Days had slipped by before the two criminals pieced together the trail of Sir Charles Roberts’—the legendary "Royal Pirate"—inheritance, leading them to the crumbling remains of Boleyn Hospital.

They were far too late. The asylum lay in ruins, a crisp "No Trespassing" sign nailed to its outer fence.

"Blast! The relic’s gone—Our Lord’s scent lingers, but we’ve missed it!" snarled the first man, fists denting the weathered fence.

"Steady, Fire Rum," his one-eyed companion growled, vaulting the barrier. "The trail’s fresh enough."

Old pirates both, they clung to their seafaring monikers. "Fire Rum" nodded to explosive grog mixes; "Jolly Roger" evoked skull-and-crossbones dread.

"Earth’s been turned here!" Jolly Roger crouched where Yvette’s rescue had torn the ground. Police had patched the hole, but the stench of ancient divinity clung to the soil.

"Aye, this is it!" Fire Rum kneeled, sifting dirt until his fingers snagged fabric. He held the scrap aloft, sunlight revealing gaudy embroidery. "Some frilly lass beat us to it?"

"Twit. That’s a gentleman’s coat—cashmere, no less." Jolly Roger snatched the cloth. "Albion fops don’t stitch roses on frocks. Bond Street tailors’ll talk. When I find the thieving pup, I’ll keelhaul him from here to Jamaica!"

Meanwhile, Yvette—blissfully unaware of her new enemies—inhaled Sussex’s crisp air, her new gown rustling. No wonder nobles flee London each season, she thought. The sooty capital paled against this greenery.

Albion’s aristocracy danced to nature’s tune: parliamentary springs in Grosvenor Street townhouses, summer matchmaking at country villas, autumnal hunts, and frosty winters in ancestral halls.

Today’s excuse? The Goodwood Races. The Duke of Richmond’s sprawling estate—48 square kilometers of manicured turf and ancient woodlands—hosted the second-grandest equestrian event after Royal Ascot. Invitations demanded full regalia, though Yvette’s ever-growing wardrobe (courtesy of Ulysses) made that trivial.

Her clubmates—"Oleander," "Monkshood," and the reluctantly absent "Upas" (trapped by deadlines)—had secured tickets.

As their carriage jostled toward Goodwood, Oleander hunched over a handbook, undeterred by the bouncing springs.

"The Stallion Compendium?" Yvette peered at his reading. Albion bred a mania for guides, even rating brothels in The Nocturnal Gentleman’s Companion.

"Weatherbys’ pedigree bible. No stakes won without it," Oleander muttered, flipping pages.

Yvette’s eye caught a name: Nutcracker—the same stallion Ulysses had borrowed from the Duke of Lancaster.

"Nutcracker’s favored, but odds are stingy. Better to bet on place or show," Oleander advised.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

Scanning the bloodlines, Yvette blanched. The sire’s also the grandsire?

"Pureblood retention," Oleander shrugged. "Father-to-daughter breeding locks in champion traits."

Yvette tossed £300 on a steeplechase dark horse while Oleander pinned hopes on "Tempest" for second place—until catastrophe struck.

Mid-race, Nutcracker—ridden by the Duke himself—faltered at a turn. The champion’s thundering gallop became a deadly trajectory toward the rails where Oleander stood.

Yvette lunged, hauling her friend aside as she muted the crash’s force. To onlookers, it seemed miraculous: the half-ton stallion shattered the barrier but left the duke dazed, not dead.

"Fetch physicians!" roared the Duke of Richmond’s heir, sprinting across turf.

Yvette reached the duke first. "We… meet again, Yves," he wheezed, clutching her arm. "Your gift… differs from Ulysses’."

She stiffened. Ulysses had hinted at the duke’s ties to their clandestine order, but how had he discerned her power? Most bloodline gifts shared familial echoes—yet hers warped energy itself, worlds apart from Ulysses’ augmented strength.

"Distant kin," Yvette said lightly, helping him rise. Let the duke puzzle over that.

As Yvette helped the Duke of Lancaster from beneath his fallen steed, a flurry of servants descended upon them. She meant to withdraw, but a skeletal grip clenched her sleeve.

“Yves,” the Duke rasped, drawing her close. “Your uncle Ulysses was my truest ally. In this den of wolves, you’re my only safeguard. Stay until my men arrive—this was no simple mishap.”

So the stumbled racehorse veers toward conspiracy? Yvette’s thoughts raced.

Memories surfaced of Queen Margret’s coronation ball—the whispers behind closed doors, the vanished king, St. James’s Palace suddenly drowning in cerulean mourning drapery. That demure princess, now monarch, wore grief as smoothly as her pearl choker.

Royalty’s rot seeps deep. If palace walls could bleed blue, perhaps the Duke’s caution wasn’t paranoia. As both a Bureau operative and Ulysses’ kin, she fit his needs neatly.

Repayment for that accursed painting he funded.

“Understood,” Yvette acquiesced.

Pandemonium unfolded—stretcher-bearers, shouted orders, the Duke’s theatrical groans. She shadowed the procession to Goodwood’s opulent guest chambers where an ancient physician performed comic-opera diagnostics, ultimately prescribing liniments and laudanum.

The Duke’s chest tells a darker story. During the examination, Yvette glimpsed ruined flesh over his heart—a scar too jagged for surgery’s grace. Some secrets weren’t hers to unravel.

Once alone, the Duke shed his deathbed act with a booming laugh.

“Your enemies still lurk,” Yvette cautioned.

“Enemies?” He waved dismissively. “Merely an incompetent stablemaster. The colt inherited weak hocks—it’ll be put down.”

Too clean a resolution. “Random chance makes poor assassins. That horse threw others before you.”

The Duke’s eyes hardened. “Thoroughbreds are but crafted failures. Their bones snap under the weight of our greed.”

Yvette recalled ‘Nutcracker’—the muscle-bound poetry of his gallop, the wet-eyed confusion as his leg shattered. Bred to break, then discarded.

“You mourn the beast?” The Duke’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “How… quaint.”

“Any sportsman would,” she deflected. “Since no plot threatens you…”

“Ah, but don’t we all play bred-to-break creatures?” His murmur chased her exit. “Parents, grandparents—the Lancasters marry their own, you see. Like horses kept pure… and flawed.”

In the hallway, Ulysses arrived with Richmond’s heir, exchanging terse pleasantries. Her uncle’s nod carried approval; the heir’s courtesy masked suspicion.

Behind oak-paneled doors, familiar voices clashed:

“Reckless,” Ulysses accused. “Death-chasing games?”

“Curiosity!” The Duke’s retort rang bright. “Would you stitch my head back if they lobbed it off? Admit it—you need me. Need this tainted blood binding me to your Tower’s wretched…”

“The Spindle bears heavier chains.”

“Firstborn privilege!” Bitter laughter. “He gets the rotting flesh, I the fractured mind. Our ancestral curse—equal yet opposite.”

“A bargain struck long before us.”

“A farce! My role—to revel and unravel?” The Duke’s sneer turned wistful. “Still… when he tastes envy through our bond? That sweetens the gall.”