The confrontation replayed in his mind: Rubel's smooth, reptilian concern; the five terrified puppets mouthing their rehearsed lines; his own calculated, almost manic laughter that had momentarily shattered the room's gravity. And his father… Roy's reaction had been the most telling. The flicker of surprise, the visible disturbance at Lloyd's unexpected response, the final, almost reluctant granting of time. Roy suspected something wasn't right. He didn't trust Rubel implicitly, despite the power dynamics. That hesitation, that willingness to grant Lloyd a chance against the apparent evidence, was a crucial foothold.
Now, leverage it, Lloyd thought, his stride lengthening as he moved through the grand, silent halls of the Ferrum Estate. Portraits of stern-faced ancestors watched his passage, their painted eyes seeming to hold judgment. Sorry, Great-Aunt Minerva, he mentally addressed a particularly formidable-looking woman clutching a scroll, no time for tea and existential dread today. Got a minor political coup to dismantle.
He reached the door to his suite – their suite, the mental correction automatic now, though no less ironic given the sofa-centric reality. Pushing it open, he found the internal atmosphere subtly altered. The air still carried that cloying lavender-citrus scent, a fragrance he was beginning to loathe with unreasonable intensity, and the inherent chill of Rosa's presence remained. But the static charge of hostility from the previous day had dissipated, replaced by something less aggressive, more… watchful. Like the quiet hum of a machine analyzing new data.
Rosa was seated in the plush velvet armchair near the fireplace, which remained conspicuously empty and cold despite the evening drawing in. A thick tome lay open on her lap, but her gaze wasn't directed at the pages. It was fixed on the middle distance, lost in thought, or perhaps simply observing the dust motes dancing in the lamplight with more interest than her surroundings usually warranted. The lamplight carved sharp angles on her face, emphasizing the severe beauty, the almost sculptural stillness she maintained.
She didn't look up immediately as he entered, but he felt the shift in her awareness, the slight re-focusing of her attention, subtle as the change in air pressure before a storm. He closed the door softly behind him, leaning back against the cool wood for a moment, observing her observation.
"Long day at the office?" he quipped mildly, breaking the silence.
Her head turned then, slowly, deliberately. Her dark eyes, shadowed in the dim light, fixed on him. They held no discernible emotion, no welcome, no curiosity, just that unnerving, analytical steadiness.
"The walls are thick," she stated, her voice a cool, level murmur, "but sound carries when voices are raised in anger." A slight pause. "Or… surprise."
He raised an eyebrow. "Surprise? Was someone surprised?"
"Your laughter," she replied flatly. "It was… unexpected. And loud."
"Ah," Lloyd acknowledged, pushing off the door and walking further into the room, stopping a safe distance from her chair. The invisible boundary between his sofa-territory and her bed-and-armchair domain felt particularly distinct tonight. "Apologies if I disturbed your reading. Family discussions can get a bit… operatic sometimes."
"I heard the substance," she clarified, dismissing his attempt at deflection. Her gaze didn't waver. "The accusations. The Viscount. The witnesses." She recited the elements like items on a checklist. "Your promise of proof."
"Gets around fast, doesn't it?" Lloyd mused, running a hand through his hair. "Estate gossip network working overtime, I suppose."
"Sound carries," she repeated, unimpressed by his nonchalance. Then, the direct question, delivered with the precision of a striking clock: "What will you do?"
He noted it again – the subtle shift. Not 'Can you?' or 'How could you?' but 'What will you do?' A pragmatist's inquiry. It assumed capability, or at least intent. Interesting. Had slicing her cabinet earned him that much grudging credit? Or was she simply assessing the potential fallout on her own position, shackled as she was to this suddenly unpredictable variable named Lloyd Ferrum?
"Do?" He echoed the word lightly, pacing a few steps towards the window, then back, deliberately projecting restless energy rather than concern. "The usual, I suppose. Expose the liars, discredit the testimony, make my esteemed uncle regret his rather pathetic attempt at manipulation."
He stopped, turning to face her more directly, letting a harder edge creep into his voice. "Honestly, Rosa, it's amateur hour. Rubel thinks he's playing chess, but he's using checkers pieces and telegraphing every move."
"Checkers?" The word sounded foreign on her lips, her brow furrowing slightly in incomprehension.
"A game," Lloyd waved it away. "Simple strategy. My point is, this isn't complex. It's just tedious." He shrugged. "Gathering evidence against coerced witnesses? Cross-referencing alibis? Demonstrating motive? It's the sort of thing even children playing make-believe investigators could sort out."