Lord Preston's Secret Governess

Chapter 8: An Excuse?

Even as he followed Windsor’s orders, Roman hadn’t believed they would survive, let alone win.
Yet, they had rescued the merchant ship, crippled more than half the pirate fleet, and held their ground until reinforcements arrived. The remaining pirates, facing the overwhelming force of the Black Fleet, had surrendered.
Roman vividly remembered that day. Windsor, standing amidst the acrid smoke of gunpowder, had looked like a demon. Some even claimed to have seen horns sprouting from his head. Roman couldn’t deny it outright; he thought he’d seen them too.

Regardless, the events of that day had become a legend, recounted in hushed tones by both the navy and the pirates. It was the day the “Devil of the Black Fleet” was born.
I wonder if anyone will ever break through his icy facade. Looking at Windsor’s inhumanly handsome face, Roman pondered the question he had asked himself countless times. He couldn’t imagine his superior ever losing control.
If it ever happens, it will probably be because of His Majesty. The King was the most likely candidate. He constantly tested Windsor’s patience, and it was only a matter of time before Windsor snapped.

Roman hoped he would be present when it happened. He wouldn’t want to miss such a spectacle.
“The invitation is for a royal ball this weekend.”
“What’s on the schedule for this weekend?”

“Nothing important. Just a few minor appointments that can be easily rescheduled.”
“Then make an important appointment that can’t be rescheduled.”
“Hmm.” Instead of arguing, Roman made a noncommittal sound. He cautiously voiced his opinion. “You’ve declined five royal invitations since arriving in the capital. We’re running out of excuses.”

“Tell them it’s my funeral.”
“…” Roman stared at him, speechless, then frowned. “As your loyal subordinate, I must advise you that you have no talent for humor.”
Windsor raised an eyebrow, his expression ambiguous. It could have meant he wasn’t joking, or that he simply didn’t care.

Roman scratched his forehead and spoke carefully. “His Majesty won’t let this one slide. According to my sources, the preparations for the custody trial are almost complete. And of course, the judge will be in His Majesty’s pocket. Since he appoints the Chief Justice, it’s a foregone conclusion. Wouldn’t it be wise to yield, just this once, before things escalate?”
“Once becomes twice, and twice becomes thrice. Roman Miller, recite the fourth article of the Navy’s Code of Conduct.”
“Yes, sir! Never compromise with the enemy!” Roman snapped to attention, his heels clicking together, his chin raised. He had transformed from a languid aide into a rigid recruit.

He realized his mistake a moment later, but old habits died hard. He scratched his forehead again. “The enemy? You mean His Majesty?”
“His Majesty will not be satisfied with a single concession.”
“I suppose not. The attempted kidnapping by the ninth governess, Gallup, proves that. But what is His Majesty’s endgame?”
“Who knows?” Windsor tapped his finger against his thigh, lost in thought. His eyes narrowed, and his finger stopped mid-air. His voice, flat and emotionless, broke the silence. “He’s a greedy old man who refuses to relinquish the throne to his son, even after securing an heir. I can’t fathom why he’s so fixated on Benjamin.”

Roman silently considered the King, and his son, who had been the Crown Prince for twenty years.
“Besides, if Benjamin starts interacting with the King, the Crown Prince won’t stand idly by. He’ll do everything in his power to prevent the King’s affections from shifting to Benjamin. Don’t forget, Benjamin is third in line to the throne. We must be prepared for every possibility.”
“That’s true. Perhaps His Majesty intends to use Master Benjamin as a pawn? A distraction for the Crown Prince, a way to consolidate his own power.”

Windsor didn’t respond. He wasn’t one to speculate about uncertainties. Instead, he looked at Roman. “Find me a competent lawyer. Someone beyond the King’s influence.”
“Competent, and untainted by the royal family. That’s a tall order.” Roman sighed, but he nodded. He had no choice. His superior’s orders were absolute.

* * *
 
William, the longtime butler of Preston Manor, was certain he could count on one hand the number of times he had been as bewildered as he was now.

He stepped into the room, hesitant to speak. Even his years of experience couldn’t prepare him for this.
His wrinkled eyes slowly scanned the walls, now a riot of color. “Hmm.” A deep sigh escaped his lips.
Jacqueline, in contrast, seemed remarkably composed. In fact, she was the only one who appeared unfazed.

He turned to Benjamin, who was staring at the floor, his expression dejected. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his fists clenched. Yet, even in his distress, his posture remained straight. It seemed the heir to the Preston family wasn’t allowed to fully express his emotions, even in private.
“Benjamin.” Jacqueline’s gentle voice broke the silence.
Benjamin slowly lifted his head, hesitantly meeting her gaze. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, before finally speaking. “Will Miss Somerset be dismissed today?”

“Hmm…” Jacqueline looked up at the ceiling, feigning contemplation, then turned back to the boy, a playful glint in her eyes. “Perhaps.”
“…”
“Do you want me to stay?”

The boy remained silent. A brief silence hung in the air.
Just as William was about to speak, Jacqueline burst into a soft laugh. Benjamin had given an almost imperceptible nod.
She wanted to hug him, but she restrained herself. The distance between them wasn’t hers to bridge alone.

Tightening her grip on her trembling fingers, she whispered gently, “I don’t know Lord Preston very well yet, but he seems like a very rational and reasonable man. If I explain what happened, I’m sure he’ll understand. So, Benjamin, why don’t you go wash your face while I talk to Lord Preston? There’s paint in your hair, too. And then, how about we have some cookies together?”
“…Yes, Miss Somerset.” Benjamin, his face smeared with paint, self-consciously wiped his cheek, leaving a long, blue streak.
William, watching the scene unfold, groaned softly.

“Alright, I’ll see you later, Benjamin.” With that, Jacqueline left the room. Benjamin watched her go, his eyes filled with worry, unsure if he would truly see her again.
Jacqueline returned to her room and changed her clothes. Exactly thirty minutes later, she knocked on the study door.
“I’ve been expecting you, Miss Somerset.” Instead of Windsor, a man with a friendlier demeanor opened the door. Recognizing him as the man who had been standing behind Windsor earlier, Jacqueline gave him a haughty nod.

Elegant movements, dignified posture, and unwavering pride.
The man, his eyes filled with curiosity, stepped aside. “Please, come in.”
“Thank you.” Jacqueline lifted her chin slightly and entered the room. The door closed softly behind her.

“Good luck,” she heard a faint whisper. She turned around, puzzled, but the hallway was empty.
“…”
Inside the study, only Windsor and Jacqueline remained.

Windsor rose from his chair and walked towards the sofa. Jacqueline waited for him to sit before gracefully settling onto the cushions.
A heavy silence fell between them. Neither spoke. The tension in the air was palpable, but Jacqueline endured it with practiced composure.
“Miss Somerset.” Windsor finally spoke, his voice dry and devoid of inflection, yet resonant.

Jacqueline smiled politely and looked at him, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “Yes, Lord Preston?”
Windsor’s gaze was complex. Her demeanor and speech were those of a perfectly cultured lady. And she was a graduate of the Bristol Boarding School.
There were countless private schools in the kingdom. Wealthy merchants and landowners, eager to emulate the aristocracy, sent their children to boarding schools. And those who realized the profitability of such ventures established schools indiscriminately.

Among them, the Bristol Boarding School for Young Ladies stood out as a prestigious institution, boasting a rich history and tradition.
Although it was no longer as strict as it once was, its origins as a convent meant it remained more conservative than other schools. It was a school exclusively for young ladies of noble birth, its doors still closed to the middle class. And Jacqueline Somerset was a graduate of this institution, having excelled in her studies.
He had judged her to be a suitable governess for Benjamin, believing she could impart not only knowledge but also the ingrained refinement and etiquette that he himself lacked.

It was something Windsor couldn’t provide. He could fight the royal family for Benjamin, he could hire the best tutors, but he couldn’t teach his young nephew the nuances of aristocratic behavior.
Raised by his opera singer mother, Windsor had lived a life separate from the Preston family, never having the opportunity to learn the things a nobleman was expected to know.
Of course, he had no intention of revealing this deficiency. That was why he avoided dancing with women at balls and refrained from drinking at social gatherings.

Rumors of his arrogance circulated, but he didn’t care. His priority was protecting the Preston family.
However, he wanted to raise Benjamin to be an exceptional nobleman. It was his duty and his way of repaying his debt to Jeffrey Preston.
And Jacqueline Somerset, the perfect lady before him, possessed the refinement and knowledge he lacked. The problem was…

“Do you have an excuse for the spectacle I witnessed earlier, Miss Somerset?”
“An excuse?”