Lady Ines Scandalous Hobby-Chapter 72 - Seventy Two

The morning sun poured through the high windows of the grand staircase, casting long, bright rectangles of light onto the polished wood. Dust motes danced in the beams, cheerful and golden. It was a beautiful morning.

Ines hated it.

She walked down the stairs, her hand trailing lightly on the banister. Her steps were slow, heavy, lacking their usual morning bounce. She was wearing a dress of pale yellow, a color Edith had insisted would "brighten her spirits," but Ines felt as though she were wearing a costume. Inside, she felt gray.

She reached the bottom of the stairs and turned toward the dining room. The double doors were open. The smell of fresh coffee, toasted bread, and savory kippers drifted out, usually a comforting scent. Today, it made her stomach turn.

She walked in.

The long table stretched out before her. At the head, her brother, Rowan, sat behind a wall of the morning newspaper, a cup of tea steaming at his elbow.

To his right, there was a chair.

It was empty.

The place setting was there—the silver knife, the fork, the crystal water glass—but the plate was empty. The napkin was folded into a crisp, untouched triangle.

There was no dark-haired, broad-shouldered duke sipping coffee. There was no deep, rumbling voice. There was no secret, shared glance that made her toes curl.

There was just... empty space.

Ines felt her face crumple, just a little. A tiny, involuntary spasm of disappointment that she quickly smoothed away. She took a deep breath, plastered a polite, morning smile on her face, and walked to her seat.

"Good morning, brother," she said. Her voice sounded normal. She was proud of that.

Rowan lowered the paper just enough to show his eyes. He looked tired, but content. "Morning to you too, Ines. Hope you slept well?"

"I did, thank you," she lied. She had stared at her ceiling until dawn, waiting for midnight. She had waited, foolishly, for Carcel who never came.

She sat down. She reached for her linen napkin and unfolded it with a sharp snap, placing it over her lap to hide her trembling hands. She looked at the empty chair again. She couldn’t help it. It was like a missing tooth; her tongue kept going back to the gap.

"Isn’t... isn’t Carcel coming down for breakfast?" she asked.

She tried to sound uninterested. She tried to sound like a polite hostess inquiring about a guest. She picked up the silver teapot and poured herself a cup, focusing intensely on the stream of dark liquid so she wouldn’t have to look at Rowan.

"It is very unlikely that he is late," she added, a little too casually. "He is usually quite... punctual."

Rowan folded his paper and set it down on the table. He took a sip of his tea.

"As for Carcel," he said, his voice unconcerned, "he won’t be around for a few days."

Ines’s hand slipped. The teapot clattered against the saucer, a loud chink in the quiet room. A few drops of hot tea splashed onto the white tablecloth.

"Won’t be around?" she repeated, her voice faint.

"No," Rowan said, buttering a piece of toast. "Business related. He had to ride out to the coast. Some issue with one of the new ships. He left before dawn."

Before dawn.

Ines felt a cold, hollow stone settle in her stomach.

He had left. In the dark. While she was sleeping—or pretending to sleep.

"But," Rowan added, oblivious to his sister’s internal collapse, "he said he would be back in time for the ball. He wouldn’t miss the welcome for Earl Montclair. He promised."

Ines nodded slowly. She picked up her teacup, bringing it to her lips to hide the tremble in her chin.

Why? she thought, the question screaming in her mind. Why did he leave without saying goodbye?

She took a sip of tea. It was hot, but she didn’t feel it. She felt cold.

He just left, she thought, her heart aching. No note. No word. Just... gone.

Rowan’s voice cut through her misery, bringing her back to the sunlit, painful reality of the breakfast table.

"It is truly remarkable," Rowan mused, picking up his newspaper again and shaking it straight. He was shaking his head, a look of bemused, slightly annoyed wonder on his face.

Ines blinked, forcing herself to focus. "What is remarkable, Rowan?"

"The publishing world," he grumbled. "It seems anyone can print anything these days."

He tapped a finger against a column on the front page.

"This Arthur Pendleton," Rowan said, reading the name with a tone of distinct distaste. "He is making quite a lot of money lately. It says here the demand for his latest volume is unprecedented. The printers cannot keep up."

Ines nodded, absentmindedly reaching for a slice of toast. She didn’t care about authors. She didn’t care about money. She only cared about her breakfast at this very moment.

"Another one of his business news stories," she thought dully. "Stocks, bonds, authors making fortunes..."

She took a small bite of dry toast.

Wait.

Her chewing slowed. Her brain, which had been wading through a swamp of sadness, suddenly snagged on a sharp, familiar hook.

Arthur... Pendleton?

She froze. The toast turned to sawdust in her mouth.

Arthur Pendleton?

That’s... that’s me.

Her mind snapped to attention. It became alert, sharp, and terrified. Arthur Pendleton was the pseudonym she and Gladys had chosen.

She swallowed the toast with a difficult gulp. She had to control her face. She had to keep the mask on.

"Oh?" she asked. Her voice was a masterpiece of neutral, polite disinterest. "Who is he, brother?"

Rowan scoffed, turning the page. "He is a new author. Nobody knows who he is, apparently. He stays in the shadows."

Rowan looked up at her, his expression serious. "He has all the women of the ton in a chokehold, Ines. A complete frenzy."

Ines’s heart gave a strange, double-beat. A mix of terror and a wild, secret thrill. A frenzy?

"Really?" she asked, taking a tiny sip of tea to wet her dry throat. "With... with what?"

"With his new novel," Rowan said, reading the title from the paper. He lowered his voice, as if saying the words aloud might contaminate his breakfast.

"It is titled: The Duke’s Nightly Routine."

Ines choked.

She didn’t mean to. It just happened. A small, strangled cough escaped her. She quickly pressed her napkin to her lips, her eyes watering.

The Duke’s Nightly Routine.

It was the new volume she had started since Carcel’s lessons. The one she had written based on her "observations" of Carcel at breakfast, and her imagination of what he did when he went upstairs.

Rowan looked at her with concern. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," she wheezed, waving a hand. "Just... a crumb. Please, go on."

Rowan shook his head, returning to the paper. "It is absurd. They say it is... scandalous. It details the... private... life of a Duke and his maid." He shuddered slightly. "It is clearly trash. But the ladies are buying it in droves. Lady Danbury apparently ordered ten copies."

Ines felt a blush rising up her neck, but this time, it wasn’t from shame. It was from a strange, bubbling, hysterical laughter she was trying desperately to suppress.

If he only knew, she thought. If he only knew that the ’Duke’ in the book is sitting in that empty chair right now. Or rather, he should be.

Rowan looked at her, his face settling into his "protective big brother" expression.

"Don’t read books like that, Ines," he said, his voice firm. "They aren’t good for you. They fill a young woman’s head with... unrealistic expectations. And nonsense."

Ines looked at him. She looked at his earnest, serious, loving face.

Unrealistic expectations?

She thought of the library. She thought of Carcel’s hands. She thought of the way he had taught her what to expect when a woman is with a man.

Oh, Rowan, she thought, a wave of secret, sad, powerful knowledge washing over her. If only you knew.

If only you knew that the reality is far, far more scandalous than the book.

"I... I will keep that in mind, brother," she said meekly.

Just then, the heavy oak doors of the dining room opened.

Edith entered. She looked immaculate in her uniform, her face composed. She walked to the table and bowed low to Rowan.

"Your Grace," she greeted him.

Then, she turned to Ines. There was a small, almost imperceptible spark in her eyes.

"My lady," Edith said. "Miss Gladys is here. She is waiting in the library for your lesson."

Ines felt a rush of relief. Gladys. Her friend. Her partner in crime. And today... her distraction.

Ines nodded. She wiped her mouth carefully with the linen napkin and placed it on the table, right next to her untouched plate of eggs.

"I have to leave," she said, standing up. Her chair scraped softly against the floor. "For my lessons."

Rowan did not look up. He was engrossed in an article about corn tariffs. He took a sip of his tea.

"Very good," he murmured, distracted. "Study hard, Ines."

She turned walked out of the dinning room.