a *completely different person*.
It was his own fault. Fed up with the annoying artist who wanted to glorify the face of the war hero, he had ordered his adjutant to sit in his place.
When the artist came for the first time, he'd ordered him thrown out immediately.
But those who wanted to draw him kept coming. Even threats of military tribunal hadn't helped. He decided to find out what was going on, and it turned out he had—without even realizing it—become a war hero.
Even the royal court and parliament sent letters urgently requesting his cooperation, wishing to use him for propaganda purposes.
*It was ridiculous.*
What were they going to do if his face—often used in covert operations—became public knowledge?
So Ryan had grabbed his adjutant and ordered:
**"You must become Ryan Wilgrave."**
He, of course, was horrified and protested. But the first law of the army is obedience to orders. If he gave the command, the adjutant had to obey.
This was how the world came to know Ryan Wilgrave as a handsome blond man with blue eyes.
"My God, Lieutenant Colonel! Someday this will come out!"
"We'll think about that later. For now, leave everything as is."
He'd decided it was even better this way. The annoying visitors disappeared, and the fact that his face was known as something completely different would be useful for infiltrating enemy lines.
As he'd expected, when he walked around dressed as a common soldier, no one would have guessed that he was Ryan Wilgrave.
And then the war ended.
When he appeared at the negotiations looking *nothing* like his portrait, not only his enemies but also the highest-ranking army officers—who had never seen him in person—were speechless with astonishment.
Looking at them, Ryan thought his choice had been the right one.
He thought the same upon returning to New.
*It was terrible.*
People hung up another man's portrait and extolled his name. It would have been fine if they had praised him for his exploits.
But seeing how those who didn't really know him harbored tender feelings for him made him feel sick.
*Talking about love without even knowing the person's face.*
**"Stupid and pathetic."**
His mockery of these women became even stronger when he briefly visited his home in the capital.
"What is all *this?*"
"These are invitations for you, master."
"I understand that, but where did such a number come from? Am I missing something—is etiquette now supposed to send ten invitations from each person?"
"That is because your fame is known to everyone in the capital—no, throughout Albion—and everyone admires you."
Naturally, Ryan ordered that all invitations be declined.
Just at this time, his friends visited him.
---
"I feel like a freshly caught fish put up for auction. Every glance is eager to find some flaw in me—so sternly and meticulously they examine me. And then, if I pass their test, I'm immediately dragged here and there, and I have to meet dozens, *hundreds* of girls whom I don't even remember. And then I have to dance until my mouth is dry. And all this with a sense of duty that I must under no circumstances be impolite to the girls who look at me with such hope."
The usually silent Philip had blurted out all this in one breath, not hiding his disgust.
"Associating with girls is just the tip of the iceberg. Dealing with beautiful and educated ladies is a gentleman's honor. But there are *others!* Those who pretend to be virtuous women, but are not! They offer to enjoy risky pleasures together, say they agree to be mistresses... Oh, my God."
"Yes, as Philip says, all the women of Albion are just itching to eat us alive."
Richard interjected.
It was his friend, whom his father had sent to war with the words: *"Maybe at least there your dissolute nature will calm down a little."*
Naturally, as soon as the war ended, he'd rushed to New. He'd shouted that the beautiful women of the capital were waiting for him, and that he would—no matter what—start a whirlwind romance and find true love.
But this same Richard, despite his loud statements, now appeared only in purely male company.
"A lady is only half the problem. The maid you hire undresses and comes into your room... How is that even *possible*, even if the world has turned upside down?"
Shaking his head, Richard poured himself some whiskey and said to Ryan:
"Of all of us, *you* need to be the most careful. Your fame is the loudest, and your blood is noble, so you're now the best suitor in all of Albion. You have a nasty temper, but with your abilities, it'll pass for something special. Now that you've returned to New, you'll have no shortage of visitors. And that's not all! Even the maids in this house will be eyeing you at night and sneaking into your room."
"Don't insult Wilgrave's servants."
Richard chuckled at Ryan's words.
"Ryan, you should know what a tasty morsel you are. Anyway, don't ignore my advice."
---
And that night, Ryan regretted not listening to his friend's warning.