Chapter 51: Miss Casewell
It hadn’t been even a week since Clara stepped foot inside the Westwick Plaza, but the hotel felt very different now. Gone was the familiarity of moving around the upper floor with hotel staff and the other von Rhenia servants, and in its place were constant reminders of Clara’s new position: a stranger.
She approached the concierge and asked him to convey her request to meet with the duke. The man eyed her strangely, clearly judging what a maid might want from her former employer, but at least he complied, sending a bellboy upstairs to check if the duke would receive her.
Clara clutched her satchel as she waited. She was confident that the duke would make time for her—or at least as confident as one could get when it came to predicting Maximilian von Rhenia’s intentions. With the way he’d acted on the witness stand, he clearly had some sort of agenda that didn’t just boil down to getting Rowena convicted as quickly as possible.
“Papa will see you.” The familiar voice was uncharacteristically stern, but not entirely devoid of emotion.
Clara turned to face the speaker. She’d expected a maid to come fetch her, or perhaps that the concierge would simply tell her to go up to the suite the duke had been using as an office. What she hadn’t expected was to come face to face with Iris and Emma.
“Lady Iris.” Clara lowered her head. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”
“If you must know, I was enjoying breakfast with my family. I have Professor Morris this morning, and he will simply have to deal with repeating what I missed later. Not that it’s any of your business, Miss Casewell.”
Not even Emma’s best attempt at a reassuring smile was enough to ease the effect of the stark difference in Iris’s attitude compared to last week. Clara felt like a complete stranger to the person who’d once been her strongest anchor in this world. It was a bitter pill to swallow, even though this was the path she’d chosen for herself.
“Of course, my lady. Thank you for the macarons.”
“Hmph.” Iris waved her hand dismissively. “Consider it a reward for defending Major Ricardo’s honor against Rowena’s slander. He would never say the things she attributed to him. Anyway, Papa will receive you in his study. I’m due at Claves.”
Iris started to turn away, but Clara raised her voice. “Before you go, my lady, there was something I wanted to ask you.” She’d planned on going to Claves later to talk to Iris, so she wouldn’t waste the opportunity if the girl was already here.
Iris paused mid-turn, without quite looking back. “What is it?”
“The ball on Saturday night.” Clara lowered her voice. “Did you see Lady Helena leave at any point?”
Iris pursed her lips. “Is this relevant to Ricardo’s case?”
“It may be, my lady. I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”
“If you must know, yes. The precious Lady Helena spilled wine all over her dress. Rather clumsy, even for her. She had to go get changed—I think the prince had to send someone over to Ashford Hall to get another dress for her.”
“What time was that? And how long was she gone for?”
“It was about—” Iris stopped. She narrowed her eyes as if recognizing the purpose of Clara’s question. “It was around eight. She was gone for a few dances, so I would say around half an hour at least.”
Around eight. Just when Rowena had gone back to her room and stabbed Ricardo. Or his illusion.
Of course, spending some time away from the dance floor was hardly proof of guilt. And there was always a chance that Iris could be lying, given her distaste for Helena. Yet Clara didn’t think Iris would lie when it came to investigating the truth behind Ricardo’s death. Furthermore, Iris was smart enough not to use such an easily disprovable lie, even if she did want to blame Helena—anyone else who was at the ball would be able to confirm or deny this.
Either way, Lochlann would not be pleased if Clara started pointing fingers at Helena.
“Thank you, my lady. That’s very helpful.”
“Come along, Emma.” Iris’s gaze lingered on the ribbon on Clara’s collar for a brief moment, then she turned to the entrance. “And Clara. If there really is something more going on here, if you really believe the absurdities you spouted in court, then you must make sure the truth comes out.”
Emma gave Clara one last apologetic glance before hurrying after Iris. Clara watched them go until the hotel doors swung shut behind them. Then she took a deep breath, adjusted the strap of her satchel, and made her way up the staircase.
Two guards in full armor stood in the corridor that led to the east wing. They recognized her—she could tell by the way their eyes registered her presence. But they didn’t smile, nor did they greet her. One simply motioned for her to follow him, then knocked twice on the door to the duke’s office.
“Miss Casewell, Your Grace.”
“Enter,” came the muffled response.
The duke’s improvised study had been rearranged to the extent that it was impossible to tell it used to be a hotel room. Directly across from the door, near the opposite wall, was a wide walnut desk stacked neatly with documents. Two sets of cream-colored sofas and tea tables flanked either side of it, taking up much of the remaining space. On the left wall was a large map of the Holy Kingdom of Arcadia, which was definitely not just a drawing of Western Europe trying very hard not to look like copied homework. On the right was one depicting the Duchy of Rhenia in detail. Both maps bore several pins at different locations, but Clara couldn’t even begin to guess what they represented.
Maximilian von Rhenia sat behind the desk in a plain white coat. He did not rise when she entered.
“Miss Casewell.” His voice was the same as always. “Take a seat.”
Clara stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind her.
“Your Grace.” She lowered her head, then took the chair across from him. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
“I believe I have the dubious honor of being the first nobleman in the Kingdom to be interrogated by a former member of his own household staff,” he said.
“I hope I was not discourteous, Your Grace.”
“Being precise differs from being discourteous, though the two are not always mutually exclusive.” The duke studied her for a long moment. “Speak, Miss Casewell. I am in no mood for fencing this morning.”
Straight to the point, then. Okay, I can play that game.
“Your Grace, before I ask what I came here to ask, there’s something I want to understand. Based on the way you structured your questions and answers at the trial, did you intend for me to question the Blessing of Truth?”
The silence that followed stretched just long enough for her to regret her bluntness. But then he smiled—briefly. “As you no longer represent House von Rhenia, your actions are your own, Miss Casewell. If I am guilty of anything, it is of failing to be disappointed in the result.”
It was an answer that said everything and nothing at the same time. Your Grace, you should be a lawyer.
“Now,” he continued, “I believe you had something else to ask.”
Clara knew what she’d come here to do, but now that the moment of truth had arrived, she found herself wracked with hesitation. But the time for that was long past. She reached into her satchel and withdrew two envelopes, then placed them on the desk.
“Your Grace, the first of these letters was found in my room at the von Rhenia estate near Elysia City, shortly prior to the trial at the High Court. The second was found in my quarters at Claves three weeks ago.”
The duke read each of the letters, then his gaze returned to her face, clearly expecting more information.
“Major Ricardo knew about these,” said Clara. “He was investigating them on my behalf. I’ve been having… memory issues, and I believe I may have been involved in something dangerous. The major had written to Head Maid Priscilla about the situation, and her return letter was on his desk here at the hotel the night he died. She’d included some potentially dangerous pills that were found in my room, and I have confirmed Ricardo asked about them at an apothecary before his death. I was unable to locate them. I was hoping to get your permission to access my hiring records at the von Rhenia estate, in case they’re related to all this.”
“And you think Ricardo was killed because of this investigation.”
“I think it’s a possibility, Your Grace. One with strong circumstantial evidence that may indicate a wider conspiracy.”
“Why wasn’t I told of this immediately?”
“I asked Major Ricardo to be discreet. He said that if what he uncovered posed a threat to Lady Iris or your family, he would immediately inform you. But until that point, we believed it was simply a personal matter.”
“Clearly, you were mistaken.” The duke rose and turned to the window. “I am disappointed. I thought I had impressed the importance of transparency upon you, Miss Casewell. A hierarchy can only function if the necessary information trickles to the top.”
Okay, maybe he should be a CEO instead of a lawyer.
It stung, but he wasn’t wrong.
“I apologize, Your Grace. I can’t undo what happened, but I will tell you everything I know. Based on the contents of the letters, I believe the Church may be involved in what happened. In particular, I’m suspicious of Father Leofric, as he had the opportunity and potentially the means, and of Lady Helena, due to her prior involvement in the inquisition’s accusations against Lady Iris and her demonstrated ability to pull off complex illusion magic.”
The duke turned back to face Clara. “Helena Rosewood? The prince’s favored? I wasn’t aware she was an expert spellcaster.”
“I wasn’t either until recently. During the Claves midterm exams, she scored first in Fundamentals of Magic, with an illusion spell of truly astounding scope.”
“That… is surprising.” He stroked his chin.
Clara nodded. “Yes, it was very unexpected.”
The duke returned to his seat, then placed his elbows on the desk and his clasped hands under his face. “Now, I have some questions of my own. What is the state of your memory?”
“I remember little from before the trial at the High Court, Your Grace.”
“And yet you stood before the courts in three separate trials, coached my daughter in mathematics and in the finer points of acting, and now you have persuaded a bishop to write to the Pope about the nature of divine truth.” He paused. “I find it curious that a church orphan who spent her days brushing my daughter’s hair, and who allegedly has nothing but recent memories, is capable of doing all that.”
“Your Grace, I cannot fully explain myself to you,” she said carefully. “I know the skills I have now are unusual. You may have noticed Lord Warren displayed similar skills during the trial, which, from what I understand, are rather unlike his previous disposition.”
“Ah, yes, the Albion heir. The way he acted at the trial was quite unlike anything I’d seen or heard about him, but he doesn’t seem to have lost his memories.”
“Yes, his case is a bit different from mine. Based on what he told me, he himself is baffled by his sudden interest in legal matters, and by the way certain actions seem to come automatically to him. I think there’s more to it, some explanation for what happened to both of us, but I don’t know what it is.”
The duke was silent for a long moment. His eyes did not leave hers, and he barely even blinked. “Miss Casewell. Do you believe whatever secret lies buried in your past to be against the interests of House von Rhenia? That the actions you’ve taken before your memory lapse were a threat to my family?”
There it was. The inevitable conclusion. Her gaze fell to the floor. Every instinct she had told her to deflect the question.
Don’t hide from him. Don’t you dare hide from him again. You saw where that leads.
No more deflections.
“I think so, Your Grace. I am not certain, but it is possible I was involved in a plot against Lady Iris, leading to the trial at the High Court. A plot which I think could have been part of a conspiracy that is very much active and moving against House von Rhenia.”
There was no response from him. Clara heard a drawer open, and then the scribbling of a pen on paper. Was he signing an order for the guards to take her into custody? A request for her execution? She kept her head down.
“That,” he said finally, “is the first time you have spoken to me without hedging.”
She raised her head just in time to see him stamping an envelope with the wax seal of House von Rhenia.
“Take this letter to the estate, and Priscilla will grant you access to the documents you seek. With circumstances as they are, I cannot put you under House von Rhenia’s direct protection, but I trust Their Highnesses have provided you with sufficient compensation to arrange your own transportation.”
“Your Grace? Aren’t you upset?”
“It seems you have forgotten something fundamental, Miss Casewell. House von Rhenia remembers its own—and you have shown me who you are. Go forth, and bring me the truth of my knight’s death.”