My Bratty Wife
Chapter 214 - Two Hundred And Fourteen

Chapter 214: Chapter Two Hundred And Fourteen

Brook took a few steps further into the room, the scent of expensive perfume still lingering faintly in the air. He stopped a respectful distance from Evan, who had now settled back onto the plush velvet couch, one leg crossed casually over the other, the cigar held loosely between his fingers. The dim lamplight gleamed on Evan’s bare chest, highlighting the smooth lines of muscle. He looked utterly relaxed, yet his eyes, fixed on Brook, were sharp and expectant.

"My Lord," Brook began, his voice regaining its usual composure, though an undercurrent of excitement remained. "My investigations into Lord Byron have yielded... a significant finding. Lord Byron has murdered people before."

The statement hung in the air. Evan, who had just raised the cigar for another drag, froze mid-motion. He slowly lowered his hand, smoke trickling forgotten from the cigar’s tip. A look of profound disbelief crossed his face, quickly followed by a short, incredulous laugh.

"Murdered people? Byron?" Evan scoffed, shaking his head. "Don’t be absurd, Brook. Byron wouldn’t deliberately step on an insect. The man is timid, cautious to a fault. He flinches at loud noises, avoids confrontation at all costs, can’t even use a gun. That’s precisely why he attaches himself to Ryan – for protection, for reflected strength because he has none of his own." He leaned forward slightly, peering intently at his servant. "Are you absolutely certain of what you’re saying? Your source isn’t embellishing, or perhaps confusing Byron with someone else entirely?"

"My sources are reliable, My Lord," Brook insisted firmly, meeting Evan’s skeptical gaze. "The information is not a hundred percent accurate though and the official record tells a different story but I have a good explanation for it."

Evan leaned back again, taking a slow, deliberate drag from his cigar this time, letting the smoke curl out as he considered this unexpected, almost unbelievable, information. If true, it was a weapon far more potent than he could have hoped for. "Very well," he said, his voice smoother now, intrigued despite his disbelief. "Explain. And this explanation had better be convincing."

Brook nodded, gathering his thoughts. "It concerns an incident at a tavern called the ’Golden Goblet,’ My Lord. Happened a few weeks back. It’s located in a slightly less reputable part of the city, but known as a place where certain nobles conduct... discreet business. Or indulge in less public pleasures."

Evan waved a dismissive hand, impatient. "Get to the point, Brook."

"The morning after a particularly busy night," Brook continued, "the tavern owner’s wife arrived to look for her husband who didn’t come home and found... carnage, My Lord. Absolute carnage. The place was destroyed." Brook paused, his expression darkening as he recalled the details his source had provided. "Blood, My Lord. Everywhere. Soaked into the rough wooden floorboards, splattered high on the plaster walls, pooled beneath the overturned tables. Broken chairs, smashed tankards... bodies lying amidst the debris like slaughtered animals."

He described the scene carefully, his voice low. "There were at least a dozen dead. Patrons, serving wenches, the tavern owner. Most had been killed with brutal, close-contact violence – heavy blows, multiple stab wounds. Faces were battered, almost unrecognizable. It was clear there had been a fierce, desperate struggle." He added, "Their valuables were gone. Pockets turned inside out, rings ripped from fingers, purses cut from belts. The official investigation concluded swiftly: a gang of ruthless bandits, finding more resistance than expected, had slaughtered everyone inside during a robbery."

Evan listened, his initial skepticism warring with a growing interest. The brutality sounded typical of desperate thieves. "A tragic, albeit common, tale of city violence," Evan commented drily. "So, what does this gruesome scene have to do with the timid Byron?"

"Lord Byron was at the Golden Goblet that evening, My lord." Brook stated plainly. "He left perhaps an hour, maybe some minutes, before the estimated time of the massacre."

"Proximity is not involvement," Evan pointed out, tapping ash from his cigar into a nearby tray. "Many people came and went from such a place."

"True, My Lord," Brook conceded. "But my source, who had access to the initial constable reports before the investigation was... streamlined... noted a significant anomaly." He leaned forward slightly. "Amidst all the victims killed by blade but one man was different. A noble, known for lending money at exorbitant rates, was found slumped in a corner booth, away from the main chaos." Brook paused for effect. "He had been killed by a single, clean gunshot wound to his throat. A pistol shot. Entirely different from the savage methods used on everyone else."

Evan fell silent, processing this. A single gunshot amidst a brutal melee? That was an anomaly. It suggested a different killer, a different motive perhaps, hidden within the larger chaos.

"A gunshot," Evan murmured. "Interesting. Convenient, even, for someone wanting a specific target eliminated under the cover of random violence." He looked sharply at Brook. "But still, where is the proof linking this specific death, or any of it, to Byron?"

Brook hesitated. "That, My Lord, is the difficulty. There is no concrete proof directly tying Lord Byron to the shooting or the massacre. Nothing the constables found, anyway. The scene was chaos; any specific clues related to the gunshot victim could easily have been obscured or dismissed as part of the overall ’bandit’ attack." He met Evan’s gaze squarely.

"But the circumstances, My Lord – his presence shortly before, the targeted nature of the one shooting that deviates from the pattern... they are highly suspicious. We may not have proof now, but we can create it. We can build a narrative." He added pointedly, "Just as we constructed the narrative around Duke Ryan using those letters."

Evan let out a sigh, a mixture of frustration and calculation. "So, no convenient letters this time," he muttered. "No easily forged documents. Framing Byron requires manufacturing physical evidence, planting clues... more tedious, hands-on work." He drummed his fingers on the arm of the couch, his mind already working through the possibilities. The lack of solid proof was irritating, demanding more effort than he preferred, but the potential reward – eliminating Byron, isolating Ryan further – was tempting.

A slow, cold smile touched Evan’s lips. "Tedious, perhaps, but necessary. And potentially entertaining." He looked at Brook. "Very well. If proof is lacking, then we must acquire the materials for it. I think... yes, I shall pay Lord Byron a visit. A courtesy call, naturally. To express my deepest sympathies regarding Duke Ryan’s unfortunate predicament." His eyes gleamed with malicious amusement. "One can often acquire useful items during such sympathetic visits. A misplaced glove, perhaps. A handkerchief offered to dry feigned tears. Small things, easily planted later at the ’right’ location." He chuckled softly. "And it will provide a valuable opportunity to observe our timid Lord Byron. To offer a few choice words, perhaps hint at dark clouds gathering. See how he holds up under a little pressure."

Evan pushed himself up from the couch, stretching again. "Brook, your discovery is promising. Begin outlining the narrative – Byron, the secret killer hiding behind a meek facade, silencing a noble over a debt perhaps? Make it plausible. But while you work on that..." He paused, his expression becoming serious. "I need you to ensure Plan B is fully prepared. Ready to be activated instantly, should this Byron situation prove too troublesome, or should another... opportunity arise."

He didn’t elaborate on Plan B, leaving Brook to understand the unspoken need for contingencies. Evan walked over to the heavy marble ashtray on a nearby stand and deliberately, almost ritually, stubbed out his cigar, grinding the embers into dust.

"Now," he commanded, turning back to Brook, his tone shifting back to one of imperious command. "Call one of the maids. Tell her to draw my bath immediately. Use the cypress and sandalwood oils – the expensive ones." He cast a confident glance around the luxurious room, a picture of arrogant self-assurance. "It won’t be long now, Brook. My hard work will finally pay off, my rightful titles and estates restored, Cassandra by my side as I break her determined spirit little by little, oh won’t that be fun. All these petty annoyances – Ryan’s stubbornness, Byron’s pathetic loyalty, Thorne’s disappearance – they are merely bumps on the road." His smile widened, cold and sharp. "Soon, they will all be smoothed over. Ryan and Byron will be out of the way, then all will be given to be as a gift for risking my life serving the throne." He started towards the door leading to his private bathing chamber, leaving Brook standing alone in the large room, the weight of his master’s dangerous plans settling heavily upon him.

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