VERSAILLES || h.s.

XIV

The gentlemen observed her warily. Women were generally emotionally unstable creatures, but expecting one to function normally after discovering a dead body was wishful thinking. The Lady Beauchamp wore black; it puzzled Louis. She had no connections to the Duke that he knew of, and the man was a cross-bred social climber, for God's sake! Why mourn the loss of such an insufferable, dishonourable gnat?

"Good day, My Lady," he greeted cautiously. The Lord Tomlinson readied himself for the onslaught of hysterical crying, but it never came. Shockingly, the Lady maintained the utmost composure.
"Bonjour, My Lord," she replied calmly. Harry raised his eyebrows. Her emotional break had not lasted long. He felt oddly impressed; she was mature – leagues above the likes of Lady van Vliet.
"Harry, I must apologise for my outburst earlier. I was terribly frightened, as you can imagine."

Somehow, hearing Odete use his name made Harry feel strange. It was not a sentiment he was used to, thus, he could not identify it. An unfamiliar surge of heat rushed through his scalp.
"Do not apologise, My Lady. Natural human response is inevitable in such circumstances," he said, subconsciously running a hand through his hair in attempts to tame it.
"And thank you for your kindness," she added, smiling softly. Harry looked away uncomfortably. He was severely unaccustomed to warmth from women outside of his bed. In fact, he was severely unaccustomed to warmth from anyone.

The Lord Horan watched their interaction, deeply interested. It vexed him; their connection was apparent to any fool with eyes, and it was clear they wanted the same thing. Why overcomplicate things? Simply bed her!

The silence developed between the two grew thick enough to slice with a knife, so the Earl of Dartmouth cleared his throat. "Shall we discuss strategy?" he offered, making his way to the mahogany desk in the Viscount's room. Louis settled himself in a velvet chair and awaited the others. Niall sat beside him, and Odete and Harry beelined for the same chair.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Odete giggled nervously. "Please, sit."
"No, no, ladies first," Harry chuckled, overcome by a sudden awkwardness.
"Non, you arrived first—"
"I insist," Harry pressed. Odete yielded and gathered her skirts, sitting in the damned chair.

Louis watched the pair, arching an eyebrow in annoyance. "May we proceed?"

In the following two hours, the group deliberated over countless theories, hypotheses, and suspicions, desperately trying to connect any shred of information they could imagine.
"Was it someone among the gentry? Or did a servant commit the crimes?" Niall asked, leaning forward.
"What motives could a noble have to murder two of his own breed?" Harry asked. "It's senseless. I'd bet on the servants."

"But, My Lord," Odete interjected, "you said it yourself. The Duke of Kalgenfurt was not of duly noble birth, and rumours surrounding the General suggest the same. Mayhap it was someone among the guests who hopes to purify Europe's lineage."
"That would be an awfully lengthy vendetta to carry out," Lord Tomlinson scoffed. "They'd have to kill off half the guest list. Our best hope at this time is the working class."

"But there was no relation between the two dead!" the Lady argued frustratedly. "Why would a servant bother to kill two noble men if there was no link between them? There was nothing to gain from their deaths; if it were truly a vendetta, would it not be wiser to assassinate the same bloodline at least?" Her exasperated tone drew silent looks from the three gentlemen.

"My Lady, with all due respect," Harry sighed, "you have had quite the stressful day. Maybe you should return to your quarters and rest a while, and then we can discuss later, when you are more... sound of mind."

Odete glared at the Lords, becoming even more incensed. "You all agree?"
Their lack of response was a clear enough answer.
"Very well," she snapped, standing. "Let the woman go to her room until she is more emotionally stable." She stomped towards the door.
"Odete, please—" they called in unison. She turned sharply.
"It's Lady Beauchamp to you," she spat, slamming the door to the Viscount's room behind her.
"Men," she muttered, storming down the stairs. "Ils sont tous des idiots."

What, because she had found a dead body and reacted in the way that any sane human with a conscience would, she was suddenly intellectually inept? Suddenly incapable of partaking in a serious conversation? Psh.

The Lady of Mallard slowed her pace when she approached her chambers. No, she thought. I want my own answers.

She turned on her heel and made her way to the west wing, heading to the Dauphin's chambers.

•

Lorenzo combed his black hair back with richly scented oils, and tied it with a golden ribbon. He smoothed the lapels of his mustard-coloured overcoat.
"You did well," he said in his natural French accent. "Next time, however, don't leave any witnesses."
The Duke of Eden rolled his eyes. "Tell me, why do you want to get rid of all the impure ones?"
"Because," Lorenzo hissed. "They shouldn't be here. They're not part of this world."

Of course, Lorenzo could never tell the Duke of Eden his real intentions; he'd lose his scapegoat. If the Duke knew that Lorenzo was on a mission to annihilate the nobility, and the French monarchy along with it, his plan would crumble.

"Here is your payment," he said, passing the Duke a vial of opium. "The purest money can buy," he added. The Duke's eyes widened with hunger as he lunged for the vial. Lorenzo lifted it just out of his reach. "Wait. What of the maid that found the body?"
"She's been dealt with, I've sorted it out," the Duke said hurriedly, teaching for the glass bottle that held the drug.
"How?" Lorenzo pressed, holding the narcotic higher out of the Duke's reach.
"She's—she's dead!" the noble shrieked hysterically. "I said I'd settled it! She's fucking dead, now give me the damned opium—"

Lorenzo tossed the vial on the carpet and let it roll to the Duke's feet. He scrambled for it like the pathetic waste of a man he was. The French traitor glared at him. It would be so easy to just end the Duke's sorry existence right that moment... No, he needed the idiot to keep others off his scent. Especially the Viscount of Breckenridge and his posse.

Lorenzo kicked the Duke out of his quarters without another word, and shut the door behind him. The upper class were so disgustingly materialistic, they could be persuaded to murder in exchange for something as small as a vial of opium. It was a tad excessive, killing the poor maid, but it was the way it had to be.
Lorenzo himself had killed the Duke of Kalgenfurt, attacking him with a blade and pushing him off the edge of his balcony; it was more of a mercy killing than anything else. The boy didn't need to live in such a twisted reality. He came from nothing, and into nothing he returned.

The anarchist observed his reflection in the mirror; not too shabby for the son of a blacksmith and a common whore.

He left his chambers and made his way towards the west wing. He planned on becoming an ally to the Dauphin as people would continue being murdered, thus becoming closer, physically, to the King, making his task quite easy. Once the King was dead, everything would fall into place.

He would speak to the Dauphin and inform him of all the – fabricated – details of the murders, and fill his head with false suspicions, beguiling him into imprisoning nobles under the pretence of treason, resulting in the execution of the vermin.

He smiled as he went over his plan. It was brilliant. He appeared before the Dauphin's chambers, and his guards blocked the passage.
"Halt," they commanded.
"I am here to offer the Dauphin information about the assassination," Lorenzo said, feigning solicitude. The guards exchanged looks before letting him pass.

Lorenzo was unprepared for the splendour of the room; gold and diamonds glittered on every surface, and the most exquisite renaissance paintings embellished the walls and ceiling. A chandelier the size of two carriages illuminated the room.
When he looked back down, he saw that the Dauphin was not alone. He sat at a table with Marie Antoinette, and... the Lady of Mallard?

Lorenzo felt a fleeting moment of panic run through his spine. She saw the body... she could disprove anything he said if he was not careful. The Lady Beauchamp could be his downfall if he did not calculate every word.

"Principe Constantini," the Dauphin called. "Thank you for joining us. Take a seat."