As I stepped into the drawing room, the first thing I heard was a voice—sharp, edged with suspicion, dissecting the space like a scalpel.
"And how long have you been working here?"
Damn it.
What is Ralph doing here? Was he the 'servant' Robert mentioned earlier?
"Pardon me, but I'm not inclined to answer you, Detective."
Ralph's voice held steady, unwavering despite the weight behind the question.
Before he could say another word, I stepped forward.
"Apologies for my tardiness, Detective. I had some pressing matters to attend to."
The detective turned. Morning light caught the waves of his jet-black hair, casting faint shadows against his sharp features. But it was his eyes—golden and piercing—that fixed on me with unsettling precision. They carried the weight of a man who dissected every glance, every twitch, peeling away layers until he found what he was looking for.
"No worries, Lord Ashbourne." His lips curled slightly, unreadable. "I've had quite the interesting conversation with your servants."
So, he had already questioned a few of them.
A thorough man. A dangerous man.
The golden studs in his ears glinted as he shifted slightly.
I turned to Ralph. "Ralph, return to your usual work."
He bowed without hesitation. "Yes, master."
I watched as he departed, my thoughts swirling.
Why Ralph of all people? Why was he interrogating him? Was it mere routine inquiry, or was this something deeper?
Was he in cahoots with those responsible for my father's disappearence?
I couldn't dismiss the thought so easily.
The Lancaster family was new to nobility—new money, a title bought rather than inherited. Their sudden wealth was suspicious, too much of a coincidence. Their rise had begun around the same time my father disappeared.
I masked my thoughts behind an easy smile. "Then, shall we continue our conversation?"
"Ah, of course, Lord Ashbourne," he replied, his lips curving in a way that lacked warmth.
He adjusted his coat with practiced ease, stepping forward with an air of rehearsed civility. "Allow me to formally introduce myself."
As if I didn't already know who he was.
"My name is Edgar Lancaster."
Dark circles rested beneath his golden eyes, lending him the unsettling, almost manic aura of a man who lived on the edge of obsession. It suited him. It made him look less like a detective and more like a serial killer masquerading as one.
"I am in charge of leading the investigation into the death of Lord Frederick Ashbourne, and I have a few questions to inquire regarding the case."
Ah, so he planned to interrogate me in my own home?
Nice try.
I let out a quiet breath, the corners of my lips tugging into a wry smile.
"Well," I murmured with a faint chuckle, "I wouldn't say it's a pleasure to meet you, Detective. Not when you disguise an interrogation as a mere inquiry.
My voice remained light, casual, but every word carried a weight of veiled derision.
"Frankly, I would've been far happier if you had chosen to grace those pirates with your presence instead of wasting your precious time here."
What I meant was clear.
I know you suspect me. I know you think I had a hand in my father's death. But if you truly cared about justice, why don't you investigate the ones who actually did it?
His lips twitched at my words, but he said nothing.
"By the way," I added, "I am the new head of House Ashbourne. Arthur Ashbourne. You may address me as such."
A small shift in his demeanor. Just the slightest change.
"Then I won't waste your valuable time and will try to conclude my inquiry as quickly as possible, Lord Arthur," he said smoothly.
I recognized the unspoken meaning behind his words.
Apologies, but you are my primary suspect, and I won't leave until I've gotten what I need.
I chuckled inwardly. "Sure. Ask away, then."
Let's see if you can get anything out of me, Detective.
He observed me for a moment before speaking again. "I've heard the heirs of House Ashbourne undergo… rigorous training. I also heard that as a child, you were once kidnapped and sold off as part of a survival lesson."
I tilted my head slightly, my expression remaining composed.
"I don't know where you heard that, but I wouldn't call our training severe. I would describe it as proper preparation befitting the Ashbourne name."
I let my gaze rest on him for a moment before I added.
"As for the so-called kidnapping, the assigned detective at the time already investigated it. The case was long closed."
I leaned back slightly, allowing a sliver of boredom to creep into my tone.
"Perhaps, Detective, you are straying too far from the matter at hand?"
Your job is to investigate my father's disappearance, not me.
A brief flicker of something passed through his golden eyes.
"Alright. It seems I touched on an unnecessary topic. Then, Lord Arthur, how was your relationship with your father? I heard the funeral was held rather hastily—without the body—and that the very next day, you were appointed as head of the house."
I tilted my head slightly. "Detective Edgar, I understand you are not the only heir of House Lancaster, so I doubt you would fully grasp this. We have people to care for, Detective. We are to lead them, provide their salaries, and ensure they are fed. Ashbournes bear the responsibility of those under us."
My tone was light, conversational, yet razor-sharp. "So tell me, do you suggest that I should abandon my duties? That I should leave this household to crumble while I chase after a man whose fate has already been decided?"
Edgar held my gaze, unflinching. "No, you're taking it the wrong way, Lord Arthur."
Before he could continue, a knock sounded at the door, and Butler Robert entered.
"Master, Lord Demetrius wishes to know if you have any time to play a game of chess with him."
It was Grandfather's message to me.
If you have enough time to waste on this detective, then stop fooling around and come for your next lesson.
I exhaled quietly. "I understand. Where is Grandfather?"
"He is waiting for you in the garden."
I rose to my feet, offering Edgar a courteous smile laced with finality.
"It seems our conversation ends here, Detective. Robert, kindly escort the gentleman to the door—I'd hate for him to lose his way in unfamiliar halls."
What I meant: Take this man out of here. If left alone, I'm sure he'll start interrogating the servants again.
Edgar smirked, clearly understanding my intent.
Robert bowed. "Understood, master."
The detective's golden eyes flickered with amusement. "Then, I will continue my investigation and keep you informed of any progress."
Edgar Lancaster. A man described in the novel as a mad dog—one who would chase his suspicions to the ends of the earth, obsessing over every detail.
I smirked slightly, knowing exactly what he was implying.
He'll be keeping an eye on me. If he finds proof that I was behind my father's death, he will hunt me down without hesitation.
"Sure," I said lightly. "I'll be waiting."
Catch me if you can.
With that, I left the room, stepping into the halls of Ashbourne manor, leaving Detective Edgar Lancaster behind.
I made my way to the garden, where my grandfather sat beneath the shade of an ancient autumn tree. The golden-red leaves swirled lazily in the crisp morning breeze, drifting like forgotten memories before settling upon the earth. Sunlight filtered through the branches, casting shifting patterns upon the weathered stone table before him. He did not look up immediately, merely resting his fingers against the armrest of his chair, as though lost in thought.
I stepped forward and inclined my head slightly. "Good morning, Grandfather."
He nodded in acknowledgment, his gaze finally settling on me. "What became of the detective?"
"I had the butler show him the way out."
A deep, rumbling laugh escaped his throat, tinged with amusement. "Haha! What a fitting way for an Ashbourne head to dispose of an annoyance."
He reached for the wooden chessboard on the table, running his fingers over the polished surface. "Have you played before?"
"Yes, once. With Father."
"Then let's have a match." His obsidian eyes gleamed with challenge. "A wager, if you will. The loser grants the winner a favor."
I met his gaze evenly. "As you wish, Grandfather."
With that, we arranged the pieces and began our game.
His first move was sharp, deliberate. I countered with practiced ease, letting my fingers glide over the cool wooden figures.
"As the head of House Ashbourne," he mused, moving a knight forward, "what do you believe is the most pressing matter at hand?"
"The mine," I answered without hesitation.
He hummed in approval. "Precisely."
That mine—an unexpected blessing wrapped in the guise of misfortune. The land granted to House Ashbourne had been a barren wasteland, given to us as if in mockery, its cracked soil and lifeless stretches a testament to the Empire's disdain. For decades, it had been nothing more than an empty expanse, dismissed and forgotten.
And then, as if fate had chosen to play a cruel joke, veins of precious ore were discovered beneath its surface.
Suddenly, the worthless land became a prize worth coveting.
Fifty percent.
That was the King's demand. Half of what rightfully belonged to us. As if the ore, the fortune it promised, were his by divine right. As if his claim to our land was an immutable truth rather than an insult veiled in diplomacy.
Because of this, my father had spent the past decade entangled in the capital's web of politics, locked in negotiations that were nothing short of a battlefield—only, instead of swords, the weapons were words sharpened to a razor's edge.
"The King remains as stubborn and avaricious as ever," my grandfather muttered, his voice laced with disdain. "He will not relinquish his claim, nor will he lower his demand."
Had we been seated in another noble household, such words would have drawn gasps of horror. Trembling hands would have clutched at teacups, and whispers of treason would have filled the air.
But here, within these walls, speaking of the King with the same indifference one might afford a stray dog was nothing out of the ordinary.
"And that sly old weasel," my grandfather continued, moving another piece. "He sure has a way of slipping from the negotiation table. He claims he will not interfere, that we are free to act as we see fit."
A scoff escaped his lips. "Hah! That arrogant man hasn't changed."
The 'old weasel'—Desmond Crowndale.
The former King of the Crowndale Empire.
Where the current King, Dominic Crowndale, was a man driven by boundless ambition, Desmond had been something else entirely. He was a ruler who saw the world as beneath him, so assured of his own superiority that he scarcely acknowledged those outside his immediate circle of interest. To him, the Ashbournes had been nothing more than an inconvenience. A minor nuisance, hardly worth his notice.
But this conversation was not a mere complaint. It was a strategy in motion.
"How do you plan to handle the matter?" my grandfather asked.
"Why negotiate at all?" I replied, shifting a rook forward. "Why not exchange the land for another fief?"
My grandfather's gaze sharpened. "You're suggesting we simply hand over the mine to those greedy men?"
"My father fought for that mine for ten years," I acknowledged. "But we can take it back anytime we wish."
A long, deliberate silence stretched between us, coiling like smoke in the air. Then, with a low rumble, my grandfather leaned back in his chair, amusement flickering in his sharp eyes. A deep, resonant laugh escaped him—rich, indulgent.
"Hahaha! So, you're even more ambitious than those wrinkled old men, are you?"
"If that's the conclusion you've drawn," I said softly, "I won't deny it."
I reached forward and, with a quiet flick of my fingers, tipped over the king.
"Checkmate."
The game was mine. But it didn't feel like a victory.
The moves had been too clean. Too easy.
There was a hollowness to the outcome, as if the game had been played not to challenge me, but to steer me. Grandfather's pieces had faltered in all the right places, yielding just enough to grant me the illusion of triumph.
No—this wasn't a test of skill. It was something else.
It felt like he wanted me to ask for something. Like he was waiting for it.