The Golden Duke’s Forbidden Lover

The Rhetoricians Gambit and the Imprint Matrix

Confronted by Victor’s interrogation, Ares did not immediately deploy his calculated response. Instead, he drew another slow, deliberate breath, his countenance a portrait of academic disappointment. "It is the perusal of your terminal compositions, Master Victor, that compels my melancholy," he lamented gently. "If you were to dedicate a mere tithe of the ingenuity you waste on engineering these domestic ambushes toward mastering the orthography of the Ancient Continental Tongue, your tasks would have been dispatched long ago, leaving you at liberty to execute a hundred flourishes with your longsword in the gymnasium."

Victor pouted in fierce defiance, his lower lip protruding. "An absolute slander! I have made astonishing strides, sir. Forgetting the phonetic emphasis of those final three vocabularies was hardly a deliberate omission. You simply inflict an excessive austerity upon my person. Tell me, Ares—does your despair trace solely to my defective scholarship?"

"I harbor a profound desire that it were so," Ares countered, allowing an expression of heavy disillusionment to settle across his features. "Prior to my installation within this redoubt, the chronicles advised me that the House of Valerius was an unexampled dynasty of warriors—the keenest edge of the Empire’s vanguard. Yet, the reality confronting me departs radically from the legend. As scions of an illustrious bloodline, your prowess appears confined to executing minor persecutions upon a humble preceptor of letters."

"Your assertions are entirely erroneous! We are far from incompetent!" Vincent and Victor interjected simultaneously, their countenances flushing a tempestuous crimson as they scrambled to dismantle the insult.

"My master-at-arms commends my martial dexterity; I have claimed the laurels in multiple juvenile tournaments—"

"And the automaton I constructed executes its mechanical routines for three consecutive hours, wholly independent of thaumaturgic catalysts—"

They ransacked their memories for some alternative monument of achievement to shatter Ares's premise.

"Master Victor," Ares interposed with serene authority. "Your physical mechanics are indeed formidable, yet your blade is routinely directed toward non-combatants. Master Vincent, your organic aptitude for engineering is undeniable, yet you employ it primarily to inflict humiliation upon the innocent."

The twins exchanged a look of sudden discomfiture, their collaborative rhetoric utterly spent.

"Behold the proof," Ares continued smoothly, delivering the critical stroke. "Your audacity fails entirely when confronted by the majordomo; before that austere elder, you comport yourselves with the docility of pristine lambs."

"Absurd! Who... who presumes to declare we lack fortitude?" Vincent protested, his voice cracking with wounded pride. Victor merely let out a soft gasp, his startled gaze turning toward his brother as if to query, Brother, do we truly possess such reckless valor?

Though Harley Tribe routinely indulged their juvenile truantries—never condemning them to the cancerous solitudes of their bedchambers as their uncle wanted to do—the old retainer remained a figure of terrifying, unyielding formality. His weathered features appeared frozen in a perpetual, glacial severity; indeed, Victor could recall no instance wherein that hound-like countenance had softened into a smile. He hesitated to provoke the ancient guardsman for a mere wager; if their machinations overstepped decorum, Harley would undoubtedly deliver formal intelligence to the Duke.

Vincent delivered a sharp pinch to his brother’s sleeve. "Cease your vacant utterances, blockhead! Of course we possess valor."

"Declarations are currency of no value, young masters; you must provide empirical demonstration to secure my conversion," Ares countered, a shadow of an enigmatic smile playing upon his lips. "I can conceive of no exploit more hazardous, nor more indicative of supreme talent, than executing the surreptitious larceny of the majordomo's sovereign keys. Should you return with that trophy, I shall formally concede that you are the true scions of the Valerius blood."

"Nothing more? A trivial enterprise; it shall be dispatched with primitive ease," Victor declared, thoroughly blinded by his desire to prove he was no craven who preyed only upon the weak. He failed entirely to perceive the sharp flash of cunning that illuminated Ares’s tourmaline eyes.

Vincent intervened, his gaze narrow. "And should the laurels fall to us, preceptor—what configuration does your capitulation assume?"

Ares smiled. "In that eventuality, what would you say if we suspended the standard curriculum for a full day to conduct our academy within the open parklands? It would undoubtedly surpass the mortal tediousness of this library." He added fuel to the gathering flame: "I confess I harbor an intense desire to see you compel me to retract my strictures."

Deprived of any guidance, the young imps plunged headlong into the excavation Ares had prepared for them, their faces hot with indignation. "You shall look upon the proof anon!" They brooked no delay, eager to track the majordomo immediately to vindicate their honor.

Ares arrested their flight. "Restrain your impetuosity, else the majordomo shall detect the deception prior to its execution." He consulted the grandfather clock. "A mere ten minutes remain before Master Tribe performed his rounds. At that juncture, I shall deliberately compromise his attention, creating the requisite vulnerability for your operation."

The twins' eyes widened in sheer incredulity. "Incredible... can it be that you harbor such duplicity, Ares?"

The scholar’s mouth upturned slightly. "Does it shock you? I have never asserted that my own youth was entirely devoid of academic mischief."

The revelation transformed their estimation of the preceptor; they had never imagined this starchy scholar could harbor such an organic enthusiasm for subversion. A sudden, unexpected warmth of kinship twined between them. Ares motioned them closer, whispering the operational parameters: "Upon his arrival, we shall coordinate our movements thus..."

"Understood..."

Having superintended the retainers as they cleared the courtyard flagstones of the fresh drifts, Harley Tribe stroked his long whiskers. Noting that the pearl chain bequeathed by his departed wife had fallen out of alignment, he frowned, devoting several minutes to adjusting the heirloom before ascending toward the third-tier library.

Once he had escorted the young masters to their midday rest, his duties required him to descend to the kitchens, instructing the cooks to prepare the afternoon service of pasties and honeyed black tea. Should the youths awaken to find their refreshments delayed, their displeasure would be considerable.