Grace in Wonderland - Chapter 69

69. The Lion’s Hunting Method

Theresius Wilford kept his gaze fixed on the first page of the folder Richard Spencer had thrown against his chest. His hair and jacket were still stained with red tea that he hadn’t yet wiped off.

“Explain.”

Richard, who had successfully cornered the fox and now sat like a king, reclining on the sofa, gave a languid command. Theresius, his tail tucked between his legs, took a deep breath, unable to suppress his boiling resentment.

“Were you trying to insult the Montague family?”

“Insult? That was never my intention.”

“I was willing to overlook the times you mocked me, Wilford.”

Richard smirked as he continued, “But I can’t forgive you for underestimating my aunt.”

“It’s just… it was a mistake, an honest mistake.”

Theresius bit his lip as he responded.

He felt utterly wronged. Had it not been for this single mistake, he wouldn’t have found himself in such a humiliating situation, writhing with shame and indignation.

In Cornwall, he was a king among foxes—the second son of the Baron Wilford family, and his future had seemed incredibly bright. After studying at Grentabridge, he was filled with ambition to follow his father’s footsteps into central politics and elevate the family’s status.

The path to fulfilling his ambition was winding and treacherous, so he didn’t hesitate to take shortcuts. His engagement to Grace Gurton, soon to be adopted by the Montagues, was supposed to be a short, smooth path that would catapult him to his destination.

With his moderately good looks, his calculatedly warm demeanor, and his feigned generosity toward an imperfect woman, Theresius had successfully won over Mary Montague. He had scoffed inwardly, thinking that even the lioness of the Spencers was merely a woman.

Everything had gone smoothly. The well-paved shortcut was short, wide, and comfortable. His destination was within sight, and all he had to do was snatch the simple-minded Grace Gurton waiting at the end.

But shortcuts come with pitfalls. Somewhere along the bypass of effort lies a trial equivalent to the effort one has bypassed. And the ordeal Theresius now faced was several times worse than what he might have endured had he taken the long route.

Male lions generally do not hunt; they merely watch the lionesses. Richard Spencer’s behavior had been no different until now. But when the pride’s territory was invaded, or the lionesses were attacked, the male lion would rise without hesitation.

The lion’s hunting method is simple. He prowls, then charges in a single bound to snap his target’s neck, leaving them incapacitated.

Richard’s ferocity as he tore into Theresius was beyond intimidating; it was downright chilling. Even Mary Montague, sitting beside them after dismissing Grace from the room, turned pale as she watched.

“Embezzling the charity fund—fine, I could have let that slide.”

Mary Montague’s eyes widened at Richard’s words. “What do you mean by that, Richard?”

“Exactly what it sounds like. The checks Spencer and Montague sent for the Dockland poorhouse ended up in Theresius Wilford’s pocket.”

“But Grace said she was thrilled about how much the classroom had improved. She mentioned new supplies and even praised Theresius Wilford for occasionally sending food for the students.”

At her words, Theresius flinched. Seeing this, Mary’s widened eyes narrowed into sharp slits.

“Young Lord Wilford, is Richard lying?”

“……”

Silence, when given context, becomes eloquent. Mary Montague felt a wave of dismay as she interpreted Theresius Wilford’s silence as an unspoken admission.

“Then how… how did the poorhouse…?”

She looked at Richard with a sigh. Richard Spencer replied nonchalantly.

“It seems an anonymous benefactor, moved by Miss Grace Gurton’s efforts, decided to help.”

The three people in the room were well-versed in the subtleties of Ingrint’s language. It didn’t take them long to deduce who this “anonymous benefactor” might be.

Theresius’s face began to contort. Mary Montague could no longer hide her bewilderment, and Richard Spencer smirked crookedly as if someone had hooked his right lip and pulled it upward.

“So, where exactly did the funds go?”

Mary Montague’s eyes were fixed on the folder dangling from Theresius’s trembling hand as she asked.

“They were used to purchase a house on the outskirts of Grentabridge.”

Richard responded as if he had been waiting, leaning slightly toward Theresius as he added, “The remaining amount seems to have been used as living expenses, doesn’t it?”

“……”

Theresius placed the stack of papers he had been holding onto the table with a resigned expression, lowering his head in surrender.

“A house in Grentabridge and living expenses?”

Anger began to fill Mary Montague’s face as she processed the implications of Richard’s words.

“Is this true?”

“…I’m sorry.”

Theresius realized he had detected a mole peeking above the surface of his shortcut when he had escorted Grace Gurton to the Assembly Room ball in Bath. Suddenly, a servant from the Wilford estate had approached him at the event, whispering something in his ear, forcing him to excuse himself and leave the ballroom immediately.

Inside a shabby carriage parked in a vacant lot near the Wilford estate were two women. One was a woman he had impulsively embraced while drunk during a brawl with Richard Spencer, and the other was an unfamiliar face.

“Agnes is pregnant.”

The unfamiliar woman spoke bluntly, and Theresius finally learned the name of the pregnant woman—Agnes.

“So?”

“It’s your baby, Lord Wilford.”

The stranger, speaking on behalf of the crying Agnes, who was clutching her belly with crossed arms, glared at him with a sharp voice.

Theresius scoffed. “Do you have any proof it’s mine?”

Trusting the word of a woman who would willingly lie with any man, with no sense of propriety, was foolish. So, his instinct was to deny it.

“H-here…”

At that moment, Agnes timidly held out a crumpled note. The note read, “If Agnes Bolton becomes pregnant, the child will bear the Wilford name,” written in his handwriting. It was even signed in the official manner he used for legal documents—a crude contract.

“You wrote this because I said I was scared of getting pregnant…”

Theresius racked his brain anxiously. At the time, he had been so severely drunk that he barely remembered how he spent the night.

Even so, he distinctly recalled yelling at a crying woman who had resisted him, forcing her down. He also remembered scrawling out whatever she dictated to him, trying to reassure the terrified girl who clung to herself in fear.

When morning came and he awoke in the bed of a shabby inn, there was no one beside him. Only a bloodstain clung messily to the sheets.

That was all Theresius Wilford could recall. Whatever he had written that night had vanished from his memory along with the alcohol that had evaporated from his system.

“Once the baby is born, you’ll see it’s yours. If it doesn’t resemble you, I’ll accept any punishment. Until then, please provide Agnes with a place to stay. If you don’t, I’ll take this note to the Spencer estate.”

The companion, evidently a skilled negotiator, threatened Theresius. Mentioning “Spencer” made it clear she had heard the rumors circulating in Bath.

“And in case something happens to either of us, we’ve arranged for someone else to reveal the truth. This document has been copied with carbon paper. The original is stored elsewhere.”

She was meticulous. Theresius, looking at the sobbing Agnes, fell into deep thought. Noise couldn’t reach the Montague family now. Rushing the engagement and wedding with Grace Gurton would come first; dealing with the woman and the unborn child could wait until after the marriage. Securing his union with Grace was his priority.

Theresius didn’t want to disappoint his father, Baron Wilford. So, he generously paid off the servant to silence him, secretly sent the women to Grentabridge, and began seeking funds.

Luckily, fortune favored him. Grace Gurton’s volunteer work led Mary Montague and Richard Spencer to donate large sums of money to the Dockland poorhouse. That money provided Theresius with the means to eliminate the mole claiming to carry his child.

“You’ve spread your seeds in quite a few places, Wilford.”

But now, that money had become the noose tightening around his neck. Richard Spencer, towering over the fox caught and gasping for air, pressed down on its neck with a massive paw.