My Bratty Wife

Davis entered the study, closing the door quietly behind him. His expression was, as always, impeccably neutral, but his sharp eyes likely took in the faint flush still lingering on his master’s face and the almost imperceptible tension in Ryan’s posture as he tried to shift subtly in his chair, adjusting his clothing. Davis, however, gave no outward sign that he noticed anything amiss, simply waiting respectfully for Ryan to acknowledge him.

Ryan cleared his throat, running a hand briefly over his hair, forcing his mind away from the lingering scent of lavender and the softness of Suzy’s skin. He turned his full attention to his aide, his gaze sharpening, the earlier heat replaced by a familiar, calculating coolness. "Davis," he said, his voice steady now. "You have news?"

"Indeed, your Grace," Davis replied, stepping forward. "Regarding the... unfortunate individual recovered from the grounds after the incident of that evening. I have completed a thorough examination, as you requested."

Ryan nodded curtly. "And?"

Davis paused, choosing his words with care, laying out his findings like pieces on a chessboard. "The man was not a common ruffian, your Grace. His hands, though rough, lacked the ingrained calluses of a lifelong labourer or soldier. More akin to a hired guard or perhaps a disgruntled groom. His clothing, though deliberately plain, hid details. The shirt, for instance, was of a finer linen than typically found on such men, hastily acquired, perhaps."

He continued, his voice low and even. "More tellingly, tucked inside the heel of his left boot – a common hiding place, but poorly executed in this instance – I discovered this." Davis produced a small, folded piece of oilskin from his pocket. He carefully unfolded it on the edge of Ryan’s desk, revealing not a note, but a small, brass token, slightly tarnished. "This token, your Grace, is from ’The Gilded Cage,’ a rather exclusive gaming establishment in the main town. One known to be frequented regularly by... certain members of the nobles with expensive tastes and occasionally desperate needs."

Ryan stared at the token, his expression unreadable.

Davis pressed on with his logical conclusion. "Furthermore, the knife he carried, though seemingly plain, bore a tiny maker’s mark near the hilt – a serpent coiled around a rose. It’s the mark of Henri Dubois, a cutler known for his discreet work, favoured by gentlemen who prefer their purchases untraceable. Lord Evan, as you may recall, has commissioned pieces from Dubois in the past. The spy we killed belonged to him as well." Davis finally looked up, meeting Ryan’s gaze directly. "While no single piece definitively proves his involvement, the combination – the ill-fitting guise of a commoner, the token from a club your cousin practically frequents, a weapon sourced from a cutler he patronizes and a spy kept to monitor the assassination... the deduction points rather strongly in one direction. It suggests the assassin was procured hastily by Lord Evan days after we found substantial clues concerning the murderer."

Ryan leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming softly on the polished wood of the desk. "I already suspected as much, Davis," he said quietly, his voice flat. "Evan lacks subtlety, even in his treachery." He waved a dismissive hand towards the token. "But this hired fool... he’s just a rash decision. He wasn’t the one who actually wounded me and Evan might not be the main player in this game."

His eyes took on a harder, more distant look, recalling the chaos of the attack. " I’m not certain about it and," he continued, more to himself than to Davis. "The one who stabbed me... I didn’t see his face clearly in the confusion. But I saw his eyes." Ryan leaned forward again, his gaze intense. "I saw those eyes, Davis. Cold, calculating... and chillingly familiar. They belong to him. That same man, I’m certain of it now. That damned man who attacked the Duchess and myself months ago. That’s the real threat."

Davis absorbed this grim confirmation, his own expression hardening slightly in shared resolve. He waited a moment before asking the practical question. "What is to be done now, your Grace?"