To The Traitor in My Bed - Chapter 2

This had happened only a week ago, and as a result, Captain Cottenham was now under disciplinary action. Otherwise, the ambitious Captain would undoubtedly have attended this banquet, which was filled with Swinton’s high society.

“Viscount Cottenham…”

Count Fairchild muttered.

Anyone who heard him might have thought he was speaking in such a casual tone because he had never heard of the Viscount before.

But he had heard of the name. After all, his wife, Deirdre, had once almost married that Captain.

Deirdre suspected her husband had forgotten this detail. In truth, he was the type to overlook matters that others would deem significant.

Marchioness Campbell immediately defended her soon-to-be relative.

“But how is this Viscount Cottenham’s fault? I heard that the White Rose Brigade is made up entirely of foreign mercenaries and criminals. When such vicious people set their minds to something, they can strike anyone.”

“No, Madam. If it were really just foreigners and criminals, they wouldn’t have been able to pull off such a bold escape right under the military police’s noses. That group must have been professionally trained. As the rumors go, they might even be Froiden spies. There have been multiple reports of a person leading the group who speaks their language. The name alone is telling, isn’t it? Why else would they call themselves ‘The White Rose’?”

Someone contradicted the Marchioness’s words.

In the heart of the capital, at a royal banquet no less, the discussion quickly heated up as the topic considered taboo began to surface. Even though it wasn’t reported in the newspapers, the tales of the secret society still found their way into people’s conversations. In fact, the more it was suppressed, the further it spread.

Count Fairchild had no interest in such a troublesome topic, and Deirdre, wishing to appear indifferent, kept her attention elsewhere while only subtly listening in.

Because of this, she was the first to notice Rosina Campbell, the joyful bride-to-be, approaching quietly.

Those who belatedly spotted the Marchioness’s daughter congratulated her with enthusiasm. Rosina nodded happily and casually asked.

“…So, who was the political prisoner the suicide squad managed to free?”

“Rosina, I told you not to concern yourself with such matters.”

The Marchioness scolded her daughter.

Rosina was a gentle young lady who had debuted in society the year before. She was expected to avoid public discussions of politics. It was always considered inappropriate, especially in times like these, when royalists and parliamentarians were at odds behind the scenes.

Rosina lowered her gaze.

Just then, the orchestra began to play a waltz, and people scattered in all directions. Count Fairchild approached the Lady and asked her for a dance.

“Lord Rochepolie, will your arm be all right…?”

“Ah, of course, of course. I must congratulate Lady Rosina on her engagement!”

With that, the Count happily removed his arm splint.

The man who had first brought up the topic of the secret society now asked Deirdre for a dance. As he led her to the floor, Deirdre whispered quickly into Rosina’s ear,

“It’s Viscount Ian Darnell.”

That was the name that had been circulating among people before Rosina arrived. Rosina’s pink cheeks turned pale.

“…Thank you, Lady Rochepolie.”

Rosina muttered, her face so pale that Deirdre almost missed her first step as she became distracted by her friend’s sudden change.

“Are you all right?”

Her partner asked. She smiled and nodded, though her gaze still followed her husband’s tall figure.

Count Frederick Fairchild of Rochepolie, with his buttery blonde hair and silver-gray eyes, possessed delicate features and chiseled lines that enhanced the elegance of his appearance.

The languid light often present in his expression gave him an air of effortless grace. This aura, which made the rich appear even richer, attracted businessmen and debtors like a magnet. As a result, the Fairchild family now possessed wealth that was thirty times greater than it had been under the previous Count.

A large portion of that wealth was generously spent by the Count for himself and his wife. The young man, dancing the waltz with Rosina in an evening coat tailored by the best tailor in Swinton, and indeed the entire continent—looked as if he had been born for such elegance.

If anyone else with less refined looks or a less perfect figure had worn the ivory-white coat, it would have looked absurd, but he wore it with such grace. Deirdre knew well that his long fingers, hidden within the white deer hide gloves, were so pure and beautiful that they had never held anything more intimidating than a gentleman’s cane.

Her husband was undoubtedly the finest nobleman in the kingdom.

Deirdre let out a soft sigh.

“Deirdre.”

At some point, the music changed, and the gloved hand was held out to her. She hesitated but then took it.

As the Count and Countess Fairchild’s dance marked the grand finale of the banquet, many people retreated to the edges of the ballroom to watch.

To Deirdre, only the Count existed, but to the crowd, the Countess was equally present.

Especially the men, unable to take their eyes away from the young Countess’s face—just twenty-two years old, with a graceful brow, a delicate nose, rosy cheeks like a young girl’s, and eyes of a soft bluish hue that one would only expect to see in a Classical painting. Her loosely pinned brown hair was the epitome of a Southern beauty.

In truth, Count and Countess Fairchild were the perfect couple, envied and admired by all in society.

People were well aware of the dark rumors surrounding Frederick Fairchild. How he was the loyal servant of a tyrant who killed his two brothers to seize the throne, how he sent hired mercenaries to fight in the Antwerp-Froiden War in his place because of his own cowardice.

And how, despite having a publicly known lover, he had married the Marquis’s daughter—but no one ever seriously criticized him. In Antwerp, if you were to serve the cruel Christian as king, you had to be somewhat cowardly.

‘But what if that husband is a traitor…?’

Deirdre moved her feet like a mechanical doll.

Unaware of his wife’s suspicions, the Count leaned toward her.

“Deirdre, about Dorian’s dinner party next week…”

“Oh, I won’t be going.”

She said impulsively, then, coldly, with wide eyes at his surprised expression, she added,

“I’ll return to Rochepolie. Alone.”