Chapter 137: Webs at Barberin Castle
Chapter 137: Webs at Barberin Castle
✦❄✦ When power dallies with mischief, pawns find themselves dancing on razors. ✦❄✦
At the precise moment a blast split the streets of Mussen, Edward Windsor reclined within Barberin Castle’s sun‑washed drawing room, sipping tea as though calamity were a parlor game.
Old Mrs. Russell, shoes clicking in disapproval, glared across the low table. “Why summon an old woman at this hour, Your Royal Highness? I assure you, my time is not squandered on idle courtesies.”
Her tone, brittle as frost, implied she already sensed his request would be anything but simple.
Edward’s smile gleamed behind porcelain china. “I trust the newspapers will spin delightful headlines once they learn you paid the royal palaces a visit.”
She scoffed. “You know precisely how tongues will wag if I linger here.”
He drained his cup, dabbed his lips with a monogrammed handkerchief, and finally unsheathed the purpose of the meeting.
“Dear madam, I wish to play a harmless prank on Cousin Johannes.”
“So?”
Cold interest flickered behind her spectacles.
“I should like your… cooperation.”
Her eyes narrowed into flint. A lesser soul might have withered beneath that stare, yet Edward merely shifted, languid.
“Surely you jest?” she growled, impatience leaking through her practiced poise.
“It is but a trifle.” He spread thumb and forefinger a hair’s breadth apart. “I mean Johannes no true harm.”
“Your pranks,” she reminded icily, “have earned you a reputation bordering on infamy.”
He waved off the censure, boyish. “Who in the realm would begrudge a prince a little mischief?”
Her retort was winter‑sharp: “What is it you expect from this old woman?”
Edward feigned wounded innocence, drooping shoulders like a spaniel left out in rain. “A little assistance, nothing more.”
She remained unmoved. “And my recompense?”
He lifted a brow, clearly enjoying the baited pause. “What, indeed, might tempt the formidable Mrs. Russell?”
Her frown deepened. “Dispense with riddles, Your Highness. I detest circles.”
She half‑rose, intent on departure, when Edward’s next words pinned her to the chair.
“The Duchess Schulz will soon grace Barberin Castle.”
“So?” She fought to mask her intrigue.
“Befriend her. Then, upon parting, invite the duchess to reside a short while at the Russell seat.”
Her features twisted. “…You propose kidnapping?”
He fluttered a hand melodramatically. “Heavens, no. Pure hospitality! Your estate is renowned for its comfort.”
“Of course”—her voice dripped acid—“and you shall inform Johannes?”
Edward’s grin sharpened beneath the veneer of courtesy. Her suspicion swelled, yet protocol shackled her interrogation.
“Again,” she pressed, “is it abduction you seek?”
“Such dreadful language.” Delight twinkled in his eyes. “I merely champion camaraderie.”
She lifted her cooled teacup, hiding a glare behind the rim. What angle?
He finally revealed the honeyed hook: “Authorize a direct rail from Böln to Baden.”
Time seemed to stall. For decades the crown had stymied her bid to link her rail empire to the capital in one seamless line, wary of her swelling influence.
“Are you serious?”
“As the crown upon my crest. A simple favor for a simple jest.”
His smile, reminiscent yet darker than Johannes’, curved to a predatory crescent.
Mrs. Russell’s thoughts churned. Edward’s promises were gilded dice: tempting, yet rarely landing true. Yet a royal seal would bind the crown’s will.
Profit warred with principle. Curiosity gnawed. The duchess trapped under her roof—Johannes enraged—Edward orchestrating chaos. What song did the prince truly wish to compose?
Her fingers traced the teacup’s rim. The steam had long since died, yet the scheme before her smoldered hot as coal.
And thus, in the hush between breaths, a spider‑silk plot began to weave—gossamer fragile, lethal beautiful—promising to ensnare hearts and crown alike.
