Lady Class - Chapter 44

At the mention of the Duke of Lascarton, Bowil’s ears perked up.

Despite the humiliation he had suffered at the villa, this was a man he could not afford to ignore. The weight of that name was too significant.

Sensing Bowil’s interest, the club owner locked eyes with him and proposed an opportunity.

“The Duke is currently seeking investment opportunities. I can arrange a meeting for you. Would you be interested?”

Bowil’s eyes gleamed.

The club owner, satisfied with the response, excused himself to smooth things over with the Duke, while Bowil changed into a fresh set of clothes with the assistance of a female attendant.

Guided to a private room, Bowil found himself face-to-face with Kahn, the Duke of Lascarton.

The club owner whispered something to Kahn before nodding discreetly to Bowil, signaling that the discussion had been well received.

Kahn, surprisingly, greeted Bowil with warmth—as if the events at the villa had left no hard feelings.

“Well, well, Bowil Solomon. Fancy seeing you in a place like this. I must thank you for last time.”

“It was my honor to be of assistance.”

“I hear the Solomon family’s trading fleet is quite impressive. Have you completed your investment round?”

“Word has spread quickly. We’ve been receiving discreet inquiries from interested investors. If Your Grace is interested, I would be happy to discuss it with my father.”

“Good. However, Solomon—just listening to business talk is a bit dull, don’t you think?”

There was a subtle undertone to Kahn’s voice, one that made Bowil tilt his head in curiosity.

“…I’m not sure I follow.”

Kahn slowly interlaced his fingers, rubbing them together as if recalling a distant memory.

“What was it called again…? Grace? Talent?”

“Ah.”

Bowil’s smirk deepened.

So this is what he was after.

Suppressing his excitement, he reached into his inner pocket, retrieving a small case and flipping open the lid before offering it to Kahn.

It was identical to the one Kahn had received at the tailor’s shop—the so-called “Talent” (Dallant).

“Would you care for one? I’ve been taking them myself lately as a recovery supplement.”

Kahn plucked a pill from the case, watching as Bowil popped one into his mouth and savored it.

Soon, Bowil’s eyes clouded slightly, his previously tense posture relaxing.

“Well then, I’d love to hear more about your business.”

“How familiar are you with goods from the East?”

Bowil, emboldened, launched into a boastful explanation about his family’s trade routes.

He wasn’t particularly knowledgeable about business, but he had picked up enough from his father to sound convincing.

Boasting could always be turned into truth later.

Completely unaware of the sharp, calculating gaze fixed upon him, Bowil continued speaking with growing enthusiasm.

***

Since they were soon to become family, Lady Solomon had extended an invitation to Rackley and Rowinda to attend her tea gathering.

Though Rackley had managed the Winner estate for years, she had never been fully accepted by the noblewomen. This was her first official invitation to Lady Solomon’s gathering.

She had attended the Rose Philanthropy Society in honor of her mother’s wishes, but even there, she had faced the unspoken hierarchy of the noblewomen.

To Rackley, aristocratic women’s gatherings were synonymous with scrutiny and silent battles. She had attended as few as possible over the years.

The tea party was a gathering of ten ladies, including a familiar face—the Marchioness of Awyren, a senior member of the Rose Philanthropy Society.

Since it was a gathering strictly for ladies, Irina was not in attendance.

The Marchioness of Awyren sat at the seat of honor, right beside Lady Solomon—a clear sign that she held considerable influence in this circle.

Rackley and Rowinda had arrived precisely on time, yet upon entering, they realized that everyone else was already there and engaged in lively conversation.

Despite being on time, they had been made to look as if they were late.

Lady Solomon greeted them gracefully.

“Welcome. We were just discussing the upcoming charity bazaar for the Melrotz Orphanage, which will be hosted by the Marchioness.”

“Thank you for the invitation. Marchioness, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Lady Solomon, let us continue.”

Rowinda had greeted the Marchioness politely, but the older woman barely acknowledged her, instead urging Lady Solomon to resume the discussion.

Rackley, however, found herself oddly comforted by the Marchioness’s familiar coldness.

She knew that, despite her distant demeanor, the Marchioness had a hidden kindness.

Rackley had once seen her ignore a stranded traveler in the rain, only to later send a carriage to pick them up and bring them home.

Today, however, the Marchioness refused to even meet Rackley’s gaze.

“I will be baking cookies for the Melrotz Orphanage Bazaar myself.”

Seated next to Lady Solomon, opposite the Marchioness of Awyren, Rowinda excitedly began speaking without even being asked.

“Oh my, what an important role you’ve taken on.”

“Yes, how admirable. To already be participating in such things.”

The noblewomen laughed softly, their words dripping with sarcasm, echoing Rowinda’s enthusiasm with veiled mockery.

Rackley swallowed a sigh.

The Rose Philanthropy Society was a small organization, meaning there weren’t many members. Leading a charity bazaar required gathering supporters, soliciting donations, and organizing events—yet Rackley had been relegated to merely selling cookies. It was a clear sign that her contributions weren’t being recognized.

Rowinda, oblivious to the subtle ridicule, simply basked in the moment, excited.

As Rackley quietly sipped her tea, Lady Solomon smiled at her and spoke.

“My dear, since you’ll soon be part of our family, I invited you here to help you get accustomed to the social atmosphere.”

“Managing a household is important, of course, but that’s the servants’ job. We ladies have other responsibilities.”

“Exactly. That’s what staff is for. Pay them a salary, and they’ll handle everything.”

The women laughed, using the impoverished state of the Winner estate as an excuse to mock her.

And Lady Solomon, instead of moderating the conversation, actively encouraged it.

“Lady Rackley, you should apologize to these women—in front of everyone here—for promising to lead a more respectable life.”

This had been their true reason for inviting her.

They wanted to completely humiliate her, to break her spirit, and make her obedient.

Even Rowinda did not come to her defense.

“Yes, Rackley. Look at how generously the ladies are accepting you. You should show them that you’ve truly changed.”

The weight of their stares pressed against her, sharp as daggers.

It felt as though they were stripping off her dress and shoving her into the streets.

Rackley’s throat tightened. She couldn’t even swallow her own saliva.

Her mind went blank.

A scene from a book she had once read flashed in her mind—

A lone traveler, standing before an endless desert, with no place to hide, no food to stave off hunger, no water to sustain life.

“This is true. Lady Rackley does not belong in this gathering.”

The Marchioness of Awyren’s cold voice snapped Rackley back to reality.

She felt as weak and hollow as someone who had just risen from a month-long illness—yet no one in the room felt even a sliver of concern for her.

Lady Solomon smiled subtly, satisfied that the Marchioness was reinforcing her stance.

Then, the Marchioness stood up.

She did nothing but stand, yet the entire room stiffened, the ladies averting their eyes.

“The rumors surrounding Lady Winner have been nothing short of appalling. She does not belong here.”

“Marchioness, I believe Lady Rackley has understood the message by now.”

“No, she needs to understand properly. Some of the women here have had four secret lovers or entertained actors in their estates—and yet, Lady Winner dares think she can be ostracized for something as minor as her rumors? Absurd.”

Silence suffocated the room.

“I, too, am clearly not suited for this gathering. Lady Solomon, please refrain from sending me another invitation in the future.”

A few of the ladies turned pale, their gazes darting toward the ground.

“L-Lady Marchioness? What are you saying…?”

Lady Solomon’s voice wavered, but the Marchioness ignored her, her gaze sharpening as she scanned the room—and then she landed on her next target.

“Rowinda.”

“Y-yes?”

Rowinda stiffened, her back going rigid like a student caught misbehaving before a strict tutor.

“I told you before, at a past gathering, that the Rose Philanthropy Society was founded by Lady Rackley’s mother, the esteemed Vanessa Winner—who was once awarded the title of ‘Lady of the Year’ by the Queen herself.”

“L-Lady Marchioness! That’s—”

Rowinda frantically raised her voice, trying to stop the conversation, but the Marchioness of Awyren ignored her.

“I specifically told you—since the Countess does not qualify for membership, Lady Rackley should be the one representing the Winner family in the Rose Philanthropy Society. Did you not pass along that message?”

“…Ugh…”

Rowinda’s face turned bright red as she bit her lip and lowered her head.

The Marchioness then turned to Rackley.

Her gaze was as stern as winter, yet beneath it, there was warmth—like the first hint of spring.

“Lady Rackley.”

“Yes.”

“Is your health better now?”

“Yes, thanks to your concern, I’ve recovered a great deal.”

Rackley had pretended to be unwell so that Rowinda could attend the Rose Philanthropy Society in her place, following the Count’s orders.

“I see. The charity bazaar is approaching, so I trust you’ll be attending our next meeting. We’re already short on hands, and you mustn’t skip any more.”

A lump formed in Rackley’s throat, and her chest grew warm.

She fought back the tears that threatened to rise.

Looking straight at the Marchioness, she gave a slight bow in gratitude.

“Yes, I will attend next time.”

“Good. Since the meeting is over, I will take my leave now.”

Without waiting for the host to officially conclude the gathering, the Marchioness ended it herself.

The moment she left, Lady Solomon abandoned her role as host, claiming she wasn’t feeling well, and disappeared upstairs.

The other ladies, visibly uneasy, suddenly remembered their “urgent matters” and hurried to leave the Solomon estate.

Rowinda, too ashamed to lift her head, fled first, rushing into her carriage without looking back.

Rackley stood in the entryway, waiting for her hired carriage to arrive.

She gazed up at the sky.

A clear summer blue, without a single wisp of cloud in sight.

Just like her heart felt now.

***

After leaving the Solomon estate, Rackley went to the post office to retrieve a letter from Maggie via her private P.O. box.

It was too risky to have letters from the Southern Villa delivered to her home.

The reply confirmed that the villa where she had stayed was Harverden Villa, and that the gigolo she had been with had never been seen before.

But business was business.

The matter of that incident was one thing—her pickling business was another.

She set aside her emotions and wrote back, seeking business advice about pickled goods.

By the time she returned home, however—

What awaited her was not a quiet evening—

But Count Winner’s thunderous roar.