Reborn: The Duke's Obsession-Chapter 70 - Seventy

The day after, Augusta sat in her drawing room, a storm brewing behind her calm facade.

"How did it go with what I asked you to do?" she asked the moment Mr. Prescott was shown into the room.

Her informant bowed, his expression serious. "My sources have confirmed it, Baroness," he replied, taking a seat opposite her. "Baron Edgar and the Dowager Duchess did have a private meeting at a tea shop four days ago."

"And?" Augusta pressed, her fingers tapping impatiently on the arm of her chair.

"Here’s what my informant at the printing press printed out this morning," Prescott said. He handed Augusta a freshly printed, flimsy gossip pamphlet.

Augusta’s eyes scanned the page. Prescott took his time to explain what the public was now whispering about. "The story circulating is that the former Baron, in a grand romantic gesture, begged the Dowager Duchess to approve of the match. The pamphlet claims he gave her a substantial amount of gold coins as a plea for her to accept Lady Delia into her family."

Augusta read the ridiculous, romanticized version of the events and slammed the pamphlet down on the table. "What is that old fool up to now?" she sneered, her voice full of contempt.

"That is not all, Baroness," Prescott continued, reaching into his leather satchel. He pulled out a thick, leather-bound ledger and placed it on the table. "You asked me to look into the anonymous investor who was buying up all of Lady Delia’s pure dyes. You should take a look at this."

Augusta took the ledger and began to look through the pages, her sharp eyes scanning the neat columns of figures and shipping destinations. She read for a moment in silence. Then, a slow, low laugh started in her throat. The laughter grew, becoming louder and more unhinged, echoing eerily in the quiet, sunlit room.

Suddenly, her laughter stopped, and with a scream of pure rage, she flung the heavy ledger across the room. It hit the wall with a loud thud and fell to the floor, its pages splayed open.

"So, it was him," she hissed, her face covered with anger. "Baron Edgar Ellington."

"Yes, Baroness," Prescott confirmed. "He is the one behind the heavy investment. He has been buying her dyes through several third parties and having them shipped to the southern isles, likely for storage."

Augusta let out another wicked laugh, this one devoid of any humor. It was a sound of pure, bitter hatred. "He thinks these grand, sentimental gestures can erase the past," she said, more to herself than to Prescott. "How incredibly stupid." ƒгeewebnovёl_com

~ ••••• ~

In a dimly lit, smoke-filled gambling den on the shabbier side of the city, Lord George was feeling anything but stupid. He was on a winning streak.

"I won!" he said happily, a wide, arrogant grin on his face as he spread his arms to gather all the coins he had just won. The loser, a disgruntled merchant, threw his cards down on the table in disgust and left angrily. George, feeling invincible, looked around the table. "Anyone else care for a game?"

A well-dressed man at the back of the room raised his hand. He came forward with a friend of his, both of them looking calm and confident. "May I have a game with you, my lord?" the man asked politely.

"Of course," George replied, his greed getting the better of him.

The person in charge of the betting, a man with a scarred face, announced, "Place your bets, my good sirs."

The new man calmly placed a bet on the table—a stack of gold coins so high it was more than all of George’s earnings for the entire day combined. George, blinded by greed and the desire for one more spectacular win, didn’t hesitate. He pushed all of his own winnings into the center of the table.

"Begin," the announcer said. The cards were shuffled and shared, and the game began.

"Did you hear about the Duke of Elinburgh’s wedding?" the man’s friend started talking to another man at a nearby table, his voice just loud enough for George to hear clearly. Their plan was simple: distract George, make him lose his focus.

The other man asked, "Is there something wrong with the wedding?"

George’s eyes flickered up from his cards, his attention immediately snagged.

The first man’s friend replied with a shrug. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, nothing in particular," the other replied.

"Did the engagement fall apart, then?" another man who seemed interested chimed in from the side.

"I heard the families didn’t approve of the match at first," the first man said.

"I don’t think that’s the case anymore," the second man countered. "I heard from a very reliable source that the marriage is definitely happening. And soon."

George felt his collar suddenly tighten. He loosened his cravat, a wave of heat washing over him.

"Still," the first man mused, "I hear a lot of these high-society marriages get dissolved during the honeymoon phase, once the passion cools."

"Ah, it’s all talk, talk, talk."

"I just hope to be invited," the other man sighed wistfully. "I might make some powerful connections there. The Carsons will surely invite the entire kingdom."

A voice pulled George back to the harsh reality of the card table. "I have won, my lord."

It was his opponent. He calmly spread his winning cards on the table. George was too stunned by what he had overheard to speak. He looked down at his own hand and realized, with a sickening lurch in his stomach, that he had held the winning cards just moments ago, but had foolishly discarded the wrong one in his distraction.

The man took the massive bet, a mountain of gold coins, and left with his friend, both of them smiling.

George just sat there for a long while, staring at the empty table, the murmurs of the room fading into a dull roar in his ears. The only chance he has to level up his status, to fix his family’s fortunes, is slipping away from his grasp.

He got up from the table, his mind made up. He had to do something. He decided to go to the Duke’s residence.

Getting to the front gate, he saw a courier about to ring the bell. An idea, desperate and dishonest, formed in his mind. He quickly approached the courier.

"Good day," George said, putting on a humble expression. "I’m here to see about the afternoon deliveries." He gestured vaguely towards the house. "I’m one of the new butlers."

The courier, a young boy who was tired and wanted to finish his route, looked at George’s fine clothes with a bit of confusion, but George’s confident tone was convincing enough. "Oh, right. I have this one for the residence. From Lady Tremaine’s Modiste." He handed George the letter.

George took it and went back to the hired carriage he had left waiting down the street. He opened the letter, his heart pounding.

To the household of Duke Eric Carson,

Thank you for booking with Lady Tremaine’s Modiste. We still be expecting Lady Delia by noon tomorrow for her first wedding gown fitting.

George clutched the crisp paper in his hands, his knuckles turning white. A fitting. For her wedding gown. It was happening. It was all happening without him.

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