Exiled to a Foreign Land: Managing a Destitute Estate-Chapter 40: The Confession?

Part 1

"My dear Philip," the Duke began warmly, his voice suddenly casual. "Do tell me honestly: do you love this Miss Natalia of yours? And ... how exactly did the two of you meet?"

The question dropped into the conversation like an anvil. Philip gulped audibly; his throat felt like he'd swallowed a desert.

"I—I..." Philip stammered, completely unprepared. His mind raced through contingency plans, financial scenarios, and strategic responses, but found nothing suitable. He deeply regretted not paying more attention during all those hours accompanying Tara to watch her soap operas back in his last life.

Just as panic started to seize him, a familiar shimmer appeared. The System manifested beside him, today scandalously clad as an exaggerated caricature of a secretary. She twirled a pen theatrically.

"Relax, Host," she purred, invisible to everyone but Philip. "Need a rescue? For just ten Continental dollars, I'll give you the most ludicrously believable romance cliché in existence."

Philip raised an eyebrow internally. "Ten? What's the catch?"

"No catch," she shrugged dramatically, pushing up her heart-shaped glasses. "This plotline is so cliché, it's practically public domain: cheap, predictable, and oddly comforting. Just repeat after me and keep a straight face."

Dutifully following the System's melodramatic prompts, Philip recited, "A few months back, I decided to expand my horizons, as I came to the realization that I had been a bit out of touch. So, as part of this commitment, I ventured to the downtown core of Yortinto and passed by the tent cities that I had never noticed before."

The Duke leaned forward, eyebrows raised in genuine interest.

Philip suppressed a cringe, but obediently recited the new line fed by the System, "Then, as I was walking around the camp in ordinary folks' clothes, a figure caught my eye."

Philip then took a brief pause, mentally preparing himself for what the System was feeding him to say. He felt the Duke couldn't possibly believe what he was saying—there were just too many illogical points. "Her clothing was tattered but somehow still elegant; her eyes were vacant yet hauntingly beautiful. She stood out like a marble statue in a sea of poverty."

Sounds like a drug addict to me. Philip mused mentally.

He hesitated, then added, "She looked lost and vulnerable, so I deemed it chivalrous to approach her and offer my help. But it turned out she was suffering from amnesia. She couldn't remember who she was or where she came from. She also had no documents, and, given the current environment of frequent raids by authorities at those camps to remove undocumented individuals, she could have been wrongfully removed."

"Hence, I couldn't possibly leave her in that state..." Philip felt his cheeks ignite as he delivered the final absurdity. "I decided to offer her shelter until she recovers her memories."

Yep, the convenient plot device that morally whitewashes the creepy act of a rich man taking advantage of a gorgeous lady's memory lapses to place her under the same roof as his. Is this even legal?

"It's a love story, so, baby, I would say yes." The System's voice retorted in Philip's mind. "And, by the way, don't recite that."

The System added, possibly sensing Philip's confidence dropping rapidly, "It's actually legal in Yorgoria, given your station. More explanation later, for a fee."

Before Philip had time to mentally voice his shock to the System, the Duke spoke, his voice neutral but his eyes twinkling with something Philip couldn't quite identify. "And I assume her memories never quite returned?"

"Not entirely," Philip admitted. "But she's remembered enough to function well. And along the way, she regained the muscle memory of her impressive combat skills and saved me a few times from random assassins."

The System applauded silently. "Perfect delivery! Just the right balance of earnestness and vagueness."

Philip sighed, fully expected the Duke to call him out on this preposterous story as it violated every principle of probability and common sense. But to Philip's absolute astonishment, the Duke nodded sagely, a nostalgic smile forming. "Oh, yes, perfectly understandable. Brings back memories, you know."

Philip blinked in confusion. "It... it does?"

"Indeed," the Duke chuckled gently, his eyes momentarily distant. "When I was younger, after my first heartbreak—long before meeting your grandmother, mind—I was traveling alone down a cold countryside road in rural Avalondia. Voila, I came across a beautiful, mysterious young lady, utterly clueless and lost, standing barefoot in the snow. She was mesmerizing and had some rather... unique physical features. So, I offered her shelter until we reached contact with her caretakers." He coughed quickly, clearing his throat. "Anyway, youthful adventures rarely amount to anything serious, but it was memorable nonetheless."

Philip stared blankly. He actually experienced this absurd scenario? And believed mine without question?

Just as Philip was processing this unexpected turn, a soft knock interrupted them. Lydia's prim voice announced, "Your Grace, Miss Natalia has arrived as requested."

The Duke's entire demeanor transformed in an instant. Gone was the casual, almost conspiratorial warmth, replaced by rigid aristocratic formality. He straightened his posture, adjusted his cuffs, and adopted an expression of regal hauteur that would have impressed an emperor.

"Send her in," he commanded, his voice now carrying the weight of centuries of nobility.

The double doors swung open with practiced precision, and Natalia entered behind Lydia. Philip's breath caught involuntarily. She was stunning—not in the ostentatious way of aristocratic ladies, but with a quiet elegance that seemed both natural and carefully crafted. Her gown was modest but perfectly fitted, highlighting her figure without being overtly sensual. Her golden hair fell in gentle waves around her face, framing features that looked as if they had been sculpted by a master artist obsessed with symmetry and proportion.

Lydia performed a perfect curtsy, and Natalia followed suit with a graceful dip that would have impressed any etiquette instructor. Her movements were fluid yet precise, each gesture calculated to display proper deference without sacrificing dignity.

The Duke rose to his feet, his transformation complete. "Ah! Miss Natalia," he proclaimed in a voice that could have carried to the back row of a theater, "how gracious of you to join us. We were just discussing your... situation."

Philip noticed the subtle emphasis on "situation" and felt his anxiety spike. The Duke gestured to a chair beside Philip, a seemingly courteous gesture that also established the power dynamic—Natalia was being positioned for examination.

"Sit, my dear," the Duke insisted with aristocratic condescension. "Philip has been telling me the most fascinating story about your first meeting. Truly remarkable circumstances."

Natalia glanced quickly at Philip, who gave an imperceptible nod. She settled gracefully into the offered chair, hands folded demurely in her lap.

"Now," the Duke continued, his voice dripping with calculated courtesy, "I understand you've been a great comfort to my grandson during this difficult time. His recovery from heartbreak, the estate's challenges—your presence has apparently been quite... beneficial."

Philip tensed at the implication hidden beneath the polite phrasing.

The Duke paced slowly before the massive fireplace, his movements deliberately theatrical. "Such devotion deserves acknowledgment," he declared, turning suddenly to face Natalia directly.

With practiced precision, he reached into his inner pocket and produced a sleek black card embossed with gold lettering—the infamous Black Platinum card, a special gift card issued by the Imperial Bank of Avalondia. It was only purchasable by aristocrats with a minimal rank of count, and the card acts almost like a draft and is linked to an account specifically set up to hold the related funds until the user fully depletes it. The minimum balance on such a card was 30,000 Continental dollars.

"Miss Natalia," the Duke announced grandly, as if bestowing a knighthood, "I would like to offer you something more... suitable to your evident talents than the current arrangement."

He held the card between two fingers, letting it catch the firelight like a magical talisman. "This modest token would grant you financial independence beyond the dreams of common folks. The sum contained within this card would rival what an ordinary laborer could earn in two lifetimes."

Natalia's eyes widened slightly, but she remained perfectly still, the picture of composed grace.

The Duke continued, his voice taking on the tone of a benevolent dictator offering terms of surrender. "All I ask in return for this small token of appreciation is that you... release my grandson from whatever obligation he feels toward you."

Philip nearly choked. The Duke was literally trying to buy off Natalia, treating their relationship as a financial transaction to be settled with a credit card.

"Consider carefully, my dear," the Duke pressed, his voice honey over steel. "A woman of your circumstances rarely encounters such an opportunity. With this card, you could establish yourself comfortably anywhere in the Empire. No more need for... unconventional arrangements that are... fruitless."

The scene was so absurdly familiar to Philip. Memories of those soap dramas he watched with Tara all came flashing back: specifically, the scenes of those rich matriarchs trying to bribe away the poor-but-virtuous love interest. Philip had seen dozens of variations on this trope during his prior life when it was the most cost-effective entertainment option for Tara.

The Duke held out the card with theatrical flourish. "What say you, Miss Natalia? Wouldn't you prefer long-term financial security over this uncertain position?"

Natalia stared at the card for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, to Philip's astonishment, she slowly rose to her feet.

"Your Grace," she began, her voice soft yet surprisingly steady. "I am deeply honored by your generous offer." She dipped into another perfect curtsy, holding it just a fraction longer than protocol required—a subtle but powerful display of deference.

The Duke's expression shifted minutely—a hint of smug satisfaction beginning to form.

"However," Natalia continued, raising her eyes to meet the Duke's, "I must respectfully decline."

The smug look faltered.

Natalia took a careful step forward, then, to Philip's horror, gracefully sank to her knees before the Duke. The gesture was so unexpected, so melodramatically submissive, that even Lydia gasped audibly from her position by the door.

"Your Grace," she began, her voice trembling with emotion that seemed almost theatrical in its intensity, "I appreciate your generosity beyond words. The amount of wealth you are offering is beyond my imagination."

She reached out and delicately clasped the Duke's hand—the one still holding the credit card—between both of hers. "I understand your concern for your grandson's welfare and our current arrangement. It speaks to your unwavering commitment to moral righteousness."

Philip watched in stunned disbelief as Natalia pulled the Duke's hand toward her ample bosom, pressing it gently as if inviting him to feel the fervent beating of her heart—beating solely for Philip—in a gesture so theatrical that it would have earned applause in any playhouse in Albecaster.

"But I must respectfully decline," she pleaded, gazing up at the Duke with eyes that somehow managed to glisten with unshed tears on command.

A single, perfect tear traced its way down her flawless cheek. She made no move to wipe it away, allowing it to fall dramatically onto the Duke's signet ring.

"What value is wealth compared to love?" she declared with such conviction that Philip was thoroughly stunned too. "What is security without purpose? I would rather endure poverty at his side than drift aimlessly in a sea of riches."

The Duke's eyebrows had risen incrementally throughout this performance, but he maintained his aristocratic composure. "Your devotion is... commendable. But surely you understand that your current arrangements will—"

Before he could finish, Natalia executed the most shocking move yet. With almost lightning speed, she let go of the Duke's hand and took the Black Platinum card from the Duke's fingers. For a moment, Philip thought she might actually accept it. Instead, she held it reverently between both hands for a heartbeat—then tore it slowly yet precisely in half with a single, clean motion, all the while maintaining her eye contact with the Duke.

Philip nearly swallowed his tongue. The Black Platinum cards were notoriously durable, made from some specialized material rumored to be virtually indestructible. Yet Natalia had split it with the casual ease of tearing tissue paper, her expression never wavering from solemn devotion.

But rather than flinging the torn pieces dramatically to the floor as the script of such scenes would demand, Natalia leaned forward and gently arranged the halves side by side on the polished tea table beside her with an almost childish grace. Instead of the cliché dramatic effect, Natalia's gesture came across as comically calm and collected, unintentionally drawing everyone's attention to her remarkable feat of strength rather than the intensity of her supposed resolve.

"Forgive my boldness, Your Grace," she whispered dramatically, bowing deeply enough that her forehead nearly brushed the floor. "Yet life without Master Philip is unimaginable to me. Allow me, I beg you, to remain by his side—even merely as a maid observing from afar. That alone would fulfill me, even if I must witness him in the arms of someone else."

From the doorway came the unmistakable sound of Lydia sniffling. Two maids peeking through the partially open door exchanged misty-eyed glances, clearly moved by the display.

Philip sat frozen, torn by the sheer intensity and melodrama of the scene and genuine awe at Natalia's commitment to the performance. She was, quite literally, on her knees before his grandfather.

"Please," she whispered, somehow making the simple plea sound like a profound oath, "allow me to remain at Master Philip's side. Even if only as his most humble servant, asking nothing in return but the privilege of his presence."

The entire room held its breath. Philip himself found his heart racing despite knowing this was all an elaborate act.

The Duke's expression shifted through several minute changes—surprise, assessment, calculation, and finally... amusement?

"Oh my," he said softly, the aristocratic bluster suddenly fading from his voice. "Miss Natalia... that was quite... moving."

He gently extracted his hand from her grasp and cleared his throat. "Lydia, Albert, I believe we require some privacy for this discussion. Please see that we are not disturbed."

Lydia curtsied deeply, the perfect image of propriety. "Of course, Your Grace." She turned toward the door with practiced grace, her steps measured and silent across the polished floor. With a subtle gesture of her gloved hand, she beckoned the two maids standing by outside in the corridor. "Come along," she murmured, just loud enough to be heard without disturbing the aristocratic atmosphere.

The maids lowered their gazes respectfully, following Lydia at a precise distance—close enough to appear attentive but far enough to demonstrate proper deference. Their skirts whispered against the floor as they moved in perfect synchronization behind the governess.

Albert bowed stiffly at the waist, maintaining the dignified bearing expected of a steward. "I shall ensure your privacy, Your Grace," he said, his voice formal yet warm with years of loyal service. With measured steps, he went to the doorway, pausing only to close the heavy oak doors with a soft click.

Through the momentary gap, Philip glimpsed Albert taking up position outside—back straight, hands clasped behind him, the very picture of vigilant discretion. The corridor beyond now stood empty, cleared of all potential eavesdroppers.

Once they were truly alone, the Duke's formal posture relaxed completely. He settled back into his chair with casual ease, looking for all the world like a satisfied theater critic after an exceptional performance.

"How much rehearsal did that little speech require, Miss Natalia?" the Duke asked, his eyes twinkling with undisguised amusement. "The delivery was impeccable—particularly that trembling lower lip. Very convincing."

Natalia's expression flickered with momentary uncertainty.

"Tell me, Miss Natalia," the Duke said conversationally, "did you prepare that speech in advance, or was it spontaneous? Either way, it was quite moving."

A flicker of confusion crossed Natalia's face before she responded with perfect sincerity. "When one speaks from the heart, Your Grace, no preparation is necessary."

The Duke laughed—a genuine, warm sound that seemed to transform his entire demeanor. "Magnificent! Absolutely magnificent!" He turned to Philip with an approving nod. "You've chosen well, Philip. She's perfect."

Philip blinked in confusion. "Perfect for...?"

Part 2

Meanwhile, the late afternoon sun streamed through the soaring Gothic windows of Nernwick Manor's grand hall, where Kendrick stood before a polished mirror, adjusting the ceremonial medals adorning his pristine white Colonel's uniform. His golden hair caught the light perfectly, each strand seeming to shimmer with aristocratic privilege. Though he'd just supervised the suppression of riots across Yorgoria, his face showed no hint of the violence he'd orchestrated—his features remained as flawlessly handsome as ever, carrying an almost otherworldly beauty.

He straightened his already impeccable posture, practicing the formal bow required for imperial court presentations. Despite his flamboyant public persona, in private moments like these, Kendrick approached his duties with meticulous precision.

The double doors swung open without ceremony, revealing David, the Nernwick family's head steward, a man whose military bearing rivaled Kendrick's own. In his gloved hands, he carried a silver tray with a single envelope emblazoned with the imperial eagle seal in crimson wax.

"Colonel," David announced with practiced formality. "You summoned?"

"David," Kendrick said, his voice steady despite his inner elation, "please inform the household staff to prepare my full ceremonial wardrobe for immediate departure to the capital. And have my personal secretary draft appropriate farewells to my... social acquaintances." The latter reference was to his legendary "harem" of female admirers, who would undoubtedly be devastated by his temporary absence.

David bowed slightly. "Very good, Colonel. Shall I inform Lady Elora as well? She's currently in the east wing laboratory."

"No need," came a voice from the doorway. "I'm already here."

Elora Nernwick stood at the threshold, her intelligent eyes quickly assessing the scene. Unlike her twin brother's military finery, she wore a practical day dress with a researcher's coat draped over her shoulders—her typical attire when working in her private laboratory within the Nernwick estate. Despite both possessing outstanding beauty, the siblings presented a study in contrasts: Kendrick's devotion to the Empire against Elora's obsession with the sciences.

Kendrick's face broke into a dazzling smile as he turned to face his sister. "I have been called to serve the Empire in its most critical diplomatic mission of the decade!"

Elora took the document, her eyes rapidly scanning its contents. Unlike her brother's theatrical expressions, her reaction was contained within the slight tightening of her jaw and a barely perceptible narrowing of her eyes.

"The Osgorreich-Arussian peace talks," she stated flatly. "They're sending you into the heart of an active war zone as a diplomatic envoy. I am genuinely concerned!"

"Not merely an envoy, sister—the primary imperial representative!" Kendrick declared, his voice swelling with pride. "First Minister Arther specifically requested me by name!"

"Did he now?" Elora's tone carried a subtle edge that completely escaped her brother's notice. "How curious, considering your total lack of diplomatic experience."

Kendrick drew himself up, his chest expanding beneath his medal-adorned uniform. "The battlefield and the negotiating table require the same qualities, dear sister—courage, strategy, and unwavering loyalty to imperial interests."

"And a photogenic face for the imperial newspapers should things go catastrophically wrong," Elora added, her superficial detachment failing to mask her growing concern.

Kendrick waved away her comment with aristocratic dismissiveness. "You always were too cynical, Elora. This appointment is the opportunity to restore the Nernwick name to its former prestige. It's been almost a hundred years since our family had a member who would be recognized across the globe!"

"Which is precisely what the council of elders said we should avoid. Our family motto is 'Security through Obscurity,' if you have forgotten."

"I have not, but what greater honour could befall a soldier of noble birth than to represent the Empire on the global stage?" he asked, his voice passionate.

Elora moved closer, lowering her voice despite David having already discreetly withdrawn. "Four diplomatic envoys have been targeted in that region in the past month alone. The Continental Republic is using Avalondia as a convenient scapegoat, positioning us to take the blame when these negotiations inevitably fail."

For the briefest moment, something resembling genuine understanding crossed Kendrick's perfect features—a rare crack in his aristocratic facade. Then it vanished, replaced by the unshakable certitude that had been drilled into him since childhood.

"If I die in service of the Empire, it would be a glorious end to a beautiful life," Kendrick declared firmly.

"But it would be a tragic loss to a beautiful family," Elora said.