Based on Henry's confession, the police recovered a second "Walker" pistol from his nearby home. On the day of the murder, he'd rushed off in a panic with the weapon, too afraid to ditch it elsewhere, so he'd stashed it back in his drawer. Though he'd considered destroying it—first worried his servant would notice the missing expensive gun and grow suspicious, then fearing someone else might find it and cause trouble—he eventually decided to hide it until things blew over.

  After securing the murder weapon, the police test-fired it and compared the bullet markings, confirming it nearly matched the slug extracted from the victim's skull.

  "Astonishing!" everyone marveled.

  "The killer test-fired it repeatedly recently to muffle the shots, so the rifling has distinct lead deposits. Even two brand-new guns from the same mold wouldn't leave identical marks—though you'd need closer inspection. Try coating a bullet in ink, wrapping it in paper to transfer the grooves, then comparing the imprints. That'll highlight any differences."

  "Brilliant! This eliminates misidentifying guns of the same caliber." The officer jotted furious notes in his pad.

  Yvette also shared future forensic ballistics techniques, confident they'd spark further innovations.

  "One more thing," Yvette added, glancing at Maggie's flushed face. "This lady guessed correctly—parts of the Chevalier's story are based on my experiences..."

  The room hushed.

  "I'd prefer that stays private."

  "Why?!" The officer gaped. Surely such genius deserved acclaim—this could launch her into high society, even secure her a government post!

  "Because it helps no one. The police's reputation would suffer for the initial mistake, reporters would hound us, Mrs. Alsop's name would be dragged through the mud, and I'd lose my freedom to prying eyes. I want none of that."

  Maggie paled—she'd be branded an adulteress, even if high society discreetly condoned such affairs.

  "But..." The officer wavered. Their botched suicide ruling would disgrace the force.

  "Let the Chevalier take credit," Yvette said softly. "In my mind, he's my unrestrained counterpart."

  The crowd buzzed with theories—was "Mr. Fisher" some noble's bastard? His melancholy surely hinted at a dark pedigree!

  ...

  Later, the officer briefed his superintendent.

  "Sorted. We told the press we spotted inconsistencies in the 'suicide,' worked with the Labyrinth of Thought Club, and cracked the case. The killer’s in custody. No one can fault us now."

  The superintendent skimmed the press clippings. Even the harshest papers focused on the mystery, not police errors. "Thank heavens. If only all citizens were as accommodating as Mr. Fisher. Drinks are on me tonight."

  "Oh—his friend requested the two guns as trial mementos."

  "Granted!" The superintendent clasped the officer's shoulder. "Dave, how’d you like to investigate thefts at Windsor Castle? Lord Granville’s stumped."

  "Me?!" The officer gulped. "But... it was Mr. Fisher who actually solved the case!"

  The superintendent smirked. "Good luck, Dave."

  Left alone, the officer groaned. "Fisher... sir... you've doomed me."

  The Duke of Lancaster’s invitation led them to his family’s estate in Hampshire, a verdant paradise southwest of London. As Yvette’s carriage rolled through the countryside, she admired the dreamlike beauty of ivy-clad walls and red-brick cottages peeking through emerald foliage—scenes so picturesque they seemed plucked from an artist’s canvas.

  The contrast to soot-choked London was staggering. With winter’s approach, coal fires blackened the city air, forcing Alison to scrub soot-streaked surfaces daily. Even laundered shirts, once pristine, turned gray when hung to dry in London’s grimy atmosphere. Yvette now relied on Winslow’s doll, which spirited her laundry away weekly to be cleansed in the countryside’s purer air.

  Today, she wore a pale-blue embroidered gown, every button studded with gems, her calfskin shoes fastened with gold buckles crafted by master jewelers. The lace at her cuffs gleamed spotless—a sartorial feat near London, announcing her as wealth personified. The cost of maintaining such attire could feed a family for months.

  Beside her, Ulysses had outdone himself in a navy-blue coat edged with gold, his platinum hair glowing like spun silver against the finery.

  Paris might dictate fashion, but even Parisians dismissed their provincial countrymen as rustics. Within the city, Versailles’ courtiers reigned supreme, sneering at lesser mortals. Yet Ulysses carried himself with the effortless grace of Versailles’ elite—only a true aristocrat could wear such opulence without descending into gaudiness.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  European high society was a battlefield of whispers and veiled daggers. As new money blurred old hierarchies, nobles clung to lavish rituals and brutal etiquette to gatekeep their world. Tonight’s gathering was no exception—a silent scoring of status where missteps meant exile.

  Their carriage bypassed lesser guests, rolling straight to Ferndown Estate’s doorstep. The mansion loomed ahead, a gray-white marvel framed by obelisks and fountains, its grounds sprawling with deer parks and glasshouses. It wasn’t grandeur—it was obscene wealth.

  Ugh. That smirking devil’s face flashed in her mind, now thrice as irritating.

  Yvette smoothed her cravat and stockings—armor for the coming fray. Ahead, Ulysses disembarked like a peacock in full plumage.

  Louis XIV’s reign had popularized breeches and stockings to showcase royal calves. Ulysses, leggy and poised, wore the style to perfection. Yvette checked her own legs—shorter, but slender. If the Sun King managed to look regal in this getup, she’d survive.

  "Relax," Ulysses murmured. "You’re not here to grovel or scheme. Enjoy the show."

  Their privileged access—carriage to the doorstep—marked them as the Duke’s inner circle. Lesser nobles tramped across the gravel in boots, changing shoes at the door.

  Two fops greeted each other with effusive charm, their veneer of camaraderie hiding gladiatorial scrutiny. They weighed each other’s jewels and tailoring like wolves testing for weakness. Reassured, they swapped tales of mistresses.

  The women were worse. Their chatter about fashion was mere noise—tonight’s true purpose was to be seen. Months of cold baths and torturous hair regimens culminated in this battlefield. Every lingering gaze was a point scored.

  Through the pillared archway Yvette glided, her smiles calculated—warm but not eager, dignified but not cold. Nobles responded in kind, recognizing both her polish and the whispers of her closeness to the Duke.

  Ulysses played the aloof Frenchman to perfection, his selective attention spawning gossip even as it set hearts aflutter.

  The grand hall stole her breath. Gods and muses danced across frescoed ceilings while lavender-clad footmen—noble-looking enough to pass as guests—ushered luggage upstairs.

  The Duke’s wealth wasn’t just vast; it was vulgar. Legends claimed a Lancaster ancestor once boasted he couldn’t outspend his fortune—gold tossed from carriages always returned via mines or trade.

  If the Duke’s brother was Spindle, perhaps precognition ran in the blood, their coffers eternally overflowing.

  Yet for most attendees, tonight was no mere party—it was an audition. Whispers hinted the Duke’s guestlist was a proving ground for Windsor’s inner circle. Behind every compliment lurked rivalry.

  Yvette exhaled. They were here as royal safeguards, not players.

  Still, the spectacle fascinated. A baroness, rumored near ruin, was encircled by "concerned" friends eyeing her jewels for paste replicas. In this pit of sharks, weakness invited a feeding frenzy.

  In an age ruled by appearances, Brummell—the architect of Albion’s modern fashion and a tastemaker of his time—leveraged his sartorial genius to become the prince’s style advisor. This earned him influence far beyond his station as a secretary’s son, even allowing him to threaten the exile of a duchess who dared cross him. Across the Channel, Madame de Pompadour’s impeccable taste defined French elegance until her dying day, reigning as the uncrowned queen of Versailles.

  Fashion was power. To be deemed à la mode meant every door swung open, every drawing room welcomed you, every lady’s bedchamber lay within reach. Women coveted such men as trophies to flaunt—proof of their own desirability. The same held true in reverse, making the pursuit of beauty a shortcut to status.

  Even among aristocrats, looks were armor in the unspoken wars of social rank. No one dared neglect them.

  Amid the gilded splendor of the hall, Yvette glimpsed the Duke of Lancaster, resplendent as any masterpiece. As host, he wove through guests with practiced charm. For a heartbeat, his crescent-moon smile seemed to flicker toward her—or had she imagined it?

  “My dearest friend!” The Duke’s voice was honeyed as they approached. “And the ever-dashing Yves! Soon you’ll eclipse that tactless uncle of yours as London’s most sought-after bachelor~” A sweep of his hand encompassed the estate. “Ferham’s galleries, sculptures, and library await your pleasure—ask any footman. Ladies have already ravaged the greenhouse strawberries—ripe for plucking, much like their lips, non? Or join the gentlemen angling by the lake or gaming in the card room…”

  Strawberries tempted Yvette—until she pictured the greenhouse: a jungle of predatory smiles where “Darling Duchess” hid daggers. These women bent propriety into art, lacing every gesture with innuendo. She’d be devoured alive.

  She melted into the shadows instead.

  “Ulysses!” The Duke snagged his arm. “Billiards? I thirst for a real challenge~”

  “Your Grace honors me.” Ulysses’ tone could’ve frosted the champagne.

  ……

  “Challenge,” it turned out, was wishful thinking. Ulysses annihilated the game in one ruthless streak, his focus as razor-edged as his cue’s precision. Noblewomen gasped—not for the humiliated Duke, but the Frenchman’s hypnotic grace. Their practiced hearts, usually calculating like ledger books, fluttered like debutantes’. What price wouldn’t one pay for a night under that gaze?

  Shame sobered them fast. Fans fluttered, masking whispers:

  “The Duke’s too kind tolerating such arrogance.”

  “Unless…” A smirk. “Certain tastes enjoy defiance…”

  Mid-game, Ulysses cornered the Duke: “Your scheme?”

  “Why, showcasing our bond!” The Duke’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  Their “friendship” was mutually exploitative theater. Ulysses, as the Organization’s watchdog, kept the Duke’s moods from destabilizing the Spindle—while borrowing his clout to bypass London’s petty obstructions.

  Yet that smirk at the door… Had Ulysses slipped?

  ——

  Yvette lost herself in the manor’s legendary library—a tower housing treasures hoarded by generations of Lancasters. Medieval gem-bound psalters rubbed spines with heretical gospels, like the apocalypse text before her:

  [The Lamb unseals doom:

  First, Conquest on a white steed, trailing venomous blossoms;

  War on crimson follows, drenching earth in gore;

  Famine’s black mount treads fertile fields to dust;

  Then the Pale Rider—Death, omnipresent, his name etched in every shadow…]

  Defaced pages swallowed the rest.

  Her fingers traced queerer finds: rituals veiled as allegories (missing key phrases), a Nibelungen variant where the dragonslayer grew scales—“Who usurped whom?”—and a gardener’s ode: “Death wears a crown of flowers.”

  The dressing bell startled her. Beyond the windows, lit lancets glittered like Cinderella’s castle. She shut the book, its secrets humming in her veins.