My Bratty Wife
Chapter 217 - Two Hundred And Seventeen

Chapter 217: Chapter Two Hundred And Seventeen

The accusation hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating. "You sent a spy into your own brother’s household." Evan’s voice, usually dripping with amused condescension, had been sharp with astonished, delighted comprehension. He clearly thought he had cornered Byron, exposed a deep betrayal.

Byron, however, offered no immediate denial, no outraged defense. Instead, a chilling stillness settled over him. He turned slowly, his gaze shifting from the triumphant Evan to his aide, who stood ramrod straight, his expression unreadable.

"Elias," Byron said as he stood up from his seat, his voice remarkably even, almost casual, "be a good fellow and fetch the amber drink from my bedchamber. The decanter on the side table. I have a feeling Lord Evan’s enlightening visit may extend longer than he initially planned."

Elias simply inclined his head. "At once, My Lord." He moved silently, his footsteps barely making a sound on the polished wooden floor as he exited the study, closing the door softly behind him.

Evan stared, his mouth slightly agape. The sheer audacity of Byron, to request refreshments in the face of such a damning accusation, was baffling. It was as if they were discussing the weather, not an act of profound treachery. This calm, this utter lack of agitation, was more unsettling than any outburst would have been.

"So," Evan finally managed, his mind racing, trying to reconcile the man he thought he knew – Ryan’s overshadowed, somewhat passive ’brother’ – with this composed figure. The spy accusation was significant, but perhaps it was a symptom of something far darker. His thoughts latched onto the whispers his aide had been chasing, the shadows surrounding the Golden Goblet. "The spy... it almost pales in comparison, doesn’t it? To your other... activities."

He watched Byron for any flicker of reaction, any tell. There was none.

"So you were really behind the Golden Goblet incident?" Evan pressed, his voice regaining some of its characteristic sneer, though an undercurrent of disbelief remained. "You, Byron? You orchestrated the massacre of a tavern full of people? Nobles and Commoners true, but still... quite the body count. Interesting."

Byron remained calm, his posture relaxed, yet there was an undeniable tension coiling beneath the surface. He walked to front of his large mahogany desk, the movement unhurried, deliberate. He didn’t sit, but rather leaned against it, facing Evan. "An interesting accusation, Evan. But that’s all it is, isn’t it? An accusation. What proof do you have?" His voice was soft, dangerously so.

Evan scoffed, a short, sharp sound of contempt. He felt his confidence returning. Byron was bluffing, trying to play it cool. "Proof?" He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "My dear Byron, for a man of your... unfortunate parentage... a dirty blood lurking in the under the name of the Blackwood family, I don’t need concrete proof to throw someone like you into the darkest, most forgotten cell in the King’s prison. Or better yet," Evan’s eyes glinted with malice, "to arrange a quiet, unfortunate accident. Or perhaps a more public spectacle... your execution for treason, for destabilizing the peace. Killing a tavern full of people certainly qualifies as a threat to public order."

A change came over Byron then. It was subtle at first, a slight upturn at the corners of his lips, but it spread, transforming his usually somber expression into something entirely new. A smile. It was a wide, terrifying smile, devoid of any warmth, any humor. It was the smile of a predator that had just heard its prey boast of its own cleverness in walking into a trap.

Evan, for all his arrogance, felt a sudden, visceral jolt. He was taken aback, a prickle of unease tracing its way down his spine. He had never seen Byron smile like that. Byron’s smiles were rare, usually reserved for moments with Ryan, and even then, they were typically subdued, tinged with a hint of melancholy. This was something else entirely. This was predatory.

"Since you are so adamant on framing me, Evan," Byron said, his voice still deceptively mild, yet underscored by that chilling smile, "what other charges do you intend on adding to your list? Do be thorough. I wouldn’t want you to miss anything."

There was something in the cadence of Byron’s question, in the unholy amusement dancing in his eyes, that sent a genuine shiver of fear through Evan. It wasn’t just the words; it was the absolute confidence, the utter lack of fear from a man he had expected to crumble. For the first time, sitting in Byron’s study, Evan felt a tremor of true fear. He saw not just a cornered nobleman, but something far more dangerous glinting in Byron’s eyes – the detached coldness of a killer.

A horrifying thought slammed into Evan’s mind with the force of a physical blow. The Golden Goblet massacre... it had happened some months ago. An unsolved butchery, the city guard left baffled, no credible suspects ever found despite the outcry. He, Evan, had attempted to use it as a convenient, unsubstantiated threat, a way to apply pressure. But now, looking at Byron’s unnerving smile, hearing that challenge... He realized with a sickening lurch that he might have stumbled, with monumental foolishness, right into the path of the very culprit he was idly accusing. He hadn’t just poked a bear; he had brazenly walked into the den of a wolf, mistaking it for a sheep.

"Why?" The question escaped Evan’s lips before he could stop it, a mere whisper. It was a question born not of accusation or morality but of a dawning, horrified understanding. Why would Byron, the quiet, unassuming Lord, be capable of such a thing?

Just then, the study door opened, and Elias re-entered, carrying a silver tray. On it sat a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid and two glasses. The clinking of the crystal was unnaturally loud in the charged silence. Elias, with his usual impassivity, set the tray down on a low table near Evan’s armchair. He uncorked the decanter and poured a generous measure of whiskey into each glass without touching them.

"Thank you, Elias," Byron said, his terrifying smile receding slightly, though the coldness in his eyes remained. He pushed himself off the desk and walked towards the glasses. He picked one up, swirling the contents, the rich aroma of aged whiskey subtly perfuming the air. "That will be all for now."

Elias bowed and retreated, as silent and unobtrusive as ever.

Byron took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving Evan. "Would you care for a cigar to accompany your drink, Evan?" he asked, his tone now almost conversational, the menace veiled but still palpable. "I recall you have a particular fondness for the ones imported from the Southern Isles. I believe I have a fresh packet." He gestured vaguely towards a humidor on his desk.

Evan ignored the offer, his mind still reeling from his sudden, terrifying epiphany. He picked up the drink, swirled it and dropped it, looking for any trace of poison. The whiskey sat untouched before him. He couldn’t reconcile the image of Byron, the murderer, with the man he thought he knew. But the eyes... those eyes held a chilling certainty.

Byron noted Evan’s silence and the ignored drink. He let out a soft sigh, as if disappointed by a guest’s poor manners. He dropped the pretense of offering cigars and took another thoughtful sip of his whiskey, walking back to his seat.

"You asked why," Byron said, his voice returning to that low, dangerous timbre. He looked directly at Evan, his gaze piercing. Then, he uttered a single, damning phrase, a world of contempt and justification packed into five simple words: "Because of people like you." Then his expression changed " You all killed her." He spoke with utter contempt.

The words hung in the air, an indictment and a confession all in one. People like Evan – arrogant, corrupt, those who believed themselves above consequence, who wielded their power like a club.

Evan’s innate arrogance, momentarily stunned, began to reassert itself, a desperate defense against the fear that threatened to engulf him. He straightened his coat, wipe off the sweat that trickled down his face, his expression hardening. "Then I don’t need to frame you, do I?" he retorted, his voice regaining some of its familiar hauteur. "You seem quite capable of incriminating yourself, Byron. Perhaps my visit has been more... productive than I imagined." He pushed himself up from the armchair, a renewed sense of purpose in his movement. He would leave, gather his resources, and ensure Byron paid. He had a confession, or near enough.

He took a step towards the door, intending to make a grand exit, to show he was still in control of this encounter.

" It’s a pity, Brook won’t be able to present his findings today," Byron said conversationally, his voice stopping Evan dead in his tracks. Evan could almost feel the words, like invisible threads, yanking him back.

Evan turned slowly, his distance already halfway to the doorknob. Every trace of his regained composure vanished, replaced by a wide-eyed, stark shock. His face paled, and his mouth opened slightly as if to speak, but no sound emerged.

Brook, the one he had tasked with digging up any irrefutable link between Byron and the Golden Goblet, or anything else that could be used to destroy him and Ryan. Brook was supposed to deliver his final report today to the palace, a report Evan had been eagerly anticipating, one he believed would contain the final nail for Byron’s coffin. That was his plan B.

Byron watched him, a faint, knowing curl to his lips. He took another leisurely sip of his whiskey, the very picture of a man holding all the cards. The air crackled, Evan’s shock a palpable thing in the quiet study.