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Maybe it was the pain from the cut he sustained when he punched through the glass window, or the anger and hurt from Alice’s decision. He couldn’t tell, but whatever it was kept his eyes open and his mind restless through the entire night at the tavern.
Timothy couldn’t be certain because he denied himself the chance to feel it properly.
He wasn’t angry, yet it felt as though he deserved to be.
The crows outside the window startled him, urging him to rise from the bed where he had sat awake all night.
His emotions unsettled, eyes heavy, and his hand aching, he stepped into the tavern hall where the old man sat in his usual corner.
“Oh goodness, my lord — you have a wound that needs tending,” the man exclaimed, rising at once to offer his aid.
Timothy glanced at his bloodied hand, expressionless.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“I am sorry, sir. I shattered your window in a fit of rage last night. Please, tell me what it will cost to have it replaced.”
“Oh, that explains it.” The man sighed as he reached for a bottle of dry gin.
He poured it generously over Timothy’s knuckles. The young man’s teeth clenched; the hiss that escaped him was the first true sign of pain he had shown all night.
Gently, the old man cleaned the wound with a cloth and wrapped it in fresh linen.
“There now,” he whispered, satisfied.
“Thank you, sir,” Timothy said solemnly.
“How much do I owe you?”
“Do not worry about the window, my lord. I too have known such rage in the dead of night.” The man gave a weary smile.
Then he paused, studying Timothy’s face, and chuckled softly.
“Your accent, it reminds me of my boyhood romance.” He chuckled, lost in the memory. “Ah, mademoiselle Marguerite…” he sighed dreamily.
“You courted a Frenchwoman?” Timothy asked, a flicker of interest crossing his tired eyes.
“Oh yes, my lord. Those were glorious days. I travelled with my father for work — and there she was. Perfect.” His words spilled faster now, as if they had waited too long to be told.
“Ah, we used to steal sweet grape wine from her father’s cellar. We danced to the music of the moon and made love beneath its cover.”
“That is a fine tale, sir. What became of her?” Timothy pressed.
The old man’s smile faded to a sigh. In French, he murmured, Tout bien s’évanouit.
“All good things fade away.”
Timothy met his eyes, unsatisfied. The silence between them felt heavy but necessary.
“Non, Monsieur,” Timothy said softly.
“You cannot say that.”
“Believe me, my lord, I do not say it lightly,” the man answered.
“It is a hard truth — to live without my Marguerite. Acceptance keeps my mind from ruin.”
Again, quiet settled between them. Timothy knew then that he, too, stood at that dangerous edge — to accept Alice as a memory or to fight for her as reality. Her choice haunted him: why must good things be so brief, and the pain so enduring?
“Why?” he asked at last, his voice low.
The old man gave a dry chuckle, not of joy but of weary understanding.
“I was a fool to believe I had a future with Marguerite. She was noble-born; her father wealthy. And me? Not even French. Of course I never stood a chance. It took years, but here I am. Still breathing.”
“And where is she now?” Timothy asked, though he dreaded the answer.
“Her father married her off to a proper gentleman.” The old man grinned faintly. No sadness showed in his eyes, but Timothy heard it in the soft timbre of his voice.
“Not good enough,” Timothy whispered, shifting as though to leave.
“My lord, might I offer one last word?”
“Yes,” Timothy said, though his tone was still heavy with dissatisfaction.
“There are some outcomes that stand plainly before us, no matter how fiercely we fight them.” The man’s grin returned, though his eyes were grave.
Timothy only nodded, pressing his bandaged hand to his chest. With nothing more to say, he turned and walked towards the tavern door.
He hadn’t allowed himself to feel the full ache of the night before, but the old man’s tale left him no choice. He did not want a love that lived only in memory. He could not bear to imagine Alice becoming just another ghost of happiness lost to time.
Standing outside the tavern, he looked down the path that led to Alice’s cottage. His mind raced for a solution. He would not let class, borders, or titles rob him of this love.
He sighed, the weight of it filling his chest, but beneath it burned a calm resolve. She could feel this too; she only needed to understand. He would show her.
His carriage driver approached.
“Good morning, Your Grace.”
The man paused, glancing at Timothy’s injured hand.
“Shall we stop by the infirmary, my lord?”
“Non, non. Just take me home,” Timothy said softly, stepping into the carriage. Now he knew why his mind had stayed unsettled through the night: it was the quiet agony of accepting her decision. But now he would do no such thing. He would show her a part of himself she had yet to see. He would fight not in silence but allow the word of his heart to provide her with the clarity she needed to choose, and if the strength of it was as powerful as he knew it was, she would be his.
He worried himself not about what Bazel presented her with. His concern was the feeling that manifests itself when in her presence, and he was done allowing her to deny it when she clearly felt it too.
Meanwhile, Bazel harboured darker intentions as he arrived at Sinclair’s estate.
“Oh, Lord Bazel !” Sinclair called out as Bazel alighted from his carriage.
“To what do I owe this unannounced visit?” he asked with a wide grin.
It had been some time since they last met —since Sinclair’s awkward departure from Bazel’s manor, both men had avoided each other’s company.
“Forgive me, Lord Sinclair. You know I am a very busy man. But this matter could not wait,” Bazel replied, matching Sinclair’s grin as they strolled through the open green fields of Sinclair’s estate.
“This here,” Bazel said, gesturing at the manicured land, “is lovely.”
“Someone must compete with yours,” Sinclair laughed, admiring the greenery with him.
“So, what is this grave matter that brings you to my doorstep at dawn, Lord Bazel?” Sinclair asked, turning to study Bazel’s unsettled expression.
Bazel sighed, steadying his words. Even in anger, he kept a calm composure. His tone was soft, almost polite, yet edged with cold resolve.
“I seek to understand why that French bastard was granted the title of heir to the Shire estate. There are laws against such things. Why was this allowed?”
Sinclair nodded slowly, then shrugged.
“The throne likely pardoned him. His father was loyal to the crown. That is all I know.”
“Hmm.” Bazel digested this, silent.
“Lord Bazel?” Sinclair lowered his voice, curiosity sharp in his eyes.
“Tell me truly — what do you intend to do about it?”
Bazel exhaled, as though frustrated to speak it aloud.
“That man should never have received such honour. Not only is he a bastard, he is not even one of us. It mocks the law.”
Sinclair gave a dry laugh.
“Oh, but do you not think—?”
“No!” Bazel snapped, then steadied himself. “It is a disgrace to all of us. And it endangers our interests.”
Sinclair stopped walking. He studied Bazel intently.
“You never bother with what does not benefit you directly. What do you stand to gain from stripping him of the title?”
Bazel paused. He had spent all night preparing this lie:
“Sinclair, my friend, do you recall our last talk? You said it is wise to marry within our ranks, to preserve our influence.”
Sinclair nodded. “Indeed. I still believe it.”
“Good.” Bazel smiled darkly.
“The late Lord Shire left no legitimate heir — but he had a nephew, Aaron. A true Shire by blood. An orphan, yes — but young, unwed, impressionable. Under law, he is the rightful heir.”
Sinclair’s eyes gleamed with cautious interest.
“And what has that to do with me?”
Bazel stepped closer.
“You have a sister, Sinclair. I have none. If Aaron becomes Lord Shire with our backing, he shall wed your sister out of gratitude. The Shire wealth joins the Sinclair bloodline. Two houses bound. Your standing soars. And that bastard French whelp? Forgotten.”
Sinclair let the vision play out in his mind. Greed flickered in his eyes. Bazel watched, satisfied.
“So?” Bazel asked with a quiet chuckle. “What say you, my friend?”
Sinclair exhaled, still confused.
“But to go against the Crown…” He nodded, showing how heavy the thought weighed on him.
“Worry not. I have thought well ahead,” Bazel said, patting Sinclair’s shoulder, a knowing smile playing on his lips.
“You did mention the Royal Family favoured the late Lord Shire, did you not?”
Sinclair nodded.
“That is the most plausible explanation, yes,” he affirmed.
“Well then, it struck me clear as day.” Bazel nodded, smiling.
“They crave the Shire military’s loyalty — handing it to the French whelp makes it simple, does it not?”
Bazel watched as his words settled into Sinclair’s mind. Sinclair nodded slowly.
“Now, we tighten the stakes.”
Bazel leaned forward, whispering a few words into Sinclair’s ear. The doubt, disapproval, and hesitations that had lingered within Sinclair vanished at once. With those words echoing in his head, Sinclair now bore a light smile, satisfaction gleaming behind his eyes. He pulled away, raising his eyes; he studied the man beside him — younger, yet so deft with power that Sinclair found himself admiring the sheer brilliance that radiated from him. A mastermind, indeed.
With a confident voice, he declared,
“What are we waiting for, Bazel? Let us find this Aaron lad at once.”
The brightness of the sky was at its peak when both men alighted the carriage that had brought them to the Shire Hall where the family of the late Lord Shire resided.
It was a huge castle with its age serving as an accessory to its grandness and prestige — the ancestral home of the Shire Family.
It indeed met the criteria for how powerful the title was.
Both men gazed around, admiring the vast landscape that lay in front of them.
A young attendant rushed forward, noticing their presence.
“Morning, my lords!”
The man beckoned politely, leading them towards the large entrance door of the castle.
A young man approached them. He was the only male present in the entire house representing his family. He was the Aaron they had come to see.
“Hello, my lords,” the man greeted. He was in his late teens but well poised; his eyes carried an array of ambition and pride mixed with a novelty. He dressed appropriately and his steps forward were calculated — firm as he reached the men in front of him, who smiled at his presence.
“Good morning, my lords,” the boy greeted articulately.
“Good morning, boy.” Sinclair grinned proudly, satisfied with the young man’s demeanour whilst Bazel nodded silently but also showed a small smile of confidence.
“He would do,” Bazel thought to himself as the young man’s curious eyes asked the question before his mouth.
“Oh, you must be wondering what brought us here?”
Sinclair chuckled, reading the boy’s face.
“Yes, my lord. Unfortunately, the Duke of Shire does not reside here but at the other estate up in the town.”
“Oh no, no. We are not here for your cousin.”
Sinclair announced, his tone low.
“Oh, so to what do I owe the pleasure of having you over, my lords?” Aaron asked.
“We are here for you,” Sinclair affirmed, with Bazel nodding in support once more.
“What do you mean, for me?” The boy smiled, confused.
“Aaron, my dear boy.” Sinclair reached for his shoulders, placing a hand on them.
“We want you to be the heir of all this.”
Sinclair gestured around the room slowly with his other hand.
Bazel stood still, smiling and nodding to everything Sinclair was saying.
“What do you mean, my lord? What about Lord Timothy?”
The boy’s face flushed with confusion and surprise.
Their words were sudden and huge. He wasn’t prepared for them, yet Bazel knew this as he observed Aaron silently while Sinclair tried to explain.
“No, you are the next legitimate son of the Shire family. By law, this all belongs to you.”
Sinclair explained softly, educating Aaron. But Bazel could sense that the boy didn’t need that. This boy was groomed for inheritance — the way he spoke, the way he dressed, the want in his eyes behind the confusion and perplexity he showed.
Whilst Sinclair poured out the words he already knew, Bazel studied Aaron. The confusion didn’t touch his poise; he was composed. His breath stable, his tone low — there was no hint of emotion aside from what his eyes showed. He didn’t need to be told why they think he should be the heir. That wasn’t what his eyes asked. He only needed to know how, and Bazel smirked, satisfied with what he saw.
“What my good friend Lord Sinclair is trying to tell you, young Aaron, is that we have a plan that ensures your position isn’t stolen by an illegitimate heir,” Bazel announced strongly. He took a walk forward, away from the two men who now turned to him. His eyes strolled around the room, staring at the paintings that rested on its grand old walls.
“You would be Lord. Young Aaron and I have a clear plan on how to make that happen.” Bazel paused now, turning to the men in front of him. His grin wide, convincing and evident as he watched the confusion clear out from Aaron’s eyes.
It was clear now… he was one of us. A true Duke, born for it, raised for it — and that was all he needed. A proper representation that went against the idea of Timothy being given the title.
He sensed a looming victory and his smile entertained it.
As his eyes rested on the two ambitious men who stood in front of him, convinced in his recipe for success.
His heart quivered a moment as he thought of the look he witnessed being shared between Alice and Timothy at the dance. A look that he never was familiar with. But this look, this game, this role — he sure was.
He couldn’t beat that intensity, but he was certain that Timothy couldn’t beat his own intensity. The pride that existed within these walls was something the French man wasn’t trained for, and soon enough it would become a daring definition of his future in England.
Now more than ever it was time for Bazel to embody what works for him, power and pride. This was his own attempt at holding on to Alice; this was what his love translated to.