Chapter 44 Doug
Tyler interrogated the remaining witnesses, and their testimonies perfectly corroborated Estella’s account. Several noble ladies, seated in the pavilion, confirmed hearing the argument, their recollections matching Estella’s verbatim. Estate workers attested to a prior dispute between the parties over selling the manor—an unresolved grievance simmering beneath the surface.
Lord Harmon soon returned with evidence. Traces at the reservoir’s edge corroborated the statements—both Eleanor and Michelle had been pushed into the water.
With witness accounts and physical evidence pointing to a clear conclusion, Tyler nevertheless turned to Isolde and asked, “County Princess, do you have anything to say in your defense?”
Isolde rose, sweeping her gaze over the assembled witnesses. Her expression remained impassive as she declared, “They are all lying. Eleanor jumped into the water herself—her aim was to frame me. As for Michelle and me falling in, I was trying to save Eleanor. But in my panic, I forgot I can’t swim. I thrashed about and, in my struggle, accidentally pulled Michelle under. I feel deeply remorseful.”
Geoffrey slammed his palm on the table, his face draining of color. “Such absurd nonsense! You dare spout such a lie? You and Eleanor have a history of animosity—why would you risk your life to save her?”
Isolde’s cold smile deepened. “Ah, I see. If I speak, it’s absurd. If they speak, it must be the truth. In your eyes, Geoffrey, I am nothing but a deceitful and venomous woman, unworthy of comparison to these paragons of virtue. You decided I was guilty long before today, didn’t you? Even if I were proven innocent this instant, you still wouldn’t believe me.”
Geoffrey stared at her proud, untouchable face. A memory surfaced—a past accusation, the evidence overwhelming, and yet, she had been wrongly condemned. For the first time, hesitation flickered in his chest.
Margaret, observing his wavering expression, spoke with detached coolness. “You’re quick-witted, I’ll grant you that. But do you expect us to believe that every single servant here has been bribed? And what of the noble ladies—are they in on this supposed conspiracy too? I find it hard to believe. Eleanor knew she was carrying a child. Why would she risk her own life, and that of her unborn child, just to frame you? And Michelle, your own elder sister, with whom you share a deep bond—would she really betray you for a distant cousin? Geoffrey is right. What you’re saying is pure nonsense.”
Geoffrey’s fleeting doubt vanished.
Talia scoffed, her voice frigid. “I may not have heard the argument myself, but based on Isolde’s behavior today, I find her claims utterly unconvincing. When we arrived, she, as the mistress of this estate, was asked to have someone burn some mugwort to ward off the mosquitoes. Instead of obliging, she argued with Mrs. Blackwell over it! And Mrs. Blackwell is her own aunt! A woman who lacks even the most basic respect for her elders—how could she possibly be the type to jump into a lake to save someone? Who would believe such a thing?”
Milton stood, turning to Tyler with an air of finality. “Tyler, the case is clear. The culprit stands before us. She cannot refute the truth. You know your duty—do I need to instruct you on how to carry it out?”
Tyler glanced at Geoffrey. On the surface, it was an open-and-shut case—Isolde appeared guilty beyond doubt. But anyone willing to probe deeper would see there was more beneath the surface. If Geoffrey insisted on investigating further, he might yet uncover the truth. But Geoffrey had already made up his mind.
“Do you have any more questions?” Tyler asked, though he knew he shouldn’t. A part of him still hoped Geoffrey would see reason.
Geoffrey’s gaze was like ice, his voice laced with disappointment and anger. “The matter is settled. Handle it as you see fit.”
Tyler exhaled almost imperceptibly, straightening his posture. “Lord Harmon, take the County Princess—”
Before he could finish, a sharp, almost taunting voice rang out from the courtyard. “My, my! What’s all this excitement? A celebration?”
The sudden interruption left the room momentarily frozen in surprise. As the shock settled, several figures strode into the courtyard.
Leading the group was Oliver, the King’s favored new noble. Dressed in a deep blue military uniform with fitted sleeves, he wore a plain white belt fastened with a tarnished golden buckle; upon closer inspection, one could see engraved characters—an heirloom of the Founding Emperor. His jet-black hair was bound neatly in a warrior’s crown, his features sharp, his expression composed and reserved. Yet, beneath that restraint, a cold glint flashed in his eyes. Beads of sweat clung to his tanned skin, evidence of a hasty journey.
Beside him, a man in a loose-fitting purple robe walked with an air of leisure despite the brisk pace. His voice matched his appearance—silken and eerie. His long hair was tied back with a violet ribbon, framing a face of refined yet unsettling beauty. His arched brows drew into a perpetual frown, forming a character between his eyes. His chin lifted ever so slightly, lips pressed in a thin line—a figure exuding quiet authority.
Trailing them were several black-robed, sword-wielding guards, their expressions impassive, their gazes like honed steel. As they entered, the air in the room seemed to contract. The space, once vast, suddenly felt stiflingly small. Their mere presence commanded attention—each man tall, rigid in posture, radiating an aura of unwavering dominance. “Mr. Becker.”
The stunned room erupted into hurried movements as everyone rose in respect. Doug Becker. The Lord Chancellor of the Southern Watch. Once Bradley’s favored protégé, now the Queen Mother’s and the King’s most trusted confidant. A man whose power and influence spanned the entire imperial court. The only eunuch in the history of the Eryndral Empire to have ever set foot on the battlefield.
Doug’s gaze swept across the room, his lips curving into a smile as he raised a hand. “I do hope my unannounced visit hasn’t inconvenienced the esteemed gentlemen gathered here?”
“How could it?” Geoffrey responded smoothly, clasping his hands in greeting. “Mr. Becker’s presence graces Montlins Manor with unparalleled honor.”
Many looked down on Doug Becker—mocking him for his status as a eunuch. Others sought to curry his favor—his proximity to the throne was too valuable to ignore. And then there were those who, despite everything, genuinely respected him. Geoffrey was one of the latter. Even now, faced with this debacle, he welcomed Doug’s arrival with open arms.
As Doug and Oliver took their seats, Oliver’s gaze landed squarely on Isolde. At that same moment, Isolde’s eyes, which had just drifted from the doorway, met his. A flicker of something unreadable passed between them. She smiled faintly—a greeting, no more, no less.
Oliver turned away, addressing Margaret with a polite bow. “Matilda, I see you’re here as well?”
Margaret’s expression had darkened the moment Doug entered. Now, when her foster son greeted her, she merely gave a cool nod. “Oliver. And what brings you here?”
“Indeed,” Oliver replied, sweeping his robes aside as he took a seat. He had answered, yet offered no real explanation. Margaret didn’t press further. After all, the relationship between them had long been nothing more than a well-maintained façade.