Chapter 65: The Wrath of Beatrice Taylor

The sound of cutlery gently scraping against porcelain plates was almost the only noise in the dining room.

It was even quieter than the sound of chewing.

The Taylor family were not nobles, and the guests invited today did not need to strictly follow the proper course of a formal meal.

Without separating the appetizer, starter, and main course, the servants served everything at once: a large platter of golden-brown roasted fish, several sizzling meat steaks, two bowls of avocado and tomato-vegetable salad, a dish of chicken stewed in red wine, a plate of mixed seafood medley, and a bottle of claret-colored wine.

Naturally, there was no need to strictly observe table manners either.

After a brief moment of silence, Randolph Taylor broke the ice first.

"Please make yourself at home, Roland."

"Things were a bit rushed today, and I am not sure if the food is to your liking."

"This is already lavish enough," Roland praised sincerely.

The servants present could not hide their curiosity, seemingly wondering how a blind man could accurately distinguish between a dinner knife and a fork and direct them precisely toward the food.

Shortly after, Randolph waved them away, leaving only the middle-aged maid named Teresa.

Beatrice and her brother sat at one end, while Roland sat at the other, facing them.

Randolph raised his glass.

"To you, Roland Collins. A friend of the Taylor family, and my sister's savior."

Roland raised his glass in response and took a gentle sip. "And to you, my good friend, my good brother."

Randolph rudely took a large gulp, looked with doting fondness at his grease-faced sister who was burying herself in her food, and then turned to Roland. "My father travels to the Port of Porti in Gotshola every year, and he has been gone for half a month."

He was worried that Roland might think he was showing poor hospitality.

"When he returns, I hope to invite you as a guest once more."

"We are friends, Randolph," Roland murmured, rubbing the stem of his glass.

As they spoke, servants brought in some steaming pies and creamy puddings.

"Indeed, we are friends."

Hearing this, Randolph laughed heartily. "I believe you must have had your reservations about that sharp-tongued Madam Chloe—ah, yes, I shall not speak of her virtues or faults. I want to tell you, Roland, that I am a good brother. I do not wish to force my sister to suffer in anyone's household."

He glanced at Beatrice, and seeing the girl give no reaction, he raised an eyebrow at Roland with a helpless expression.

"Aside from friendship, I have no other excessive requests for a promising Inquisitor."

Roland certainly understood the implication behind those words.

"I suppose that, aside from friendship, I have nothing else to ask of Randolph Taylor either—though of course, 'no one knows if it will rain tomorrow.' I respect the choices of fate, and I hope fate respects mine."

Roland clumsily imitated the gesture of holding a wine glass with two fingers and swirling it gently, but after this sentence, the dining room fell dead silent.

Except for the sound of Beatrice chewing.

Randolph narrowed his eyes to observe Roland closely, the muscles along the sides of his nose and cheeks sagging.

For a fleeting second, he looked dark and gloomy, like a sharp-toothed fox crouching in the grass, waiting for an opportunity to hunt.

"What is it? Did I not do it right?" Roland tilted his head, staring at the steak on his plate. "I learned this trick from Madam Chloe's salon. Is something wrong with it?"

He swirled his red wine glass again.

Randolph stared at Roland without speaking for nearly twenty seconds.

If he had heard correctly, what Roland meant was...

Randolph suddenly broke into a grin.

The gloom in his eyes completely dissipated.

"You are unlike anyone I have ever met, Roland," he repeated. "Anyone."

"Then that is the fault of 'anyone,' not mine." Roland placed the steak he had chosen onto his plate, neatly carved and sliced it into small pieces with the tip of his knife, and picked up a piece to put into his mouth.

After a brief pause:

"Nor is it the fault of Beatrice Taylor."

Those amber eyes stared straight into nothingness, yet they were exceptionally firm.

The curve of Randolph's mouth grew wider and wider.

He suddenly laughed in an extremely impolite, even uninhibited manner, his laughter echoing through the dining room.

"Yes, yes! Exactly! You are right!"

Randolph did not know how to praise the handsome and elegant precious being sitting across from him.

Rather than praising his appearance, one should praise his transparent and sincere heart.

"Those words are as wonderful and pure as the gift you gave to Betty!"

Roland, however, did not wish to dwell on this topic.

Regarding his views on certain things, he had long known that he was not 'pure' enough—the mindset 'polluted' by Miss Nina always caused him to say startling things.

This was sometimes good, and sometimes bad.

It tended to cause trouble.

"Then, what can I do for my friend? Randolph, I am merely an Inquisitor."

Randolph leisurely wiped his mouth and put down his napkin.

"Nothing."

That was his answer to Roland.

"I do not need my friend to frame competitors for me, using 'harboring cultists' or 'performing illegal rituals' to strike down those destined losers; nor do I need to use you to associate with those shadowy figures and then harm others with curses or bones."

"The Taylor family truly rose during my grandfather's generation. Our ancestors were not prominent; we built everything with our own hands. I am capable of defeating the Taylor family's enemies within the rules."

"Roland, I only need your guarantee: when someone employs unseemly methods against me or my family, you will step forward."

"Especially for my family."

This was Randolph Taylor's demand.

Compared to the detectives of the Supervisory Bureau, an Inquisitor from the Tribunal held much more weight when it came to cult-related matters.

"No problem."

Roland readily agreed.

"Then, let us begin today."

Amidst Randolph's confusion, Roland gently laid down his knife and fork.

"I must confess something to you, Randolph. Could you call the other servants over?"

Randolph did not understand Roland's intention, but still followed his request, gesturing to Teresa to summon most of the servants in the mansion.

There were not many servants, at least not as many as in the Chloe household.

Once they had all lined up, Roland spoke to Randolph with a grave expression, "My friend, it seems you will have to speak on my behalf."

This sentence caused Beatrice, who had been vigorously attacking her steak, to suddenly raise her head.

Randolph was stunned, hurriedly responding, "Roland, has there been any poor hospitality—"

"No. I heard that something has been lost," Roland said with a solemn demeanor. "I only came as a guest today, and I happened to encounter this—"

Hearing this, the furrowed brow on Randolph's forehead finally smoothed out.

So that was it.

"Perhaps it wasn't today, or perhaps it was lost in the carriage or during a banquet—such things are far too common."

"But I understand your meaning, Roland."

"'A gentleman should never fall under the suspicion of others.'"

This astute heir naturally understood the subtext.

Just like responding standardly with 'the weather is nice,' when the other party said such a thing, the host was required to use words like 'certainty' and 'without a shadow of a doubt' to publicly display their stance.

In other words, if Randolph truly beat around the bush, it would be a clear expression of: you are not welcome here.

No fool would speak like that.

This was like an unyielding rule, a piece of etiquette known to all.

"Very well, very well—if anyone ever suspects Roland Collins, let them first suspect Randolph Taylor!"

Randolph joked.

Betty losing things wasn't a rare occurrence; he was busy with commerce and neglected her supervision, but the Taylor family certainly didn't care about a few coins.

Nobles might mock the vulgarity of the Taylors, but they would never dare to question the treasury that made that vulgarity so elegant.

Rubbing his thumb, Randolph was just about to start a new topic and dismiss the servants when his sister, Beatrice, suddenly raised her dinner knife—

And smashed it down onto her porcelain plate, shattering the dish into pieces!

The loud crash startled everyone!

Not only Randolph, but even Teresa and the gathered servants had never seen Beatrice behave this way.

Her eyes were wide-staring, locked fiercely onto her brother.

"It wasn't Roland!"

"W-what—?" Randolph was completely baffled.

"No, it was, Ro, land!" She enunciated each syllable as if using every ounce of her strength to force the words out.

Shrill and terrifying.

"No, Betty, put down the knife... What on earth is going on? What are you—"

"Roland didn't hurt me!"

Beatrice threw down her dinner knife and began to scream and shout, "It wasn't him! He didn't hurt me! He didn't hurt me! He didn't make me lick disgusting shoes! It wasn't him! You can't! You can't do this! You can't stop him from coming! Let him come! Come tomorrow! Tomorrow! Tomorrow! Tomorrow!"

Her voice grew louder and louder as she shouted.

Teresa's expression gradually darkened.

Randolph stared blankly for a few seconds.

Soon, he drew a deep breath, raised his hand, gently stroked his sister's golden hair, and soothingly murmured in a gentle voice.

"Of course, my dear. I will let Roland visit often. Who could stop him from coming? You like him so much, and he likes you too. Roland and I are the best of friends, and we see each other often—which means you will see each other often, alright?"

Beatrice was still huffing and puffing, but she finally quieted down somewhat.

"Disgusting shoes?"

The pale, sharp-faced young man rubbed his fingers. At this moment, he appeared exceptionally calm. "If it wasn't Roland, then who could it have been, Betty?"

Beatrice pressed her lips together, like a deflated ball, shrinking her neck and turning her gaze away.

Randolph did not seem rushed, leisurely 'threatened' his sister: "If I cannot figure this out, I'm afraid... oh dear... the two of you might truly find it difficult to meet ever again..."

The threat indeed worked.

The moment those words were spoken, Beatrice immediately grabbed her brother's sleeve, gripped it tightly, and turned her head to look at Roland with eyes full of entreaty.

—But no one responded.

Roland said not another word, keeping his head down as he cut his steak by himself. Her brother also raised his wine glass, watching the crimson waves of blood-like droplets gather within it, his gaze deep and silent.

The dining room plunged into a terrifying silence.

And so...

That habitual cowardice finally transformed today.

Her eyes held lingering fear, her fingers trembled uncontrollably, and her heart felt as though it was about to jump out of her throat—yet despite all this, her gaze resolutely crossed the back of the chair and pointed far off into a corner.

Toward the woman who was currently trying to hide herself among the group of servants.

"So that was it."

Randolph spoke in a soft, expressionless tone. "Ah, what an unprecedented insult."

His drawn-out tone sounded like an awl meant to make someone wail, cold and sharp.