CHAPTER 72: CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO

The days following Ryan’s departure for the northern estate settled into a new, quiet, and intensely focused routine. The Thompson manor, now firmly under Marissa’s control, ran with a silent, precision. The terror she had instilled in the staff had evolved into an efficient respect. She was not a cruel mistress, they were learning, but she was a strict one. She did not tolerate lies, she did not tolerate laziness, and she saw everything.

Marissa, for her part, was working. She sat on her private balcony, a place that had become her open-air office, the warm afternoon sun on her face. Before her, on a sturdy table, were not flowers or tea, but a mountain of paper.

Mrs. Alma, the Dowager’s former proxy, stood beside her, her posture stiff, her face a mask of neutral deference. She had accepted her new position as Marissa’s second-in-command with a grudging, but total, surrender. She placed another heavy, leather-bound ledger on the growing stack.

"This is the last of them, Your Grace," Mrs. Alma said, her voice a clipped, formal monotone. "The household accounts for the last six months, as you requested."

Marissa, her brow furrowed in concentration, didn’t look up. She was tracing a line of figures with her finger. "So many accounts," she murmured, her voice tight with a dawning, cold anger. "All of them, every single one, attributed to Lord Carlos’s spending. ’Entertaining nobles at the King’s court,’ ’Securing diplomatic ties,’ ’Gifts for visiting dignitaries’. All in the Thompson’s name."

She closed the heavy book with a soft, definitive thud, and dropped it onto the side table. The sheer, audacious scale of the theft was breathtaking.

"That thieving bastard." She murmured more to herself than to Mrs Alma.

Lily, who had just entered with a fresh pot of tea and a small plate of pastries, heard the last part. She set the tray down with a little more force than was necessary.

"Dignitaries, Your Grace?" Lily scoffed, pouring the steaming, fragrant tea. "The Second Master looks so dignified, responsible and kind, yet everyone in the servants’ quarters knows he’s into gambling and women. The only ’diplomatic ties’ he’s securing are with the owners of pleasure houses."

Marissa looked into her teacup, her reflection staring back at her, cold and calculating. "I am sure you are right, Lily. The amounts here are staggering. He’s been falsifying the accounts on a massive scale." She took a sip of the hot tea. "I will have to go to the pleasure house he frequents. I need to check their private accounts against these."

Lily and Mrs. Alma both froze, staring at her as if she had just announced she was going to fly.

"Your Grace!" Mrs. Alma gasped, her professional calm finally breaking. "You... you cannot! A woman of your standing... the Grand Duchess... going to such a... a place? It is unthinkable! It would bring ruin upon the family name if you were seen!"

"And what do you call this?" Marissa countered, tapping the thick, lying ledger. "This is ruin, Mrs. Alma. It’s just slower, and quieter. He’s draining the Thompson’s wealth on things that doesn’t make sense even when he didn’t contribute a single penny to it . I cannot send you; he would know you were from the Dowager. And I will not send Lily into a den of thieves."

She stood, her mind made up. "If I find evidence that Lord Carlos falsified these accounts, I can use it. I can cut off his allowance. I can control him. And I can finally stop my sister from using his stolen money to plot against me."

She looked at her maid. "Lily, go to a stable. Rent a plain, unmarked carriage. I want a simple, enclosed carriage with a discreet driver. Tell no one. I wouldn’t want to announce my presence and have him, or his spies, be aware."

"Yes, Your Grace," Lily said, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe. She curtsied and hurried away.

"Your Grace, I must protest," Mrs. Alma tried one last time, her hands twisting in her dress. "It is too dangerous. Let me send one of the Duke’s men. Let me tell His Grace..."

"His Grace is busy with his own affairs," Marissa said sharply. She placed a hand on the older woman’s arm, her voice softening slightly. "It’s all right, Mrs. Alma. I will be veiled, and I will be in and out. It will just be a quick one." She smiled, a cold, thin smile. "Besides, I am very good at handling men who think they are in charge."

She turned and went into her chambers to dress, leaving Mrs. Alma on the balcony, her heart pounding with a terrible, helpless premonition.

~ ••••• ~

An hour later, the plain, black, rented carriage clattered to a stop on a bustling, dirty street. This was the "Pleasure District," a place Marissa had only ever heard of in hushed, scandalized whispers. It was not yet dark, but the street was already alive with a kind of frantic, desperate energy. Gaudy, painted women leaned from balconies, their laughter loud and false. Men, from grubby laborers to finely dressed, shame-faced nobles, hurried in and out of the brightly colored, ramshackle buildings.

Marissa paid the driver, her simple, dark cloak pulled tight, her face completely hidden by a thick, black veil. She had insisted on coming alone. She felt a prickle on her neck, a strange, distinct feeling of being followed, of being watched. She glanced into a dark alley, but saw only shadows and stray cats. Shoving the feeling away as simple nerves, she stepped out of the carriage and onto the street.

The establishment Carlos frequented was the largest, and most garish, of them all. It was called "The Pleasure District," its name a lazy, arrogant claim to the entire area. Its doors were wide open.

Marissa took a deep breath, her hand in her pocket, her fingers wrapped around the heavy, cool, reassuring shape of the Thompson household token. Her "weapon." She stepped inside.