Golden Arrow - Chapter 1

1. The Golden Arrow

[The marriage of the Cavendish Dukedom of Devonshire and the Stuart Earldom of Galloway is hereby commanded.

The firstborn son and daughter of these families shall wed under divine blessing within this year to prove their loyalty.

This is the solemn will of Her Majesty Queen Anne Stuart, the gracious mother of Brighton,

as confirmed and guaranteed by the Archbishops of Cantenbury and York.]

Freya Gordon-Lennox leaned lazily against the long chair draped in red velvet and picked up a newspaper lying on the table. Her eyes leisurely scanned the article, then suddenly sparkled before she burst into laughter. Her thick red curls bounced wildly, cascading forward over her bent head.

The eyes of all the gentlemen in the club turned towards Freya. Her high-pitched laughter melded with the soprano singer’s song from the stage, spreading vibrantly. The dim light from countless candles flickering in the dark interior seemed to sway in rhythm with her laughter.

She was the only woman who could freely enter the gentlemen’s club, “The Golden Arrow.” Freya Gordon-Lennox was described with many titles—goddess of beauty, queen of society, lover of gentlemen, and everyone’s first love. Her remarkable beauty naturally validated every one of these descriptions.

“What’s so amusing?”

A deep, melodious voice wove through the cigar smoke, reaching her. Freya stopped laughing, cleared her throat, and turned her gaze toward the man sitting across from her. He was Eurus, the illegitimate son of the Duke of Devonshire—the only gentleman in Ingrint who did not admire her, and thus the man whose cold heart she longed to grasp in her hand.

As the acrid cigar smoke cleared, the man’s face came into focus. He was looking at her with slightly squinting eyes.

“Eurus, look at this,” Freya said, holding out the newspaper. The front page was filled with articles about a command that seemed akin to the final will of an aged queen lying by the River Styx, waiting for the ferryman.

“You must already know about this, Madam,” Eurus replied, glancing briefly at the paper before responding disinterestedly. Reclining deeply into the plush sofa with a cigar in hand, his expression radiated languid boredom. His neatly combed golden hair slightly tousled as he lowered his gaze.

Pretending to read the paper, Freya subtly glanced at Eurus’s face. If one were to name the most outstanding man in Ingrint’s high society, it would undoubtedly be the one sitting before her now. Tall and slender, with delicate yet masculine features, golden hair of striking brightness, and royal blue eyes.

Most people were mesmerized by his looks, but Freya thought differently. What made Eurus truly perfect was the indifference layered over his appearance. He cared little for his looks or the opinions of those who gazed upon him, though he was cunningly sharp when it came to using them to his advantage.

“Psyche Stuart. Who is she? A being like the ghost fixed in the gloomy Galloway Castle. The woman who will become the madam of the illustrious Devonshire ducal family per Her Majesty’s command. Her wedding will be a rare opportunity to meet a ghost in person.”

Freya recited the rather frivolous article at the bottom of the page. A cold smile spread across Eurus’s face.

“The article is vulgar.”

Freya chuckled at his evaluation.

“Isn’t it about your family? Such indifference.”

“Well, I’m only half Cavendish, so it doesn’t resonate much with me.”

Freya instantly recognized the hint of sarcasm in his reply. Perhaps the cigar in his captivating lips carried chill rather than warmth.

“Wasn’t it your choice not to be registered in the family, Eurus?”

That was precisely what made Eurus more alluring—the filthy, unclean background of being born an illegitimate child of a duke. People whispered about his birth as vulgar while secretly savoring the dangerous allure it evoked.

Moreover, Eurus had once resolutely rejected his father, the Duke of Devonshire’s, offer to be legitimized. His decision, declining the dream of all illegitimate children and an entry into Ingrint’s most powerful family, became the hottest gossip in Lydon high society for some time. Ironically, the incident only boosted Eurus’s popularity and fame.

“So, fortunately, I’m spared from marrying a ghost,” Eurus said, raising his glass as he stood. The murky purple wine swirled in his glass.

“If Deimos Cavendish heard that, he’d throw a glove straight at your face.”

He did not respond to Freya’s joke. Deimos Cavendish, born of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, was the legitimate heir. He was also Eurus’s half-brother.

Thinking of his half-brother, who couldn’t conceal his rage in front of the royal messenger delivering the Queen’s command, Eurus laughed quietly. Deimos, after grabbing and throwing everything within reach and finally being slapped by their father, had stormed out in fury.

Illegitimate son and legitimate heir. The gap between them was said to be vast, but watching Deimos made Eurus skeptical of whether noble dignity truly stemmed from birth. In any case, a fallen noble from Scotlin, the ghost of Galloway, and Deimos, a pathological character, seemed like a fitting combination.

At that moment, a commotion suddenly broke out near the club entrance.

“Where is that bastard?”

Eurus recognized the shouting voice and curled one corner of his lips.

“Stop this, Viscount,” the club manager firmly blocked the door.

“Bring Eurus out! Right now!”

“He’s not here.”

“Don’t lie to me! I know he’s here!”

“Please, go home for today.”

The prolonged altercation caused the soprano’s song on stage and the gentlemen’s conversations to come to a halt. The golden arrow emblem affixed to the door rattled violently several times before falling to the ground with a loud crash.

“Let him in,” Eurus ordered in a calm and composed voice.

The manager, who had been holding the door alongside security, immediately stepped aside. On the other side, Apollon Sturton, who had been leaning against the door with all his might, stumbled in and crashed onto the floor. Snickers erupted from all around.

“You bastard, Eurus!”

Apollon was in a state of extreme rage. His flushed face, rumpled clothes, and heavy stomping added to the intrigue of the watching crowd.

“What’s the matter, Apollon?”

Eurus rose from the sofa and straightened his shirt collar and cuffs. He welcomed the uninvited guest with utmost politeness. Just as a sly smile spread across his handsome face, a fist flew into it.

“Aah!”

Freya, standing nearby, covered her face with both hands and screamed. Eurus momentarily froze from the unexpected assault but slowly straightened his head. Blood trickled from his crimson lips.

Apollon charged at him again. Eurus brushed his bleeding lip with the back of his hand and blocked the oncoming punches nonchalantly. As security guards rushed to intervene, Eurus gestured for them to stay back.

When Apollon began to tire from his futile flurry of punches, Eurus subdued him with a few kicks, knocking him to the floor. The fight was neither tense nor entertaining. The manager and security guards helped the breathless Apollon into the club’s inner quarters. Shortly after, the piano resumed, erasing traces of the earlier commotion.

“What trouble have you caused this time?”

Freya asked, offering a handkerchief. Eurus took it, dabbing it at his mouth. The white cloth was soon stained with blood.

“Trouble? That makes me sound like a villain.”

Eurus chuckled as he folded the bloodied handkerchief neatly. Adjusting his wrinkled shirt and jacket, his movements were so composed that to anyone just entering, it might seem as if he’d just finished a waltz with an unremarkable partner rather than a brawl.

“For someone like Viscount Sturton, who cares so much about appearances, to rush at you in a place with so many witnesses… it must mean you gave him a reason, doesn’t it?”

“It’s nothing. He ran his mouth, so I simply returned the favor.”

Apollon Sturton was, at least in Eurus’s eyes, a fool. A staunch advocate of pure-blood aristocracy, he had staked his life on the wretched ideology. As a faithful believer in the class system, Apollon was notorious for his extreme hatred and disdain for illegitimate children.

Eurus was no exception to his contempt. While Apollon’s open mockery of Eurus was tolerable, his insults towards the Devonshire dukedom were unacceptable. It was absurd for a mere viscount, despite his reverence for hierarchy, to mock a ducal family. And so, Eurus had played a small prank.

Last summer, Apollon attended an outdoor theater festival by the River Thame and fell for the lively and charming Lady Daphne Laurel, daughter of Baron Laurel. His constant visits to the Laurel estate in pursuit of her affection led to rumors in society that Daphne was moved by his efforts and would soon accept his proposal.

Eurus, through the Golden Arrow Club, discreetly spread a rumor that Apollon had developed red rashes all over his body. Though untrue, the truth was irrelevant in such matters. After all, Apollon had frequented brothels and engaged in activities that could easily lead to such symptoms.

The rumor prompted Daphne’s father, Baron Laurel, to investigate. He discovered that his daughter’s suitor was a regular patron of a notorious brothel, “Whitechapel,” in Lydon’s eastern quarter. From then on, the doors of the Laurel estate remained firmly shut against Apollon’s visits.

Apollon, completely heartbroken after being rejected by Daphne for reasons he couldn’t understand, spent some time in despair. Then he heard the news that rumors had spread claiming he had contracted syphilis—and that the source of those rumors was the Golden Arrow Club.

While the public face of the Golden Arrow Club was Freya Gordon-Lennox, the young wife of Prime Minister Gordon-Lennox, those in the know were aware that the real owner was Eurus, the illegitimate son of the Duke of Devonshire.

Apollon Sturton finally pieced everything together and, filled with fury, rushed to the club, determined to half-kill Eurus.

“Thank goodness I’m your friend and not your enemy,” Freya said, bursting into laughter. It was a response perfectly in line with Eurus’s nature—a clever and decisive act of revenge.

Sinking back into the maroon leather sofa, Eurus radiated like the sun against a dark shadow. The newspaper articles, Apollon’s fury—all of it made for a rather enjoyable day, save for the stinging wound on his lip.

***