To the Traitor in My Bed - Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This work is inspired by Emmuska Orczy’s The Scarlet Pimpernel.

Chapter 1: Perhaps My Husband

The occasion was a horse from Parslan that her brother Dorian had sent as a gift. The horse, with its beautiful dark brown mane and a white star-shaped mark on its forehead, was named Parth. As the rumors had suggested, the exotic horse was incredibly wild. There was only one way to tame such a horse.

Deirdre, remembering what Dorian had taught her long ago, tried to mount the horse in one swift movement to subdue the animal. Rather than “mounting,” she barely climbed on without losing her dignity.

As expected—no, even more than expected—Parth began to buck wildly. The groom holding the reins panicked and let go of them. Even as Deirdre tightly gripped the reins, she thought the horse would soon throw her to the ground.

At that moment, her husband descended into the courtyard, speaking with the butler about something. Before long, he spotted his wife clinging to the neck of the unfamiliar horse. Deirdre expected him to call for his aide, but once again, her expectations were wrong.

The man, his face as pale as a ghost, sprinted towards Parth and yanked on the reins. Without giving the horse or his wife time to react, he leaped onto the horse’s back in a single fluid motion.

“Stay still!” he shouted, and, miraculously, Parth calmed down.

It was as if the horse had never resisted in the first place. Deirdre couldn’t believe it.

“Frederick, I… I thought you couldn’t ride.”

Finally, the handsome, elegant man let go of the reins, looking slightly surprised or perhaps sheepish. Parth, still motionless as though it were a comfortable armchair, stood in place.

“I had to learn. How else would I have graduated from the Academy?”

Horsemanship was a compulsory skill for any nobleman from Antwerp. Occasionally, women would learn it for their own refinement as well. Deirdre had mastered all the refined arts of a lady to a considerable degree. She remembered vividly when she had once suggested they ride together. Her husband had firmly declined, saying he had only ridden in carriages since breaking his arm in a fall.

But it wasn’t just that one thing that made the man she had lived with for two years suddenly suspicious. The way he effortlessly handled the horse, as though he had been the rider from Parslan, was enough to amplify her doubts.

“…Lady Rochefolley.”

Deirdre snapped out of her thoughts when Marchioness Campbell called her name for the second time.

“Lady Rochefolley?”

“Yes, what is it?” Deirdre smiled as she replied.

The marchioness asked, “Oh dear, Countess, what has you so lost in thought?”

The marchioness turned her head to follow Deirdre’s gaze. Of course, the Earl of Fairchild was there. The richest man in the kingdom, the darling of Swinton’s social circles, the master of the vast Rochefolley winter woods, and bearer of countless other titles—like gems adorning his splendid waistcoat.

That dazzling man was none other than Deirdre’s husband, Frederick Fairchild.

Marchioness Campbell’s eyes twinkled mischievously. She was a lively and sociable woman, who had recently hosted her eldest daughter’s engagement, a topic that had captured Deirdre’s attention during their conversation.

Refocusing on the discussion, Deirdre asked, “The wedding will be in Randike, right? When is it?”

“Next June. You simply must attend with your husband. No, should I just get a confirmation now?”

The marchioness folded her feathered fan and held it up to her right eye.

Seeing this, the Earl of Fairchild said something to the men with him and began walking toward the two women. His tall, lean figure was impossible to miss. Even the splint on his arm from his recent carriage injury seemed to suit him perfectly.

Several men, seizing the opportunity to speak to the beautiful countess, joined the earl.

By the time the young earl reached the two ladies, a tight circle had formed around them.

“You called for me, Lady Randike?” the Earl of Fairchild asked politely, a smile in his soft eyes to match his voice.

When he spoke like that, few women could resist. Blushing like a girl, the marchioness asked, “My lord, I assume you’ve heard of my Rosina’s engagement? I was just asking the countess to attend the wedding.”

“I just heard about it. But who is the lucky groom?”

“Ah, the second son of the Cotnam family.”

The Cotnam Earldom was a prestigious family that had produced many high-ranking officers, which meant they were staunch royalists. Those who were momentarily put off by that fact skillfully hid their feelings.

Though Earl Fairchild was also a royalist, there were few who resented him, thanks to his wealth, beauty, fame, and more precisely, the fact that half the nobles in Swinton were indebted to him.

Those who openly expressed disdain for the royalists would have to stop attending the capital’s soirées, like Deirdre’s brother did.

One of the men following the earl exaggeratedly agreed with the marchioness. “An engagement to the Campbell family, what wonderful news for the Cotnam family. Especially in times like these…”

The young earl’s face briefly showed confusion. “An engagement announcement is good news no matter the time of year, isn’t it?”

The onlookers exchanged glances. The marchioness wasn’t oblivious; she suspected what the gossipmonger was about to say and stiffened.

“Lord Rochefolley, as someone at the center of Swinton’s social circles, are you not aware? Recently, the Viscount of Cotnam was publicly humiliated… by the ‘White Rose Brigade.'”

The last part was whispered, but everyone heard it clearly.

The ‘Viscount of Cotnam’ was the older brother of the young man who was to be wed. As a captain in the gendarmerie, he had been at the forefront of dealing with the enemies of the crown. But just a week ago, a group of anti-government militants had successfully broken a political prisoner out of Stone Shield—a fortress renowned for its impenetrability—right under his nose.

The incident had led to the captain being placed under house arrest. Otherwise, the ambitious officer would surely have attended the soirée, where all the important nobles of Swinton were gathered.

“The Viscount of Cotnam…,” the Earl of Fairchild muttered. His tone was so indifferent that one might think he had never heard of the man.

However, he had. After all, Captain Cotnam was the man Deirdre had nearly married before becoming his wife.

Deirdre guessed that her husband had forgotten about this. In truth, he was the type of man who paid little attention to things that would trouble others.

Marchioness Campbell quickly came to her soon-to-be in-law’s defense. “But how is any of this the viscount’s fault? From what I hear, the White Rose Brigade is made up entirely of foreign mercenaries and criminals. When those scoundrels set their minds to it, they could deceive anyone.”

“Oh no, marchioness. If it were truly only foreigners and criminals, the gendarmerie would have never allowed such a daring prison break to happen. That brigade must be trained professionals. The rumors may be true—they could very well be Freuden spies. There have been multiple reports of a man with a Freuden accent leading the group. Even the name, ‘White Rose,’ makes sense, doesn’t it?”

Someone rebutted the marchioness.

Though such topics were forbidden at royal gatherings, it didn’t stop people from gossiping about secret societies. And the more the matter was suppressed, the more widespread it became.

Earl Fairchild had no interest in such troublesome topics, and Deirdre pretended not to be interested, keeping her ears open while her gaze wandered elsewhere.

That’s why she was the first to notice Rosina Campbell, the star of the happy engagement, quietly approaching.

The others, who belatedly noticed the marchioness’s daughter, began offering their congratulations.

With a pleased nod, Rosina subtly asked, “So… who was that political prisoner the brigade helped escape?”

“Rosina, you shouldn’t concern yourself with such things.”

The marchioness admonished her daughter. Rosina, who had made her social debut just last year, was a docile young lady. It was always deemed inappropriate for such young ladies to discuss politics openly, especially in a time when the royalists and parliamentarians were clashing behind the scenes.

Rosina lowered her eyes.

Just then, the orchestra began playing a waltz, and the crowd dispersed. The Earl of Fairchild invited the marchioness’s daughter to dance.

“Lord Rochefolley, is your arm okay?”

“Oh, of course, of course. I must celebrate Lady Rosina’s engagement!” the earl cheerfully removed his splint.

Deirdre was invited to dance by the very man who had brought up the topic. As he led her onto the floor, she whispered into Rosina’s ear, “It was Viscount Ian Denel.”

That was the name on everyone’s lips before Rosina had arrived. Rosina’s pink cheeks turned white.

“…Thank you, Lady Rochefolley,” Rosina whispered back. Deirdre nearly missed her first step, distracted by how quickly the young lady had paled.

“Are you alright?” her partner asked. She smiled and nodded. Yet even then, Deirdre’s eyes followed her husband’s slender figure.

The Earl of Rochefolley, Frederick Fairchild, was a man with buttery blond hair and silver-gray eyes. His delicate features and sculpted face made those colors even more refined.

The languid expression that often adorned his face gave him an air of calm. That same calm, which made the rich look richer, drew businessmen and debtors to him like magnets. As a result, the Fairchild family now possessed assets worth at least thirty times more than during the previous earl’s time.

Much of that wealth was lavishly spent on himself and his wife. Dancing with Rosina in a silver evening coat tailored by the continent’s best tailor, the young man looked as though he had been born for this. The coat, which would have looked ridiculous on anyone less handsome, suited him perfectly. Deirdre knew well that the hands beneath his white deerskin gloves had never held anything rougher than a gentleman’s cane.

Her husband was undoubtedly the finest gentleman in the kingdom.

Deirdre sighed softly.

“Deirdre.”

At some point, the song changed, and that same gloved hand extended toward her. She hesitated before taking it.

The guests retreated to the edges of the ballroom, eager to watch the earl and countess share the final dance of the evening.

Deirdre only had eyes for the earl, but the crowd saw both of them. Particularly the men, who couldn’t tear their gaze away from the countess’s face—her delicate brow, her proud nose, her cheeks flushed like a young girl’s, and her light blue eyes that seemed to belong to a classical statue. Her loosely tied brown hair was a hallmark of southern beauty.

In truth, the Earl and Countess Fairchild were the perfect couple, adored and envied by all of society.

Frederick Fairchild was the loyal servant of a tyrant who had killed two brothers to seize the throne, a man so cowardly he had hired mercenaries to fight in his place during the Antwerp-Freuden war, a man who had publicly taken a mistress before marrying the marchioness’s daughter. But no one truly faulted him for it. In Antwerp, serving the brutal King Christian required a certain amount of cowardice.

‘But… what if my husband is a traitor?’

Deirdre moved mechanically.

Unaware of his wife’s suspicions, the earl leaned toward her. “Deirdre, about Dorian’s banquet next week…”

“Oh, I’m not going to the banquet,” she impulsively interrupted.

Then, coldly, she threw her next words at her startled husband.

“I’m returning to Rochefolley. Alone.”