The Villainous Marquis Is Obsessed With Me

Chapter 76: Secret Hideout

"Lady Catherine?"

Now that Martha had given voice to the name, the cold weight of familiarity settled over Penelope.

She was well aware that a grand union had once been orchestrated between the preeminent houses involving the Vandalia and Belgravia kingdom, a political alliance highly favored by the court. Yet Vincent had resolutely refused to engage in the proposal.

The only reason the King of Vandalia had ultimately relented to Vincent’s stubborn demand to marry her instead was due to his triumph on the battlefield. He had just delivered yet another conquered territory to the Crown, a kingdom that had wisely surrendered before the campaign could turn into a devastating bloodbath. It was only natural that a grateful monarch would grant his most formidable commander any prize he desired after such a rendering of service.

But... she had no cause for anxiety, surely?

The choice had been Vincent’s, and his alone.

Looking up from the porcelain basin, Penelope offered Martha a reassuring, soft smile and shook her head. "I do not believe I have reason to harbor worry regarding Lady Catherine. I have not yet been introduced to her, and it would be uncharitable of me to judge her character on mere hearsay. But from what little accounts have reached my ears, she is reputed to be a perfectly amiable lady."

Martha resisted the urge to heave a heavy sigh.

Clearly, Her Ladyship possessed a nature far too generous to succumb to petty jealousy. Yet Martha knew the world of the court too well; a woman’s reputation as a "perfectly amiable lady" was often a carefully constructed facade. Still, as she had no concrete proof of Lady Catherine’s true disposition, she decided it was prudent to let the matter rest for the time being.

"Let us speak no more of it," Penelope murmured, her smile warm and grounding. "Come, help me dress. I have two crucial destinations on my itinerary today. I need to journey straight to the parish once I have concluded my business at the barony. If His Lordship still insists I accompany him, then I will."

Martha offered a respectful nod, instantly setting her concerns aside. "As you wish, My Lady," she replied, stepping forward to prepare the washing water and ready the day’s garments.

A sudden, troubling thought popped into Penelope’s head, arresting her movements. If Vincent’s past had truly conditioned him to such rigid obedience, could it be that the intensity of his feelings for her was still tethered to the words she had spoken to him all those years ago? Was it genuine affection, or merely a deeply ingrained duty to her commands?

She shook her head vigorously, forcing the doubt away. No more heavy thoughts, she commanded herself. She would not allow speculation to ruin the fragile peace they were building.

*******

Meanwhile, leagues away from the grand estates of Aelgard, the morning sun struggled to pierce the dense canopy of the whispering woods.

Mikhail arrived at a secluded clearing, his horse lathered in sweat after hours of hard riding. Tucked beneath the shadow of a jagged limestone cliff sat a crumbling, ivy-choked structure—an abandoned hunting lodge that had long vanished from the local maps. To the untrained eye, it was a mere ruin, but to those who knew the signs, it was a perfectly fortified sanctuary.

He cast a sharp glance over his shoulder into the dense brush, ensuring beyond a doubt that he had not been followed. Those arrogant Devereux devils truly believed they could outsmart him, fancying themselves clever enough to keep a tail on his back without his notice.

Fortunately, his instincts had served him well. He had discovered their presence soon enough to alter his course. Utilizing the coin that had been grunted to him, he had adopted an erratic route, booking rooms at inn after inn across the countryside to muddy his tracks. At long last, it seemed he had thoroughly broken their scent.

Dismounting in the gloom, Mikhail gave a low, rhythmic whistle. A heavy wooden shutter creaked open from the upper loft, the dark barrel of a musket glinting briefly in the shadows before a familiar voice called out from the darkness, granting him passage.

With one final, sweeping look at the silent woods around him, he crossed the threshold and stepped into the dim security of the hidden safehouse.

The heavy timber door thudded shut behind him, the thick iron bolts sliding into place with a definitive, grating screech that severed the safehouse from the rest of the world. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp stone, stale tobacco, and the metallic tang of gun oil.

Mikhail paused in the shadows of the narrow entryway, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. The only illumination came from a dying hearth at the far end of the room and a single tallow candle sputtering on a scarred oak table.

"You took your time," a voice rasped from the corner.

A figure stepped into the weak circle of candlelight—Liam, his coat discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. He looked weary, lines of tension etching his mouth, but his eyes were sharp as flints.

Mikhail unclasped his heavy riding cloak, shaking off the dampness of the woods before tossing it over a wooden bench. "The Devereux hounds were nipping at my heels," he replied, his voice low and gravelly from hours of silence. "I spent the last three days doubling back through every wretched village between here and the border to ensure I didn’t bring them to our doorstep."

He walked over to the table, pouring himself a measure of cheap gin from a clay flagon. The liquor burned a fiery path down his throat, cutting through the dust of the road.

"And?" Liam pressed, leaning his palms against the table, his gaze boring into Mikhail. "Did you lose them?"

"Yeap," Mikhail said, setting the tin cup down with a dull thud. "The coin sufficed to buy enough false trails. For now, we are like wandering ghosts. But... we cannot afford to tarry here long. What news from the capital?"

"What news did you bring us instead?" another voice cut through the damp air.

Both Liam and Mikhail turned their heads toward the darkest corner of the room as a figure stepped forward into the amber glow of the hearth.

Mikhail’s lips tilted slightly at the corner, a grim, humorless smirk touching his features. "Ah... it is pleasant to see you have finally discarded those wretched commoner garments."

The middle-aged man clicked his tongue in irritation at the remark, pulling back a heavy chair before seating himself near the warmth of the fire. "The barony is far more difficult to infiltrate now than it ever was before. The guards stationed there are infuriatingly adept at their duties."

Mikhail offered a slight, knowing nod. He was well aware that their employer had been making clandestine visits to the barony disguised as a mere peasant, though the precise motive for those excursions remained entirely beyond his knowledge. All he knew for certain was that the man was a highly placed operative from the Kingdom of Caledonia.

The Caledonian spy leveled a cold, calculating gaze at him. "So, the very fact that you are standing here alive means the Marquis survives as well."

The profound disappointment in the man’s voice was evident, dripping like venom. Liam arched his brow, a slow, grim understanding dawning upon him.

"I was under the impression your design was to rid us of the Marchioness," he stated, his tone flat.

Mikhail scoffed loudly at that, pacing toward the hearth. "Unfortunately, the Marchioness is not some simple-minded creature easily led to the slaughter," he countered sharply. "But that is precisely why I have returned. Eradicating the Devereux line will be no simple feat. In truth, I intend to insist that the King of Caledonia abandon this reckless venture altogether."

Liam gave a solemn nod, staring into the flickering flames. "Ah... yes... I have received word that he shall soon be departing for the capital. We will likely receive our next set of directives upon his return."

"Even so," Mikhail added, his voice dropping to a low, ominous whisper that seemed to chill the very room, "we must still convey a vital piece of intelligence to the Crown. We must let the King know that the Marchioness of Vandalia is currently carrying the next Devereux heir."

The Caledonian spy froze, his gaze snapping from the hearth directly to Julian. The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the crackle of the dying embers.

"An heir," the spy murmured, the word tasting like ash on his tongue. He slowly rose from the bench, his posture rigid with a sudden, icy dread. "Since when?"

Mikhail rubbed the back of his neck. "She didn’t explicitly state it, but I trust my instincts on this one. The Marquis was on the edge of death, and she made it very clear to me that I would be at loss. The only reason I agreed to do this in the first place was to avenge my uncle, but her lack of hesitation or fear proves the rumors true."