Chapter 62: The Little Fox of the Taylor Family

The cigar burned with a faint glow.
The man spoke in an equally subdued tone.
They drifted from their wounds to their respective stories, trivial matters, and superficial views on the city and its people—more often than not, venting their shared dissatisfaction and laughing in unison, until their conversation eventually turned to their backgrounds.
Randolph seemed aware of Roland’s past, and out of courtesy, he did not dwell on it. Yet when speaking of himself, he held nothing back.
"My mother passed away when I was three years old."
Randolph leaned back into the sofa, the bottom button of his single-breasted vest undone. "She felt profound shame. Perhaps it wasn't just the chill she caught while rushing about with my father that claimed her life. Perhaps it was shame, perhaps."
Roland held his teacup, unable to make out Randolph's face clearly.
He was shrouded in the smoke of the cigar.
"She was ashamed of how she could have given her husband a..."
Randolph Taylor paused for a moment, then bit down on his cigar again, taking a fierce drag.
"Beatrice..."
His face suddenly emerged from the smoke, his narrowed dark blue eyes masking a scrutinizing gaze.
Yet his voice remained as light as if nothing were amiss.
"Forgive me, Roland, I've been talking rather too much. I assumed Lady Chloe had told you everything."
Roland lowered his gaze, rubbing the rim of the teacup.
"I've heard."
"Oh?"
"She said you are a clever man, Randolph."
Randolph looked thoroughly unconvinced, his eyebrows twitching upward. "Me? I wager she would never say such a thing—though speaking ill of others behind their backs is hardly the behavior of a gentleman, I bet you, Roland, that sharp-toothed lady would never offer me such a peaceful assessment."
Roland tilted his head in thought and corrected, "A clever animal?"
Randolph burst into laughter.
He waved his cigar-holding hand in small gestures, as though conducting a dance of smoke.
Upon mentioning Cherie Chloe and her husband, Randolph’s face was filled with utter contempt.
Yet he felt not an ounce of pity for Lady Chloe.
He felt no pity for this woman who had married into a lordly family to "enjoy a life of luxury."
"Whenever anyone does something, they ought to be fully aware of the price behind it. You should understand my meaning even better, Roland."
He spoke with a degree of coldness, but Roland did not consider these "harsh words."
"Every step must be taken with absolute caution. And women are too often muddled in their minds, blinded by various matters, which leads them to commit irrational acts..."
Roland shook his head and softly countered, "Some people have no choice."

Like Cherie, as he walked the path he was on today, he too lacked other choices for many things—or perhaps he simply didn't want them.
"Perhaps," Randolph replied vaguely. "Just like my mother..."
He had been chatting with Roland for twenty minutes, yet he consistently avoided speaking in depth about his sister Beatrice. Several times they seemed on the verge of the topic, only for him to abruptly steer away.
Like a cunning fox, step by step, piece by piece, he was carefully probing Roland.
"I understand it all, Randolph."
Roland blinked, turning his head to look at the man enveloped in smoke, and stated bluntly, "What difference does it make? It's just like my eyes."
"She can see the world, yet cannot perceive it clearly; I can perceive the world clearly, yet cannot see it."
These words were like a gentle breeze, scattering the smoke.
Randolph looked at Roland, and gradually, the corners of his mouth curled upward.
He fell silent for a moment, then suddenly said:
"You are different from the others, Roland."
And he added:
"And not just your face."
This time it was Roland's turn to smile. "Why must you keep bringing up my face?"
"I can't help it, that face of yours is far too enviable." Randolph's laughter grew increasingly genuine. He leaned toward Roland, bumped shoulders with him briefly, took the cigar from Roland's mouth, and picked up a fresh one for him.
He personally clipped the cap with a small blade and shoved it into Roland's hand.
"Try it. A remarkably fine batch. Once they reach the shop, they'll be available by reservation only."
It felt like a soft, pliable wooden stick, firm yet springy.
Roland pinched it, rolled it between his fingers a few times, clamped it between his teeth, and looked at Randolph.
The little wooden stick bobbed up and down.
It amused Randolph to laughter.
Instead of a wooden match, he picked up a silver pewter table lighter, steadied it, sparked it, and lit it for Roland.
The outer flame licked the thick-ringed tip of the cigar, causing it to gradually grow red and hot, emitting a rich aroma of toasted caramel and coffee.
"Make sure not to swallow the smoke," Randolph cautioned, watching as Roland dutifully sucked in his cheeks, puffed out his mouth, swished the smoke around his palate a few times, and then blew out a wisp. Only then did he slap his knee and laugh heartily:
"Look at that! I've gone and tutored another gentleman!"
The highly amused man chuckled as he spoke, "You're just a step away—a step away from becoming a true man."
Clearly, a conversation between men was about to begin.
Roland was hardly shy about discussing such matters.
On the street where the apothecary stood, once night fell, many things became commonplace.
Men and women hurried along; on one side, rushing home after a brief moment of ecstasy to lie down and rest comfortably; on the other, trying to finish quickly to earn a few more coins from the next customer.
Roland was not ignorant of this.
"I am not talking about those trivial affairs."
Randolph shook his head emphatically.
He told Roland with an air of mystery that a certain woman had recently become exceptionally famous within their circles.
"They call her Lady Jasmine."
The animated man described the woman's appearance and grace to Roland, recounting how beautiful and elegant she was, and how deeply cherished.
Boastfully, he told Roland how much money he had spent on gifts just to secure a moment alone with her, and how he had specially custom-ordered stockings, jewelry, and shawls for her—
Roland listened with rapt attention.
Yet to say this gentleman was like most ordinary men was something Roland could not entirely conclude.
The impression he gave was somewhat similar to Cherie Chloe; beneath the boasting and a man's ardor for a woman, the greater undercurrent in his words was shrewdness.
For instance, the results he achieved after spending so much money to gain her favor.
"...By rubbing shoulders with those lords, one must always have conversational currency no matter where one goes. Befriending Lady Jasmine allows me to introduce her to several renowned names—the gentlemen are happy to grant me a favor, and the lady is happy to speak well of me in return."
He narrowed his eyes, looking precisely like a cunning fox.
"Our line of work is far from easy, Roland."
"Business is difficult, but human relations come first."
He spoke, gently laying his cigar flat into the navy-blue and gold-plated porcelain ashtray.
"Making friends is terribly difficult."
Roland tilted his head and smiled. "I find it not difficult at all. Are we not friends, Randolph?"
The pale-faced man wore a pleased expression. "Of course. You saved my sister; we shall always be friends."
He picked up his cup and took a sip of coffee.
"Should you have any needs, the Taylor family will provide assistance. Believe me, Roland, to a certain extent, this surname is synonymous with sovereigns."
Roland readily acknowledged the statement, his tone ambiguous: "Friends should naturally help one another."
Randolph knew he had understood.
"You are far more special than the other executors of the Tribunal, my friend. No, I should say you are unlike anyone else I have ever met." He didn't pursue Roland's remark further, but stood up and handed over his walking cane. "Come, let us go see little Betty."