For a woman who’d just been dropped into a new world, Elena Chen was adjusting disturbingly well.
Maybe it was muscle memory.
Maybe surviving a decade in investment banking prepared her for any room full of liars—whether it was a boardroom in Manhattan or a murder scene in Velmont.
Either way, as she watched Lady Vivienne descend the staircase with a widow’s grace and a sinner’s nerves, Elena felt… calm. Almost energized.
This wasn’t burnout.
This was the game. And she’d always been good at games.
But first—the housekeeper.
Adrian was already at her side, as if reading her mind. “Mrs. Harrow is waiting in the east parlor, Miss Chen.”
“Of course she is,” Elena murmured, adjusting her gloves. “Let’s see if loyalty really does age like fine wine.”
***
Mrs. Edith Harrow sat as if the chair resented her weight. Back straight, hands folded tightly in her lap, lips pursed into a permanent line of disapproval. She didn’t rise when Elena entered—just offered a glance sharp enough to cut fabric.
“Mrs. Harrow,” Elena began, taking the seat opposite her, crossing one leg over the other with casual precision. “You found the body this morning.”
“Correct,” the older woman replied, clipped and precise. The kind of tone that had managed unruly servants and scandalous nobles alike.
“Walk me through it.”
“I brought Lord Morcant his morning tea, as I have every day for the past twenty years. I found him… deceased. I informed Lady Vivienne and sent for the inspector immediately.”
No tremor. No hesitation. Just duty.
Elena tilted her head, letting silence stretch. People always filled silence—they hated the weight of it. But Mrs. Harrow simply stared back, as if daring Elena to get on with it.
Fine.
She’d play.
“Tell me, Mrs. Harrow—was it common for Lord Morcant to work late into the night?”
The faintest flicker—nostrils flared, just once. “His Lordship often entertained… business late in the evenings.”
“Business.” Elena let the word linger, watching for a crack. “Would that include visitors?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“On occasion.”
Bingo.
“Anyone last night?”
Mrs. Harrow’s jaw tightened, but she answered. “A gentleman. Briefly. I was not privy to their conversation.”
Elena smiled, all polite edges. “Of course not. You’d never eavesdrop.”
“I serve the household, Miss Chen. Not gossip.”
“And yet,” Elena leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice, “it must be difficult—keeping track of loyalties when both your master and mistress have… complicated evenings.”
There. A flash in Mrs. Harrow’s eyes—disapproval tinged with something else. Concern? Contempt?
“You’d do well, Miss Chen, to remember that Lady Vivienne has suffered a terrible loss.”
“I’ll be sure to send flowers,” Elena said smoothly, rising to her feet. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Harrow. You’ve been… illuminating.”
Adrian followed as Elena stepped back into the hallway, the faintest hint of amusement on his face.
“You enjoy provoking her,” he noted.
Elena smirked. “I enjoy watching people pretend they aren’t hiding something. And Mrs. Harrow? She’s practically a vault.”
***
Lady Vivienne Morcant was the kind of beautiful that made people forgive things they shouldn’t.
Draped in elegant black, eyes glassy but alert, she sat by the window like a portrait of grief commissioned for public sympathy. But grief didn’t make your gaze dart like that—or your pulse race when simple questions were asked.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Elena knew a performance when she saw one.
The question was whether it covered heartbreak… or guilt.
“Lady Vivienne,” Elena greeted, voice laced with polite concern as she took the seat opposite. “I understand this is a difficult time. I’ll be brief.”
Vivienne offered a faint nod, her fingers tightening around a lace handkerchief. “I’ll… do my best to assist, Detective.”
Elena gave her a soft smile—the kind designed to lower defenses. “When did you last see your husband?”
“After dinner,” Vivienne replied, too quickly. “He retired to his study… I went to bed.”
Too neat. Too rehearsed.
Elena let the pause stretch, studying Vivienne’s posture—the way her foot tapped faintly beneath her gown, the way her gaze never quite met hers for long.
“You slept well?” Elena asked, tone casual, as if this were small talk at a garden party.
Vivienne blinked. “I… not particularly.”
“Strange. Mrs. Harrow mentioned you’d been resting early these days.”
A flicker of confusion—or calculation—passed over Vivienne’s face. “I’ve… been taking remedies. Herbal teas.”
Elena’s eyes narrowed slightly, her voice dropping. “Anything strong enough to… share?”
Vivienne’s throat bobbed with a swallow. “Cedric preferred wine…” she murmured, gaze dropping to her lap.
Evasive. Nervous.
Not confirmation—but something.
“And where were you between midnight and dawn?” Elena pressed, watching closely.
“In my chambers,” Vivienne answered, this time with more steel—but too much steel. Defensive now.
“All night?”
A pause. “Yes.”
Lie.
Elena didn’t push further—not yet. Pressure too soon made liars clam up. Better to let them stew in their own contradictions.
She stood smoothly, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles on her coat. “Thank you, Lady Vivienne. If you recall anything else—or if your conscience grows heavier—I’ll be nearby.”
Vivienne stiffened but said nothing, her knuckles pale against the handkerchief.
Outside the room, Adrian glanced at Elena. “She’s hiding something.”
Elena nodded, her mind already ticking through possibilities. “The question is whether it’s infidelity… or murder.”
For now, both were still on the table.
***
Tobias Greene greeted her with a handshake designed to impress—firm, deliberate, the kind that said, I close deals, not doors.
Elena recognized it instantly. The universal language of men who thought confidence could be weaponized.
“Detective Chen,” Tobias said, voice smooth as silk and just as carefully woven. “A tragic business, but I trust you’ll bring clarity to it.”
Elena returned the handshake with just enough pressure to remind him she wasn’t easily impressed. “That’s the plan.”
She took her seat across from him, noting the way he adjusted his cuffs before folding his hands neatly on the table. No nervous fidgeting—this was a man who’d negotiated too many high-stakes conversations to crack under polite questioning.
But Elena didn’t need him to crack.
She just needed him to talk.
“When did you last see Lord Morcant?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral, almost conversational.
“Yesterday afternoon,” Tobias answered without hesitation. “Routine discussions about our shipping interests. I left before sunset to attend a meeting at the Blue Hart Tavern. I remained there late into the evening—several patrons can confirm.”
Elena offered a polite nod, mentally filing away the alibi. Tavern witnesses were as reliable as market forecasts—plausible, but always worth stress-testing.
“And how would you describe your partnership with Lord Morcant?” she continued, watching his posture.
Tobias exhaled through his nose, the picture of professional decorum. “Productive. Cedric was… ambitious. He had a tendency to chase opportunities with more enthusiasm than caution, but that’s what made us effective. I handled the accounts; he handled the charm.”
There it was—the first layer of subtext. A subtle claim of control beneath modesty.
Elena let a small smile play at her lips. “Sounds like a profitable balance.”
“It was,” Tobias agreed smoothly. “Though lately, Cedric’s ventures attracted the wrong kind of attention. Risk invites vultures, Detective.”
“Thieves, you mean?”
“Precisely.” Tobias nodded, as if they were two professionals agreeing on market volatility. “A man like Cedric makes enemies—business rivals, political adversaries, desperate debtors. It could’ve been anyone.”
Elena let that hang for a moment, observing how easily he distanced himself from the idea of personal involvement. No defensiveness. No unnecessary details. Just enough information to guide suspicion elsewhere.
She glanced down at her notes—not because she needed to, but because pauses made people uncomfortable.
“And Lady Vivienne?” she asked lightly, watching for even the faintest reaction. “How was their relationship?”
Tobias gave a carefully measured shrug. “Strained, at times. But appearances were maintained, as they must be in noble circles.”
Elena nodded slowly, then closed her notebook with quiet finality.
“Thank you, Mr. Greene. I appreciate your… transparency.”
“Anything to assist justice,” he replied, standing with that same polished ease.
As they exited the room, Elena kept her expression unreadable. Adrian fell into step beside her, silent until they reached the hallway.
“A composed man,” Adrian observed, his tone mild.
“Too composed,” Elena murmured, but without judgment. Just a note—a professional marking potential volatility in an otherwise stable-looking investment.
She didn’t know if Tobias Greene was a murderer.
But she did know he was the type who never showed his full hand until the deal was sealed.
***
Before Adrian could reply, movement outside the manor windows caught Elena’s eye—a tall figure leaning against a carriage, half-shrouded in mist.
Not a servant. Not a guard.
And definitely not random.
“Who’s that?” she asked, already heading for the door.
Adrian’s gaze followed, his brow furrowing slightly. “I don’t recognize him.”
“Perfect,” Elena muttered, that familiar spark of curiosity igniting again.
Because wildcards didn’t wear uniforms—and mysteries didn’t solve themselves.
The mist didn’t part for strangers—but this one acted like it should.
Elena’s eyes locked onto the man leaning against the carriage—too poised, too deliberate to be anyone unimportant. Every instinct, both banker and detective-trained, told her that anyone who looked that relaxed near a crime scene wasn’t innocent. Just comfortable with danger.
As she approached, the man looked up, and that smile—calm, knowing—made her fingers itch for a notepad she didn’t need.
“Detective Chen,” he greeted smoothly, like they had a standing appointment.
Elena kept her expression neutral. “Funny. I don’t recall sending out introductions.”
“You’re not hard to identify,” he said, pushing off the carriage with easy grace. “A woman asking too many questions tends to stand out around here.”
“That, or you’ve been watching me longer than I like,” Elena replied, voice cool but alert.
“Only since yesterday,” Lucien said, his gaze steady. “Business brought me to Lord Morcant in the morning. He was very much alive when I left.”
Elena filed that away—preemptive alibi. Convenient. Too convenient.
“And what business was that?” she asked, noting how he didn’t carry himself like a merchant or noble. There was something sharper beneath the tailored exterior.
Lucien’s smile widened, infuriatingly pleasant. “The kind that doesn’t concern the dead.”
Deflection. But not defensive—no, this was someone who enjoyed dancing around answers.
Elena crossed her arms, letting her silence press him. But Lucien only glanced past her, toward the manor, where Adrian lingered by the doorway, a polite shadow as always.
When Lucien spoke again, his tone dropped—not conspiratorial, but thoughtful. Like he was musing to himself.
“Be careful where you place your trust here, Detective.”
A pause. A glint of something sharper beneath the charm.
“Sometimes the faces closest to you… are just part of the design.”
Before Elena could respond, he tipped an imaginary hat and stepped toward his carriage.
“We’ll meet again. Once you’re asking the right questions.”
And just like that, he was gone—vanishing into the fog as if he’d never been there at all.
Elena stood still, her mind racing—not with answers, but with calculations.
Lucien Ward wasn’t off her list—not yet.
A man that composed didn’t wander past murder scenes without purpose.
Adrian approached quietly, his usual calm presence beside her.
“Should I be concerned?” he asked, following her gaze down the lane.
Elena smirked faintly, masking the tension coiling beneath her curiosity. “If I start quoting riddles at breakfast, then yes.”
Adrian gave a polite, unreadable smile.
Before the air could thicken further, he shifted topics with perfect timing. “Miss Chen, the stablehand—Will—has asked for a private word.”
Elena’s focus snapped back to the case—the immediate puzzle. She nodded, turning toward the manor.
“Finally,” she muttered, “someone who might give me a straight answer.”
Who do you think it’s the murder?
