Pavel had not cared for his family while alive. Though it was a head’s natural duty to look after his blood, he severed ties with most of his kin and all but cast out certain retainers as well—because they kept urging him to drive out Peril and Olivia.
This was a far graver matter than merely making his wife unhappy by losing himself to a mistress. It was no different from abandoning his obligations as Count of Ruttgard, as the head of his house.
Indeed, even Marquis Ascensio—his closest friend in youth—had felt the same. He had been deeply disappointed in Pavel; he had not cut ties, but his heart had grown very far away.
'And yet I am the only one left.'
He still could not understand why Pavel had done it. Pavel Ruttgard was not a man to cast aside his wife. His manner toward Peril had been kind, yes, but it had not seemed the blindness of passion.
He felt unwell at heart. He had pitied Theodore, who lost his mother young, and he could fully comprehend the disappointment and anger of Denis and Daria.
But Olivia was pitiable all the same. Whatever her parents had done, she had been an innocent child then. And now she had lost even a place to rely on.
'If only Pavel had arranged her marriage in advance.'
Olivia was twenty-two, having fully reached a marriageable age. He supposed Pavel, confined to his sickbed, had been unable to see to it…
'Which is precisely why he ought to have settled it even sooner.'
All rights of the house would pass to the blood kin, and none among them would care for Olivia. No doubt some small portion of property had been left to her, but a young lady also needed someone to stand on her side.
In the end, Marquis Ascensio resolved that he himself would look after her. Olivia was gentle and kind. His wife would come to like her in time.
As he was thinking so, Theodore entered last and closed the study door.
His face, handsome and composed as if carved from stone, showed none of the fluctuations of youth. No grief for a father’s death, no satisfaction at the passing of one he had hated, no anticipation at becoming Count of Ruttgard. Marquis Ascensio found it pitiable.
Now that the near relations likely to be named in the will had all arrived, the Marquis moved to break the seal on the box that held it.
Just then, Pavel’s secretary stayed his hand.
“Forgive me. One more is yet to come.”
“Mm?”
Click.
The door opened again. Every gaze turned that way. Olivia stood there in mourning dress, her veil removed.
“Ah.”
Marquis Ascensio nodded. In her case, it would be no surprise if she were one of the heirs.
“Olivia, are you all right?”
He addressed her kindly, gently. Her face was white as candle wax. There was no color in her lips; she looked for all the world the one who had died.
“I’m all right.”
Olivia’s eyes touched Theodore once, then returned to the Marquis. Her voice was calmer than expected.
“If it’s too hard, we can delay the opening a few hours.”
“No. I’m sorry I’m late.”
In that moment, Denis—who had emptied a glass of whisky—sprang to his feet. Pointing at Olivia with a flushed face, he barked:
“If you knew, you shouldn’t have come at all! By what right!”
“Sit down, Uncle.”
Before the Marquis could speak, Theodore said it in a cold voice. Denis flinched under the pressure, though he did not think himself wrong.
In truth, all of them likely thought the same. Even his sister Daria kept silent and looked away.
“But isn’t it so, Theodore? ‘Foster daughter’ in name only—she’s the child a mistress brought in. She has nothing at all to do with House Ruttgard.”
“Perhaps this was meant to amend that.”
A faint edge of mockery touched the end of Theodore’s cool tone.
“Sit down, Uncle. No matter how you make a scene, your share won’t grow.”
“Theodore!”
Insulted, Denis flushed to the ears. Theodore commanded:
“Sit.”
“Tch.”
Denis let out a thwarted sound, but did not dare defy him.
Olivia glanced at Theodore again and, when their eyes met, dipped her head slightly in thanks. Theodore, face like ice, pretended not to see. He did not offer her a seat.
Olivia simply stood by the wall not far from the doorway.
“Then I shall open the will.”
Marquis Ascensio spoke.
The box was opened. Inside were several letters.
He took the topmost envelope, well sealed with wax, and broke it. After showing Theodore, Denis, Daria, and the solicitor the proper form of the will and the witnesses’ signatures at the end, he read.
The long will began with the smallest items.
He left sums that could be called gifts to the castle staff, and for the butler who had long served him he set aside enough for a small farm and a comfortable retirement. To friends he left treasured bottles he had saved without drinking, and presents like a chess set carved from ivory.
Only after that long list ended did the nearer relations come.
To distant kin Pavel left small amounts of cash; to the house’s wards, trust deposits; to brothers and cousins, modest parcels of land with the monies tied to them.
Denis’s face turned ashen. As the younger brother, he received a considerable amount of cash and a large villa near the capital with its attendant pinewood, yet it was not the sum he had hoped for.
And still, Olivia had not been named.
The relatives stole glances at her. Up through the bequests to the siblings, her name did not appear in the will.
Either she was to receive nothing at all—or she was to inherit as a child.
It could not be the former. Even the laundress had been left something; there was no way the foster daughter would be excluded.
But before Olivia’s name was spoken, Theodore’s came first.
“I bequeath to my only son, Theodore, the titles and lands of the Count of Ruttgard; the counties of Orta, Astbel, and Münster; and the baronies of Vedenbur, Ironhazel, Brück, and Carlin, with all rights and obligations attendant thereto.”
“…”
It was exactly what should be there; nothing to startle. What startled was that it was not the final sentence.
Marquis Ascensio cleared his throat lightly and continued.
“And all other rights and properties I likewise bequeath to Theodore, under the following condition: within six months from the public reading of this will, he shall marry Olivia Peril.”
Before the sentence even ended, the study erupted in murmurs. It was so loud the Marquis could barely continue.
“Silence!”
He raised his voice.
The heirs clamped their mouths shut and furtively watched Theodore. It was nonsense.
Theodore’s complexion was a mask of ice. Daria started to move toward him.
“Theodore.”
“I am not angry. Go on, Marquis.”
Theodore made a small dismissive gesture. The Marquis cleared his throat again and finished reading, then summarized. If he read every line, Denis—or someone—would surely burst out in rage and turn the room to chaos.
“If the two do not marry, Miss Olivia may select one of House Ruttgard’s country houses as her residence to take with her; and half of the residuary estate shall be Miss Olivia’s share. The other half is to be donated to orphanages and to the families of soldiers fallen in war.”
“Is that the end?”
“The end. I will keep the original until execution is complete, but I’ll have copies made for your review.”
“Understood. Thank you.”
“Absurd!”
Denis shouted, and others murmured along. Yet Theodore’s stark face remained serene, as if what the will contained had nothing to do with him.
“Are you well, Theodore?”
“What should not be well, my lord? The will shall be honored; do not trouble yourself. The Ruttgard name will only rise in repute—my father will be satisfied.”
Theodore spoke evenly.
Which meant he would refuse to marry Olivia. Even half the residue would run to millions in gold; if that were donated, the Count’s renown would soar.
He turned on his heel and left the study.
“Theodore! Theodore! How can this be!”
Denis lurched up and stumbled after him.
Viscount Miloa hastened to support his staggering wife, Daria. The other relatives whispered and filed out one by one.
Until then, Olivia stood motionless, pallid-faced.