Just as an attendant brought in tea, Beatrice sipped her cup and spoke, her voice cutting through the laughter like a knife.
“You’re being noisy.”
The abrupt, dry comment silenced the trio mid-laugh, as if on cue. The attendant, sensing the tension, quickly excused herself from the waiting room.
The three women turned their gaze toward Beatrice, clearly taken aback. One of them, the daughter of Baron Ellamos, found her voice first, speaking louder in an attempt to cover her surprise.
“How rude of you. Calling us noisy out of nowhere.”
“What else should I call it if it’s noisy? Should I use a different word?” Beatrice replied coolly.
“You could at least be polite.”
“Judging by your behavior, you don’t seem particularly concerned with politeness yourselves.”
“What did you just say?” the baron’s daughter demanded.
“When sharing a space with others, you should lower your voices. You were so loud that even the knight waiting outside for my family must have overheard your conversation.”
Lady Natalia Philrope, who had been observing quietly, intervened, likely to support her friend. But she kept her tone measured, her gaze constantly assessing Beatrice.
“My apologies. It seems we got carried away while catching up,” Natalia said with a sweet smile.
“Lady Philrope!” protested the baron’s daughter, shocked by her friend’s sudden change in tone.
“Quiet. If another lady feels uncomfortable, an apology is the least we can offer.”
The baron’s daughter begrudgingly fell silent. Natalia, however, wasn’t done.
“Though, to be fair, some stories spread regardless of whether we discuss them. Certain individuals are just too infamous for their own good.”
Natalia’s eyes curved into an elegant smile as she shot Beatrice a pointed look. Sharp as she was, Natalia had realized that Beatrice’s comment wasn’t simply about the noise. She had intervened for Priscilla Lisart.
Her smile widened as she took in Beatrice’s demeanor, subtly appraising her.
It was an unfamiliar face, but her dress, jewelry, and makeup were all of the highest quality. Though her exact age was uncertain, she was clearly past her debutante years. Natalia surmised she belonged to a moderately wealthy but unremarkable family, considering her lack of recognition in capital society.
“I understand the courage behind your words, my lady,” Natalia said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “But one must know whom to defend and whom not to.”
She stopped scrutinizing Beatrice’s attire and finally met her gaze. The moment their eyes locked, Natalia hesitated.
There was no anger, no embarrassment—just a detached, emotionless stare, as though Natalia were an object to be assessed. It was enough to make Natalia’s brow furrow.
‘Who is this young lady?’ Natalia thought. She was certain she’d never seen her before. With a face like that, she’d remember if she had.
“And who might you be, my lady?”
As soon as Natalia spoke, something stirred in her memory. She didn’t know this face, but those golden eyes…
“I’m not inclined to introduce myself,” Beatrice replied dryly.
Her aloof response set off the viscount and baron’s daughters, who immediately cried out about her lack of manners.
Beatrice, indifferent to their indignation, turned her head slightly. Her gaze accidentally locked with Priscilla Lisart’s pale eyes. The marquess’s daughter, who had been flipping through her catalog in silence, was now openly staring at Beatrice.
“And who exactly are you, my lady?” demanded the baron’s daughter.
“Yes, where did you learn such rudeness?” added the viscount’s daughter.
While the two continued their tirade, Natalia Philrope’s mind was racing. Golden eyes—rich enough to appear bright yellow in dim light. The color was unmistakable, and everyone in the empire knew it.
But her mind struggled to connect it to the girl in front of her. After all, it couldn’t be. The only woman of this age in the Ember family was the Duchess herself. Natalia’s thoughts screeched to a halt as realization dawned.
Raising her hand, Natalia silenced the two chattering women.
“Ladies Cordelia Ellamos and Caroline Dillhert, you’ve gone too far. It’s unacceptable to speak so freely of another’s family.”
She smiled diplomatically, calming them before they could make the situation worse. Natalia needed to diffuse the tension quickly.
“I’ll apologize for my companions’ earlier words, but may I ask once more which family you belong to? I have a suspicion, though I can hardly believe it.”
“Do you suspect, my lady?” the viscount’s daughter asked. “Do you know who that rude woman is?”
“A little,” Natalia replied, her tone faintly amused. “But it’s surprising. To think someone like her belongs to such a distinguished family…”
“What sort of family could it possibly be?” the baron’s daughter interjected, the conversation unfolding like a poorly rehearsed play.
Beatrice found their theatrics tiresome. Her head tilted slightly as boredom set in. Behind her, Laura shifted anxiously, the faint sound of her shuffling feet audible, but Beatrice paid no mind. She was more focused on Priscilla Lisart, who continued to study her with an unreadable expression.
Beatrice deliberated how best to ensure the marquess’s daughter remembered her. She decided to stick to her strategy of emulating others. With a practiced movement, she lifted her lips into a radiant smile—a replica of Florianne’s signature expression.
Priscilla’s pale eyes widened slightly in surprise. At that moment, a knock broke the tension in the waiting room.
“Lady Ember, the Duchess has arrived,” announced a staff member.
“I’ll be going,” Beatrice said, rising gracefully from her seat.
Natalia, who had already deduced Beatrice’s identity, remained composed, but the other two women were visibly flustered. Their wide eyes and fidgeting movements were almost comical.
Priscilla, meanwhile, seemed entirely unaffected. Whether she had known Beatrice’s identity all along or simply didn’t care, she calmly set down her catalog.
“Until next time,” Beatrice said, glancing briefly at Priscilla before leaving the room.
Beatrice gently clasped the hem of her dress as she rose from the sofa and left the waiting room. Although her parting words had elicited reactions from the three other young ladies, the real recipient of her address had been Priscilla Lisart.
If Beatrice had been an ordinary noblewoman, she might have spent a sleepless night worrying about the conflict she had just initiated with a well-known figure from society. Instead, she dismissed it entirely, confident it would resolve itself without her involvement.
After all, Beatrice had Laura—an overly loyal maid who would undoubtedly relay every detail of the incident to the Duchess. Whatever actions were required, the Duchess would handle them. Though Natalia Philrope had proven herself cunning, she couldn’t have predicted how much Beatrice’s standing within the family had shifted recently.
Outside the waiting room, Agatha came into view. The head designer, Mme. Ballot, was at her side, fawning over her with the kind of enthusiasm reserved for only the wealthiest patrons.
This establishment, ‘Maledvi’, was renowned among young noblewomen but lacked the gravitas associated with the ateliers frequented by older ladies of high standing. Agatha’s presence here signified that her sole focus today was Beatrice.
When the appointment for the Ember family had come through, Ballot had been taken aback. The idea that the Duchess herself would grace her shop was surprising. While she had confidence in her designs, the prospect of meeting the discerning eye of someone as celebrated as the Duchess filled her with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.
Even more intriguing was the second name listed on the reservation: Beatrice Ember. The head designer narrowed her eyes at the unfamiliar name, quickly recalling the rumored illegitimate daughter of the Ember family—a reclusive figure she had heard about but never seen.
“Could it be the Ember family’s illegitimate daughter making her debut?” she muttered to herself.
Ballot shook her head to clear her thoughts. Speculating too much could lead to a careless misstep in front of the Duchess. Yet, a lingering curiosity remained. Perhaps this debut was a gesture of benevolence from the Duchess, who was reputed to be fair, if not warm-hearted.
But as the session unfolded, it became clear that the Duchess’s treatment of Beatrice was anything but detached.
“I’m sorry for arriving so late,” Agatha said warmly, smiling as her eyes met Beatrice’s. “I hope you weren’t bored.”
“I only just arrived myself,” Beatrice replied.
“Good, then let’s get started,” Agatha said, turning to Mme. Ballot. “I’d like to commission my daughter’s debutante dress.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Let us begin by selecting the design and taking measurements,” Ballot said, leading them to a private area.
Stacks of design books and fabric swatches were brought out as the process began. Agatha, ever attuned to trends, opened a book showcasing the season’s most fashionable styles. She pointed to a gown with an elegant off-shoulder neckline adorned with lace.
“What do you think of this one?” she asked Beatrice.
Beatrice tilted her head slightly instead of nodding.
“Don’t you like it?” Agatha pressed.
“It’s not that I dislike it, but I have a scar on my neck,” Beatrice replied nonchalantly.
The Duchess’s smile froze momentarily. She had no idea. Beatrice was so private, even refusing attendants during baths, that this was news to her. The memories of the abuse Beatrice had suffered under the separate staff flashed through her mind. Agatha clenched her hands discreetly, silently vowing she should have punished them more harshly.
Beatrice, oblivious to her stepmother’s inner turmoil, focused on the design books. To her, all the options seemed much the same. Her gaze eventually landed on a halter-neck style that covered the collarbone and neck.
“I like this one,” she said, pointing at the design.
Agatha studied the choice. “Don’t worry about the scar. Choose what you truly want to wear,” she said gently.
Beatrice looked at her stepmother, her unreadable expression unchanged. She understood that Agatha wanted her to embrace the debut with confidence, but her choice remained practical. Nevertheless, she nodded and selected a gown with minimal lace and a more structured silhouette.
The rest of the process was meticulous. They finalized the dress, chose complementary shoes, and selected jewelry. While Beatrice remained composed, the mental effort of focusing on something she had little interest in was exhausting.
Back at the mansion, Agatha observed Beatrice’s slightly wilted demeanor and chuckled softly. Laura, ever dutiful, escorted Beatrice back to her room, while Agatha turned to the butler.
“Send Felix to me as soon as he returns,” she ordered.
As she entered her study, a cold glint in her eyes hinted at the reprimand awaiting her younger son. Felix might not know it yet, but his behavior—and Beatrice’s subtle revelations—had sparked a storm that would not pass unnoticed.
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