Chapter 72 : A Garden of Masks and Motives
“Then you shouldn’t have handed over the work so suddenly. It’s the karma of His Highness the Prince, after all.”
With a faint shrug, I let my gaze sweep across the ballroom. Just moments ago, Johannes had been within sight—now, he had vanished as though swallowed by the air itself.
Perhaps the moment had come. But how could I guide people to the garden without arousing suspicion?
Then, a thought bloomed in my mind—one that involved using Edward, just a little.
“It’s hardly my fault that people are watching. Wouldn’t it be far more fitting for His Highness to give them something worth watching?”
“How dreadfully straightforward,” he replied with a smirk. “But effective. Tell me then, Duchess—how would you suggest I capture the public eye?”
Exactly as I predicted, Edward didn’t brush off my suggestion. Instead, he considered it, his lips quirking with intrigue before answering.
“I’m curious about the garden. Surely others must be, too. I’ve heard that Eden Blanc was planted there?”
“Your Highness is very well-informed,” I replied smoothly. “Truthfully, many came tonight just to catch a glimpse of that rare flower.”
Soon after, Edward—never one to ignore an opportunity for grandeur—announced to the assembled nobles that he would personally lead a tour to the Eden Blanc Garden. Excitement stirred through the Great Hall like a breeze through silk, and soon most of the guests began to make their way outside.
“You seemed indifferent to the Eden Blanc before. Or was I mistaken?”
We were walking together now, leading the curious nobles through the castle’s manicured paths. His question caught me off guard, a twinge of guilt brushing my heart. Still, I maintained my composure.
“Of course I’m intrigued. Who wouldn’t be drawn to something so mysterious and rare?”
“Then allow me to offer you a gift, Duchess.”
Edward chuckled, just as we reached the garden—and then, he stopped.
Before us stood the scene I had anticipated. A tableau crafted for revelation. Edward blinked, then laughed—low and disbelieving.
“Duchess… you’re far bolder than I imagined,” he said, tilting his head in bemusement. “You used me for this?”
Johannes Schulz had begun his day with the weight of irritation dragging behind him like a shadow. And that feeling hadn’t lifted, not even by evening.
The causes were many. Edward Windsor had dumped yet another missing persons case on him. One of his officers failed to handle a report correctly, delaying progress. And worst of all, he had to leave Edith to attend the ball alone—a thought that stirred discomfort more potent than he liked to admit.
And then—Heibenstein Castle.
The first thing he saw was Edith, surrounded by noblewomen. His jaw tightened.
He tugged slightly at his tie, the silk feeling like a noose. It was obvious what was happening—he had not accompanied her, and now the social vipers had their moment.
Edward Windsor had planned this. To isolate Edith, provoke scandal, tarnish the Schultz name. A perfect trap.
But he had underestimated Edith.
Though she had not grown up among nobility, she was no fragile flower. Still, Johannes knew better than anyone that aristocratic cruelty wasn’t just about sharp tongues—it was about appearances, subtle jabs laced in civility, calculated destruction beneath painted smiles.
Even the most seasoned noble could fall to such tactics.
And so he acted—stepping into the lion’s den with a calmness that belied his fury.
He drew Edith into his arms, catching the unraveling ribbon of her dress with deft, gentlemanly grace. She trembled slightly against him. Of course she did.
Even he was surprised. Damn it.
His eyes swept the crowd like cold steel, landing on Laura Hatzfeld. She wore her mask well—but Baroness Vermont’s trembling hands betrayed her conscience.
Soft-hearted, that one.
Johannes offered her a chilling smile, then turned his focus back to Edith. Once her breathing steadied, he moved, flawlessly executing his next move.
After their dance, Johannes slipped away to the balcony, irritation trailing behind him like smoke.
How could I be angry?
Edith’s words echoed in his mind. They were nothing, just air. She bore his name, wore his title—his duchess. And yet she always kept that wall up. Touch-and-go. Warmth and frost.
He loosened his collar and lit a cigarette, the wind tousling his hair.
He should be relieved. This was a contract marriage, after all. Feelings were a liability. Edith’s detachment should have been a blessing.
But why did it feel so wretched?
He exhaled smoke with a slow burn in his chest. Confusion gnawed at him, but the gnawing became fury when a drunken voice slurred beyond the curtain.
“Did you see the Duchess earlier? Strap broke clean off… I could see—what a shame….”
The speaker was Baron Berto. And the moment the curtain parted, the color drained from the baron’s face.
“Your Grace!” he stammered.
Johannes rose, his voice like iron wrapped in velvet.
“What did you say?”
He took slow, deliberate steps toward the trembling baron. The air turned heavy. Berto dared not look up.
Johannes snapped his fingers.
The lit cigarette fell onto Berto’s shoulder, leaving a dark, smoking hole in his coat.
“Next time,” Johannes said coldly, “it’ll be that foolish mouth.”
Berto nodded so quickly his glasses nearly flew off.
Meanwhile, Laura Hatzfeld was soaring on wings of delusion.
“I asked to speak with you, Duke, because… I had something to ask. Is that alright?”
“Of course,” she cooed, already imagining the scene unfolding exactly as she’d hoped.
In her mind, Johannes was just another bored nobleman seeking diversion from a dull marriage. And she? A breath of fresh air. The kind of woman he couldn’t find in a common-born wife.
Miss Hatzfeld, you’re unlike any woman I’ve known…
Only you can give me what she cannot…
She had heard such lines before. She’d expected them.
It was obvious—Johannes’ classic, gentlemanly approach was only a prelude. She was used to being pursued, after all. Nobles, counts, suitors from powerful houses. Even the Count of Swabia once courted her—before scandal turned him into a ghost of the court.
The Hatzfeld name may have lost its luster, but she—Laura—remained convinced of her appeal.
She smiled sweetly, tilting her head as her voice dropped in practiced charm.
“So… what was it that you wanted to ask me, Your Grace?”
