CHAPTER 228: CHAPTER TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY EIGHT

The heavy paper crinkled softly in Eric’s hands as he read the last part of the letter from Fredrick. His voice was steady and clear in the quiet drawing room, filling the space between him, Delia, and Prescott.

"... I told Augusta to pay me an advance because I wasn’t sure if she could pay the money she promised me in her current state. Of course, she felt insulted. She spoke, and I quote: ’My daughter handles the textile part of Ellington Textiles. We can prepare tens of millions in a second. You have heard of the weaver named Adair Reed, right? The man who killed himself out of exhaustion weaving his last masterpiece? He’s quite famous for using years to weave a masterpiece. I have his last unreleased fabric. If it comes out in public, people will buy it. Even the king will not be exempted.’"

Eric paused, his gaze lifting from the page to meet Delia’s. The afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, but the mood in the room was far from bright. Delia sat perfectly still on the velvet settee, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her brow was furrowed with concentration, her lips pressed into a thin line. Beside her, Prescott leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his face a mask of serious concern.

"This is Augusta and Fredrick?" Delia asked, her voice just above a whisper. "How did you get him to cooperate so fully? A man like that seems loyal only to coin."

Eric set the letter down on the polished table beside his armchair. He leaned back, a small, confident smile touching his lips. "It was simple enough," he replied, his tone calm. "I just paid him what Augusta promised him as an advance. Then I promised him a great deal more if he does his job well and reports everything back to us." He looked back at the letter, his expression turning grim once more. "That woman is certainly going to do something desperate."

Prescott nodded in solemn agreement, his gaze fixed on the letter as if it were a venomous snake. "She is cornered. A cornered animal is always the most dangerous."

Eric picked up the paper again, his eyes scanning the final lines of the report. He continued reading aloud, his voice dropping slightly.

"... the bolts of fabric are not at Ellington Textiles. It’s somewhere else. It will be ready soon."

With that, Eric dropped the paper back onto the table. The finality of the action echoed in the silence. He let out a long breath and sank deeper into the plush cushions of his armchair, steepling his fingers under his chin as he stared into the cold, empty fireplace. The threat felt real and imminent. Tens of millions. With that kind of money, Augusta could cause unimaginable trouble for them. She could hire mercenaries, bribe nobles, and escaping would be very possible.

Prescott broke the silence. He leaned even further forward, his eyes wide with a sudden, dawning realization. "Come to think of it," he began, his voice raspy with thought. "Whenever the Baroness needed urgent money and didn’t want to alert the Baron, she would go and find one of Adair’s fabrics. She always managed to procure one."

His words hung in the air. Delia’s head snapped towards him, her eyes searching his face.

Prescott continued, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place in his mind. "It’s the same fabrics. The ones used in making Anne’s dresses for the grand balls and special occasions. That’s why Anne’s dresses were always so popular, so unique. The material was unlike anything else. It brought ladies flocking to Ellington Textiles, desperate for a taste of that same magic."

A jolt went through Delia. She remembered the set of Anne’s unreleased dresses, the ones she had collected from Augusta as part of their deal for her dyes. She remembered the feel of the fabric under her fingertips—it was impossibly soft, with a sheen that seemed to capture and hold the light. At the time, she knew they were special, but she hadn’t understood the sheer scale of their value. They weren’t just dresses; they were treasures.

"I think that’s what she’s planning to do," Prescott concluded, his voice heavy with certainty. "She’s going to sell another one of Adair Reed’s fabrics."

The seriousness of the situation settled over them like a thick shroud. This wasn’t just about Augusta trying to make some money. This was her secret weapon, her hidden trump card. The last masterpiece of a legendary weaver who died creating it would fetch a price that could rival a royal dowry.

Delia turned her full attention to Prescott, her gaze intense. If they could find the fabric before Augusta could sell it, they could cut off her lifeline. "Prescott," she said, her voice urgent and sharp. "Do you know where she gets those fabrics from? You’ve worked with the Baroness since you were fifteen. Surely, you must know where they are stored, right?"

Hope flickered in her chest, bright and hot. Prescott was the key. He had been by Augusta’s side for two decades. He knew her business dealings, her secrets.

But the hope died as quickly as it had appeared. Prescott slowly shook his head, his face etched with frustration and regret. "No," he admitted, his voice low. "I’m sorry, Your Grace. They were always directly procured to Ellington Textiles for the seamstresses. The transactions were completely hidden. Augusta handled it all herself. It was one of the few things she never delegated." He wrung his hands together, his knuckles white. "All I know is that a special courier would deliver a heavily sealed crate. I never saw the courier’s face, and the crate never had any markings. If we could just find out where the shipping is from, it would be a great help."

Delia’s shoulders slumped. A dead end. Augusta had covered her tracks too well. They were so close, yet the solution was just out of reach. They sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of their predicament pressing down on them. The ticking of the grand clock in the hallway seemed to mock them, each second a reminder of time slipping away. Augusta was already moving. The fabric would be ready "soon." How soon was soon? A day? A week?

Eric rose from his chair and walked over to a large map of the kingdom that hung on the wall. "Let’s think about this logically," he said, his voice cutting through the tension. "A fabric of such value wouldn’t be stored in a common warehouse. It would have to be somewhere secure, somewhere climate-controlled to preserve its quality."

He traced a finger over the main trade routes leading to the capital. "And the delivery... a special courier, no markings. That suggests a private arrangement, not a standard shipping company. It would have to be someone Augusta trusts completely."

Prescott joined him at the map. "She doesn’t trust anyone completely, Your Grace," he said grimly. "Except perhaps herself."

Delia watched them, her mind racing. A private courier. A secret location. Something only Augusta knew. It felt impossible. Her thoughts were a storm, trying to find a connection, any small detail from her past life with Augusta and Anne that she might have overlooked. She thought of Anne, preening in those beautiful dresses, bragging about how exclusive they were. She thought of Augusta’s smug smile whenever a new design was unveiled to thunderous applause from high society.

And then, it happened.