[Rynthall Estate—Mid-Morning]
The Rynthall Estate was basking in an illusion of peace.
Well… not exactly peace. Because if our dramatic baron, Lucien d'Armoire, exists within a five-mile radius, peace is nothing but a fantasy novel no one asked for.
But still, relatively peaceful—because the aforementioned baron was currently seated in the garden under a lace-draped canopy, sipping his morning tea with the blissful expression of a poet in love with a daffodil.
The birds were chirping. The tea was steaming. The chaos… was temporarily paused.
It was, as they say, too good to last.
"MYYYYYYYY LORRRRRRRRRRRRRD!!!"
Lucien choked mid-sip, spraying Earl Grey all over his cravat like a broken fountain.
A blur of black and tears came sprinting across the garden like a man possessed by theatrical spirits. It was none other than Marcel, his long-suffering butler, who ran toward him with flailing limbs and the expression of someone being chased by tax collectors.
