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Lyle donned gloves with practiced motions and collected samples with clinical precision. “We’ll have this analyzed immediately,” he stated.
“Blood can be from anything,” Christopher said, attempting to inject confidence into his tone, but Theodore caught the slight quaver—the marquis’s facade was cracking.
“It could be, but it’s not,” Lyle responded, though his eyes spoke of different thoughts.
Christopher was ushered away then, hands restrained not by irons but by the invisible grip of accusation. As they led him to the waiting police car, he held his head high, denying everything with his silence.
“Is this justice for her?” Theodore wondered inwardly, the image of Nicole’s smile haunting him. The loyalty he bore her demanded action, and yet, doubt gnawed at him—were they ensnaring an innocent or unmasking a villain?
“Take him into custody,” Lyle ordered his men, his voice ringing with finality.
“Wait,” Christopher called out. “You have no proof—”
“Proof will come,” Lyle assured, unfazed by the marquis’s protestations.
As the car with Christopher pulled away, Theodore exhaled slowly. This was a move on the chessboard of Theron—one that played for the highest stakes. His thoughts turned to Nicole, her safety paramount above all else.
The air was thick with uncertainty, and the scent of the manicured gardens seemed overpowered by the tension that hung between the men gathered there. He watched the carriage carrying Christopher disappear down the long drive, flanked by heavy-hearted oaks that had borne witness to both the rise and potential fall of the noble house.
“Inspector Lyle,” a voice called from behind them. Theodore turned to see an older gentleman who he recognized immediately—the same man whose meetings with Christopher had concerned Nicole.
“Mr. Edmondson,” Lyle greeted him with a cautious nod, his hand resting upon the hilt of his service weapon.
“May we speak privately?” Mr. Edmondson requested.
“Of course,” Lyle said, gesturing toward a secluded part of the garden. “Prince Theodore, please join us.”
The trio moved away from the prying ears of the household staff, gathering underneath a sprawling willow whose leaves whispered secrets in the breeze.
“Inspector, I come to you not to save myself, but to shed light upon the darkness that has befallen us,” Mr. Edmondson began, his hands trembling ever so slightly. “Christopher... the Marquis is a desperate man, driven to the brink by his lavish indulgences.”
“Explain,” Lyle commanded, the sharpness in his voice cutting through the soft rustle of the willow.
“His coffers are empty; his wealth—a mirage,” Mr. Edmondson confessed, the weight of his words sinking into the soil like stones in still water. “He sought to overthrow the monarchy, to instigate a coup that would place him in a position to profit from trade agreements promised by foreign powers hungry for our resources.”
Theodore felt a chill run through him, despite the warmth of the afternoon sun. Betrayal of such magnitude was abhorrent, unthinkable. Bile rose in his throat at the thought of Nicole, somewhere held prisoner.
“Foreign powers? Overthrow? This is treason!” Lyle’s face was etched with the gravitas of the situation. “And how do you fit into this, Mr. Edmondson?”
“I was to be an advisor, a facilitator of sorts. But I swear to you, my only wish now is to prevent further bloodshed.” The older man’s gaze faltered.
“Blood has already been spilled,” Theodore interjected, unable to contain the burgeoning rage within him. “Nicole—her life hangs in the balance because of this madness.”
“Prince Theodore speaks the truth,” Lyle added, his voice steady yet tinged with sorrow. “You must provide all you know, Edmondson. It is your duty.”
“Very well,” Mr. Edmondson sighed, resigning himself to the role of informant. “I shall tell you everything.”
As the older gentleman recounted the sordid details, Theodore’s resolve hardened like steel tempered in the forge of adversity. He knew then that he would not rest until Nicole was free.
THEODORE STOOD BY THE window, his eyes scanning the throng of people amassed outside the precinct. The news of Marquis Christopher’s arrest had spread like wildfire. One by one, they came, a procession of souls bound by a common thread of betrayal. Each tale was a variation on the same dark theme: Christopher’s plot to usurp the throne for his own financial gain.
“Mr. Blackwood,” a hesitant voice called out, slicing through the murmurs of the gathered crowd.
Theodore turned to face a young man. “I have information,” the man declared with a tremor in his voice. “Christopher approached me as well—promising wealth beyond measure if I were to align with his cause.”
“Thank you for coming forward, Sir Hawthorne,” Theodore replied, extending a hand in gratitude. His touch seemed to impart a silent encouragement, and soon others stepped forth, telling their tales of conspiracy.
With each account, Theodore felt the weight of responsibility pressing upon him. He had no idea that the disloyalty to his family ran quite so deep. He had no idea about the future of the monarchy, but it felt like this didn’t bode well.
