My Bratty Wife
Chapter 239 - Two Hundred And Thirty Nine

Chapter 239: Chapter Two Hundred And Thirty Nine

The early morning sun cast long shadows across the newly acquired creek parcel, where the rhythmic clang of hammers and the shouts of workmen already filled the air. Lord Byron stood on a slight rise, his booted feet planted firmly on the damp earth, surveying the burgeoning foundations of what was to be a formidable new Tarvan – The Golden Stag, he’d decided to call it, a defiant nod to his plan as a decoy for transporting illegal procurements. He wore practical, dark riding clothes, but his aristocratic bearing was undiminished as he issued instructions to the head stonemason.

"The east wing foundations, Mister Gibbs," Byron was saying, his voice crisp and authoritative as he pointed with a riding crop towards a section of newly laid stone, "I want them extended by another ten feet. The plans have been revised. And ensure the granite quoins are perfectly aligned. I will tolerate no sloppiness on this project."

Mister Gibbs nodded. "As you say, My Lord. Ten feet it is. And the quoins will be as straight as an arrow, you have my word." He hesitated. "It will require more stone than initially quoted, My Lord."

"Procure it," Byron said dismissively.

"Expense is secondary to perfection in this instance. This Tarvan is not merely a dwelling, Gibbs ; it is a statement. It will stand for centuries." He continued, overlooking the creek he now largely controlled.

As Mister Gibbs moved off to instruct his men, Elias approached, his footsteps silent on the turf. He had been observing from a discreet distance.

"My Lord," Elias greeted, his voice a low murmur. "I have just returned from the Duke’s Castle. There is news spreading through the servants’ gossip."

Byron turned, his expression unreadable. "And what is this news that has the scullery maids aflutter, Elias?" he asked, a hint of dry sarcasm in his tone.

"Her Grace, the Duchess Cassandra, is with child, My Lord," Elias replied, his gaze steady.

Byron’s eyebrows rose fractionally. "With child?" he repeated, the word tasting strange on his tongue. A child. An heir for Ryan. He considered this for a moment, his mind coolly assessing the new variable. "Interesting."

"Will this... development... disrupt your plans, My Lord?" Elias asked, his loyalty steady, ready to adapt to any new strategy his master devised.

Byron waved a dismissive hand. "It’s fine. It doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things." His eyes hardened. "A child, not a child – it changes nothing fundamental. She still has to go. I cannot, will not, have anyone interfering with the final act.

He then changed the subject, his thoughts shifting to another persistent problem. "And what of our elusive Commander Thorne? Any further word on his whereabouts?"

Elias shook his head. "He remains a ghost, My Lord. One minute my sources report a sighting near the western area, the next he’s supposedly been seen near the coast, asking questions about shipping routes. He seems to be deliberately covering his tracks, moving erratically."

Byron let out a short, almost appreciative chuckle. "That’s precisely why he’s the King’s most valued investigator, isn’t it? He’s remarkably good at his craft. Elusive, thorough, and," he added, a note of grudging admiration in his voice, "the fact that he appears to have no close family, no vices I can discern, no one I can use to lure him out into the open... it’s rather impressive, in its own irritating way. But continue the surveillance, Elias. Be on the lookout. He will make a mistake eventually, or Ryan will lead us to him."

Elias bowed. "Of course, My Lord." He paused, then his tone softened almost imperceptibly. "My Lord, if I may be so bold... are you intending to visit your mother’s grave today? It is... that time of the year." He knew the significance of the date.

Byron sighed, a rare sound of weariness escaping him. The cool, calculating mask he usually wore seemed to slip for a moment, revealing a flicker of something deeper, something akin to sorrow. "Yes, Elias," he said quietly. "I believe it is." He looked out over the bustling construction site, then back at his aide. He clapped Elias lightly on the shoulder. "Keep up the good work here. Ensure everything proceeds as planned."

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Later that day, as the sun began its slow descent, casting long, mournful shadows, Byron stood alone in a quiet, secluded corner of an old, slightly neglected churchyard several miles from his city residence. This was where his mother lay buried. Not in the grand Carleton family grounds, but here, amongst her own people, a small, weather-beaten headstone marking her final resting place.

He carried a simple bouquet of freshly picked wildflowers and roses – blues and purples, her favorite colors – gathered from the fields near the Creek land, and a dark bottle of strong, potent wine. He knelt, clearing away a few stray leaves from the inscription on the stone, his gloved fingers tracing the faded letters of her name. He placed the flowers gently at the base of the headstone, then uncorked the wine bottle with a grimace, the strong fumes momentarily stinging his nostrils.

"I’m back again, Mother," he said softly, his voice a low murmur that seemed to be swallowed by the quiet stillness of the graveyard. He settled himself on the damp grass opposite her grave, leaning back against the trunk of an old yew tree. The air was cool, smelling of earth and old stone.

He took a long, deep gulp from the bottle of wine, the fiery liquid burning its way down his throat. "It’s done, Mother," he continued, his gaze fixed on the headstone. "I have murdered them all. Every last one of those who wronged you, who slighted you, who drove you to an early grave with their contempt and their foolishness." His voice was flat, devoid of triumph, filled only with a hollow sort of finality. "Earl Crowley , Lord Collin, Duke Charles, that pompous fool Count Edmund ... all of them. Gone. I know you won’t be able to meet them where you are, because they are undoubtedly in hell, every single one of them."

Another large swallow of wine. The alcohol was beginning to numb the present ache in his soul, the one that only quieted when he was deep in his study or here, in her silent company.

"With them gone, I know you will finally be able to rest in peace," he murmured, his eyes tracing the outline of a carved raven on the headstone, the Blackwood sigil.

"Your name is cleared in my heart, if not in the world’s eyes. Your honor is restored." He paused, the silence stretching. "There are just... a few loose ends to tie up now. That troublesome investigator, Thorne. And then... Cassandra. And perhaps even Ryan himself, if he proves too much of an obstacle to the future I envision."

He took another gulp, the wine nearly half gone. A profound weariness settled over him, a sorrow that was as deep and constant as the roots of the old yew he leaned against. "Once it’s all truly finished," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "then... then I might finally come to meet you, Mother, if life permits such a reunion. Or perhaps," he looked around the quiet churchyard, a bleakness in his eyes, "perhaps I will simply stay here, in this world you were forced to leave too soon, and do my best to keep your memories alive."

He raised the bottle in a silent, solitary toast to the weathered stone, the wind sighing through the trees like a mournful response. The setting sun painted the sky in strokes of blood-red and deep purple, and Byron sat alone with his ghosts, his grief, and the cold, unyielding purpose that had become the sole compass of his life.