To The Traitor in My Bed - Chapter 60

“…It’s my fault, Your Majesty.”

“Hmph.”

Christian snorted.

“Why are all the noblewomen of Antwerp so weak? If we go to war again, we should send the women to the front too. That way, the morale of the men will rise as well. Don’t you think?”

“Are you planning another war, Your Majesty?”

Caroline asked without meeting his eyes, then reached for the milk and the sugar bowl.

“A ruler must always be prepared for war. Lady Rochepolie, does Fairchild still not have any interest in running a munitions factory?”

Preparing for war requires a lot of money, and it also demands the talent to extract maximum efficiency from limited resources. Fairchild, already successful in manufacturing, would do well in the munitions business. However, Frederick had shown no interest in dealing with arms supplies.

Deirdre answered.

“He has no interest in firearms…”

A loud bang echoed through the room.

The sugar bowl, which had slipped from Caroline’s hand, crashed onto the marble table, shattering into pieces. The table was instantly covered in debris.

Christian stood up first. He slapped away the queen’s hand as she reached for the gold dust.

“Enough! Clean this up, now!”

The attendant rushed over to help. Christian, not waiting for assistance, started to gather the glass shards with his bare hands.

“Your Majesty, I’ll do it.”

The moment both Christian and the attendant were distracted by the glass pieces, Deirdre quickly scrawled something on the sugar that had piled up on the table.

[Heather G. died]

Caroline, pretending to clear away her teacup, deliberately knocked it over. The tea poured over the sugar, erasing the words. Christian, now furious, shoved the queen aside. Caroline’s slender body staggered.

“Looks like you’ve had enough of the audience.”

“I was trembling, that’s all.”

“Then ask for it to be picked up!”

Christian raised his voice. It wasn’t surprising that the king was shouting, given his lack of character, but what unsettled Deirdre even more was that Caroline didn’t flinch in front of him. She remained unfazed as she said that, and it made Deirdre feel even more uneasy.

“I don’t want to ask you, Your Majesty.”

The guards against the wall, and the attendants, didn’t make a sound. Deirdre realized this wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Every day, the queen and the king lived on this thin layer of ice.

Caroline called out to Deirdre.

“…Lady Rochepolie, I think it’s best if you leave now. We’ll see you at the next banquet.”

Christian didn’t even glance in her direction. It was as if he had forgotten she was even there.

Deirdre bowed her knee, respectfully, and carefully left the audience room.

* * *

Antwerp’s laws placed nobles above commoners, men above women, and firstborn sons above other children.

A son born as the firstborn in a noble family was truly considered the luckiest. Those who weren’t born with such luck, such as the second sons, daughters, or commoners, had to either carve out their own destinies using their position, wealth, and talents or simply accept what was given to them.

Both of these approaches, though differing in degree, were active choices that recognized one’s circumstances and involved choosing a path.

For those who didn’t actively choose between carving out a path or accepting their fate, only one life remained, a life filled with complaints and a sense of defeat.

This was exactly the life of Jonas Cottenham, the second son of County Cottenham.

“Lord Jonas Cottenham, did you hear? Whitmore is about to hold an open house.”

Jonas looked up with his dark eyes, much like his older brother, Lysander, at the person who had spoken. He was one of Jonas’s cheerful club friends.

In the Swinton Gentlemen’s Social Club, friends were those with whom he would play billiards or poker, drink heavily all night, and gossip about others.

Jonas, who was secretly filled with insecurities, was always anxious that he might be the target of their gossip. Because of this, despite his resemblance to his older brother, he always seemed a bit less capable.

“So…?”

The cheerful young man grinned.

“So, you should go and waste away Whitmore’s bland whiskey, take their chips, and get a little revenge on Havisham while you’re at it.”

The name ‘Havisham’ made Jonas flinch.

Dorian Havisham, Marquis Aspen, was a man who contrasted Jonas in every way.

Havisham came from a high-ranking family in the southern plains of Antwerp, and was ranked higher than the Cottenham family.

Like Jonas, Dorian was the second son, two years younger than his brother. Six years ago, his brother was killed in a robbery at the capital’s entertainment district, and Dorian, by chance, became the heir to the Havisham family.

The next year, the previous Marquis passed away, and Dorian became Marquis Aspen at the young age of twenty-five, which was around Jonas’s current age.

Perhaps that man was just that lucky.

Every time Jonas heard the name ‘Havisham,’ he thought about it. All he had was the title “Lord Jonas Cottenham” and the humble family business. Lysander, as the firstborn, had his father’s favor, the promised title of “Lord Knox,” land inheritance, and most of the other privileges. Naturally, he was more popular with women.

Since Lysander distinguished himself and caught the king’s eye, the way people treated the brothers became even more blatantly different.