"My father's opinion ceased to matter when he died," Alaric said sharply.
"Yes, well. Quite. Still, it's marvelous to see you here. You must tell me all about it. Are you staying at the hall? I heard it was closed up."
"I'm staying at the inn."
"The inn? The village inn? But why?"
"It's complicated."
"I imagine it is. And this young lady is...?"
"This young lady," Marianne said with icy precision, "is someone who's just discovered she's been made a fool of by someone she thought she could trust. If you'll excuse me, Your Grace," she said the title like it was profanity, "I have pies to save and a fair to run. Something those of us who actually live here and care about this village do."
She threw the net at his feet and walked away, her back rigid with anger and hurt. Alaric started to follow, but Dupont caught his arm.
"I say, did I interrupt something? She seemed rather upset."
"Yes, Dupont, you interrupted something. Something important."
"Oh. Well. Sorry about that. But really, Wexmere, what are you doing here? And dressed like that? And why does that woman think you're someone called Fletcher?"
"It's a long story."
"I have time."
"I don't." Alaric pulled free. "I need to..."
But Marianne was already gone, disappeared into the crowd. He could see the ripple of gossip spreading from where they stood—people whispering, pointing, the news traveling like wildfire through the village.
The Duke of Wexmere was here. Had been here all along. Pretending to be someone else. Lying to everyone.
Lying to Marianne.
"Well," Dupont said cheerfully, oblivious to the catastrophe he'd caused, "shall we get some of this wine I keep hearing about? I'm told it's traditional."
"Dupont," Alaric said with barely controlled patience, "I need you to go away. Now. Immediately."
"I say, that's rather rude."
"Yes, it is. Go anyway."
"But I just got here!"
"And now you're leaving."
"But..."
"Dupont, I am having the worst day of my life, which is saying something considering my life has contained some remarkably bad days. If you don't leave immediately, I will do something we'll both regret."
"Like what?"
"I don't know yet, but I'm sure it will be creative and painful."
Dupont huffed but retreated, muttering about the decline of ducal manners. Alaric stood alone in the middle of the fair, surrounded by people who were all staring at him with expressions ranging from shock to anger to betrayed hurt.
The geese, sensing the shift in attention, took the opportunity to escape with their pilfered pies. Admiral Feathers honked what sounded like a victory call as he led his troops away.
Even the geese were having a better day than him.
