Reborn: The Duke's Obsession-Chapter 63 - Sixty Three

Knock...

Knock..

Knock.

A discreet rap sounded on Anne’s bedroom door, though it was Augusta within who granted permission. "Enter," she commanded. The maid stepped inside, her gaze respectfully lowered.

"He’s here, Baroness," She announced, her voice soft as if the very air might carry the news to ears not meant to hear it yet. A faint smile touched Augusta’s lips. "Tell him I’ll be down in a minute." The maid curtsied deeply and then she was gone.

Augusta took a moment to compose herself. She surveyed her reflection, adjusted a stray strand of hair, then descended the grand staircase to meet her guest. She entered the drawing room, where a man was already waiting for her.

"Gable," she called out, her voice sharp.

Mrs. Gable appeared by her side instantly. "Yes, Baroness."

"Some tea for our guest and myself," Augusta ordered before dismissing the housekeeper with a wave of her hand. Even with what happened moments ago, the servants and guards continued their duties as if nothing happened.

The man stood up as Augusta entered. "Mr. Prescott, you are late," she said by way of greeting.

Prescott, a sharp-looking man in his late twenties with watchful eyes, bowed respectfully. For years, he had been Augusta’s eyes and ears in the kingdom, a private informant who was very good at his job. "My apologies, Baroness," he said as they both sat down. "The information you requested was difficult to acquire."

Augusta leaned back in her chair, her fingers steepled. "Report."

Prescott began, his voice low and professional. "Baroness, regarding your first query. Someone has been investing heavily in Lady Delia’s specialized dyes. I’ve traced the purchases back to several different merchants who all ship to the southern isles, but I couldn’t find the exact person funding the operation. The trail goes cold there."

Augusta rubbed her forehead, a thoughtful frown on her face. " I indeed suspected it. No wonder the girl grew much courage to gift the Carson’s a dye meant for someone’s procurement."

"And the person is investing aggressively, Baroness," Prescott continued. "They are only buying the original, pure versions of the dyes, not the diluted ones. They are paying a premium for quality. It’s a significant financial backing."

"Will all of this affect our income?" Augusta asked, her primary concern always being money. "Positively or negatively?"

"I don’t know yet, Baroness," Prescott admitted. "The market for those high-quality dyes is very exclusive. A new, aggressive buyer could drive up the price, which would be good for you. Or, they could be trying to monopolize the supply. I will look into it further."

"Do you think it’s Duke Eric?" Augusta leaned forward, her eyes narrowing.

"I have searched all possible scenarios, and none gave me a satisfactory answer," Prescott replied. "I was able to discreetly check his recent transactions and the accounts of his dye company. His Grace wasn’t even involved. The money is coming from a completely different, untraceable source."

Augusta relaxed back into the plush armchair, a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. "Very well," she said. "And what about the other person I told you to look into for me?"

Prescott’s expression turned more serious. "Your suspicions were right, Baroness. He seems to be deeply antagonistic towards his brother, Duke Eric." He reached into his coat pocket and handed Augusta a folded, cheaply printed pamphlet.

Augusta took it and read the bold headline out loud. "’Carson’s Textile Establishment Line of Succession May Be Shifting.’" Her eyes scanned the page until she found another sub-headline. "’Duke Philip and Duke Eric Clash Over Authority at Advisory Council Meeting.’" A slow, predatory smile began to form on her lips. "Why am I only just now seeing this?"

"It was taken down by the Carsons almost immediately, before it could even get to the public," Prescott explained. "They have powerful control over the printing press. I was barely able to get this one copy from a source."

Augusta’s smile widened. This was exactly what she had been looking for. A crack in the perfect Carson family facade.

"Perhaps we can arrange a meeting with this Duke Philip," Prescott suggested.

"Yes," Augusta agreed, her mind already racing, formulating a new plan. "The most important thing in any collaboration is sharing the same goal." Her smile was now a picture of pure, malicious delight. Her goal was to destroy Delia’s happiness. It seemed Duke Philip shared a similar goal regarding his own brother.

~ ••••• ~

The hired carriage rattled over the cobblestone streets, taking Delia further and further away from the city center. She sat alone, clutching a letter in her hand, the paper slightly crumpled from her nervous grip. Yesterday, after their intense morning conversation, Eric had not come back to his residence. He had sent a letter saying he would be at his cabin, but she hadn’t heard from him since.

"He must have been angry about what I said," she thought to herself, a pang of guilt in her chest. " I wonder if he has eaten at all today?"

She stared at the letter in her hand, the elegant, unfamiliar handwriting belonging to Duke Philip. He had told her where to meet him—a quiet, respectable inn called the Old Post Inn on the east road.

Her gaze then drifted out the carriage window, the passing landscape a blur as her thoughts went back to Eric. Had she been too strict? The question, a persistent whisper, echoed in the quiet confines of the moving carriage. She opened the letter, her fingers finding the crisp edges. This was the third time she’d read it, scrutinizing each line, each carefully chosen word. She needed to be certain, to grasp every nuance of the information it held.

The paper rustled softly as she unfolded it once more, her eyes tracing the familiar script. When she was satisfied, a sigh escaping her lips, she creased the letter precisely along its original folds and tucked it securely into her pocket. The carriage lurched gently with a rut in the road, pulling her back to the present.

With a slow movement, She began to draw on her gloves, the soft leather a familiar comfort against her skin. The rhythmic sway of the carriage was a constant motion as it carried her further down the road, and closer to whatever awaited her at the inn.

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