Helmut Schwaben let his gaze wander once around the drawing room, pursing his lips as if to whistle—then remembered this was a house scarcely ten days past its funeral rites, and thought better of it.
Ruttgard Castle was a place that rarely received guests. It lay far from the capital, and after the late Count had lost his honor, he had all but secluded himself.
So few had ever seen its interior that Helmut could not help but be pleased at the sight. The castle was venerable, at least two centuries old. Though rebuilt and added onto several times, the classical air still clung to it.
'Well, nothing here is worth taking so gravely, is it?'
Ezekiel and his father had worn grim faces, but Helmut himself could not see why this affair mattered much.
"Is that Lady Peril really so important? She’s already dead. The dead have no mouths, after all."
In Schwaben they already knew that Peril, the Count’s mistress, had once been the maid who fled the scene when the Empress Dowager was assassinated.
They had refrained from stirring her up precisely because they knew she was frozen in fear. Living in hiding under a new name, keeping her mouth shut—there was no need to kill her and rouse Ruttgard as an enemy.
To provoke her openly would only drag her into the heart of politics. If the House of Klaus, the Empress Dowager’s kin, discovered her existence, that would only become troublesome.
So they had merely kept watch. But Peril had died years ago, and Pavel Ruttgard, who might have carried her secret, had taken it to the grave.
Thus, the problem of Schwaben was gone—or so Helmut believed.
But Ezekiel, in his customary cold tone, said:
"There is still the daughter."
"Peril’s daughter? And what of her?"
"Sir Grayson, whom I sent to offer condolences, secured a copy of the will. Pavel Ruttgard commanded Sir Theodore to marry Peril’s daughter. That means she is not truly Ruttgard’s child."
Helmut was no fool; by now he understood Ezekiel’s suspicion. Yet he could not accept it at once.
"You suspect the girl is the late Empress Dowager’s daughter? I thought she was dead. Wasn’t there a body?"
"There was no proof the body was real. The corpse of the princess was found after four days, washed downriver. Because it was wrapped in the royal swaddling and strapped by sling to her nurse’s corpse, they judged it was the princess. That is all."
"Hm."
"Pavel Ruttgard’s will is far too strange. Until now it seemed plain: Peril, his mistress, had fled to Ruttgard while pregnant with his child. That was reason enough. But if not, then he sheltered his mistress carrying another man’s child. And afterward, he raised the girl like a foster daughter—and then, after Peril’s death, sought to wed her to his heir? That is not sane."
Helmut thought to himself that no one truly knew what went on in another house, and that Schwaben was no less abnormal—but he did not say so. Ezekiel’s blue eyes gleamed with an icy light as he went on.
"I have no wish to stir up a hornet’s nest. It may truly be nothing.
But confirm it. If the oddities of Ruttgard’s household can explain all of this, then bring back the truth."
So Ezekiel commanded. And what power had Helmut to refuse? The head of the house had spoken; he could only obey.
Still, he thought Ezekiel’s suspicions excessive. Parents longing to wed their children to one of their own choosing were hardly rare. And there were men who would accept a child not of their blood, if born of the one they loved.
But such a notion could never take root in a heart as barren as Ezekiel’s.
'Even if the suspicion were true, it would vanish if left buried.'
So Helmut thought. Though, of course, curiosity pricked him—a mere interest in the gossip of another house.
The mood in Ruttgard Castle was indeed peculiar. Yet considering it was just after a funeral, and with that strange will, the unsettled air within the walls was only natural.
He was near to stretching in boredom when at last the doors of the drawing room opened.
Theodore Ruttgard entered in full black mourning. Helmut quickly rose to his feet.
Tall himself, yet Theodore towered higher still. His features had always carried a stern dignity, but clad in mourning—or perhaps because his expression was so dark—he seemed more imposing than when Helmut had seen him before.
Helmut struggled to withhold his habitual smile, inclining his head instead.
"It has been long, my lord Ruttgard. I offer my deepest condolences."
"Thank you for coming so far to offer comfort. I am not yet the Count, however."
"True, the investiture ceremony remains, but that is mere formality. You are already the Count in truth."
"My heart is uneasy. Please, call me Theodore. Pray be seated."
Theodore’s voice was calm, offering him a seat. On that firm face not a trace of emotion showed. He was an aristocrat of another kind than Ezekiel.
Helmut took his hand in brief greeting and sat. Theodore spoke at once, direct and sharp.
"You come on imperial business."
"No great matter. The late Count of Ruttgard had long refused to present himself at the palace, did he not?"
"That is so."
"So I was sent to inquire: would it not be fitting to hold your investiture at the Imperial Palace itself? I know you have many vassals in Ruttgard, and calling them to swear fealty will not be easy. Yet it may be managed."
Theodore’s face fell into brief thought.
Whether to hold the investiture in Ruttgard and then go to the palace for oath, or to hold it at the palace and return to receive fealty here—either way, no matter of procedure.
But if he chose the palace, it would demand great pomp. Many people and much wealth must be moved, and it would be the talk of the capital’s politics and salons.
'This is Schwaben pressing me to define our relations.'
Pavel had cut off ties with the capital, abstaining from politics. Ruttgard had never been close with Schwaben, but nor had Pavel provoked enmity.
But now the generations had changed, and Schwaben’s power had grown overwhelming for decades.
In the capital he must choose a side—noble faction or royalist faction. Which meant pro-Schwaben or anti-Schwaben.
To hold the investiture at Ruttgard? That solved nothing. Unlike Pavel, Theodore was not a frail old man hiding in disgrace.
To refuse Schwaben’s urging, when they sent an emissary so openly, would be tantamount to slighting them.
Theodore gazed deep and steady into Helmut’s eyes and answered gravely:
"I have been too consumed with mourning my father to consider the investiture. I will weigh your proposal."
"Yes. You must give it thought."
Helmut replied thus, and then, lightly, added:
"If you decide to hold it in the capital, it would be well to have the wedding there as well. The future Countess would surely rejoice."
"What do you mean by that?"
A faint but sharp edge flashed across Theodore’s features. Helmut had meant only to probe, but the reaction was sharper than expected. He let his surprise show, pretending ignorance.
"Have I overstepped? I heard the late Count arranged your marriage by will. Having come this far, I thought to pay my respects to your betrothed as well."
"…"
Theodore clenched and unclenched his fist once. The bright spark in his black eyes was quickly veiled again, but Helmut knew he had touched his rawest nerve.
Theodore spoke with voice regained to composure:
"My betrothed has been sent away for convalescence, her body much weakened by grief. I regret that you will not meet her."
"I see."
In that instant Helmut understood Ezekiel’s suspicions with perfect clarity—thinking both the late Count and Theodore alike had hidden women away.