The Mob Noble Lady Whose Inner Voice Leaks Everywhere Has No Idea Her Faves Can Hear It All - Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Dearest Father, About That Butler…

[Liese's Side]

The next morning, I sat on my bed clutching my knees.

It was a bright, sunny day outside, but all I could picture was what I had witnessed through that same window yesterday afternoon: Heinz leaning in to whisper to Stepmother behind the rose hedge while she nodded behind her fan.

(That man is embezzling funds, isn't he?)

In the official fanbook, Heinz had been nothing more than a named background character. But I possessed another clue—a bonus booklet included with the limited edition of the game.

It featured a short story where the heroine visited an orphanage. The children’s clothes were ragged patches, and they lacked enough firewood for the winter. When the director investigated, it turned out that donations from a certain marquisate hadn’t arrived in years because the family's butler was pocketing the funds. The booklet named the culprit in a single line at the end: The butler of the Marquisate of Ahrens was keeping all the donation money for himself.

(That story won't pop up until well into the Main Story—long after I'm gone.)

I tried to tell myself it had nothing to do with a mob character destined to pass away from illness at seventeen. Yet, I couldn't erase the image of those illustrated orphans shivering under thin blankets in front of a cold fireplace.

Besides, if the truth ever broke, Father would suffer the embarrassment. People would mock the Prime Minister for having eyes like wooden knobs while his butler stole firewood from orphans. It could even hurt Big Brother’s prospects at the Prime Minister's Office.

I got off the bed. I only had two years left anyway; blurt out a few odd things, and it wouldn't ruin any future of mine. I might as well speak up while I still could.

◇

After breakfast, I headed to Father’s study.

Father usually left for the Prime Minister’s Office about an hour after breakfast, using the interval to review estate documents in his study—a routine unchanged for four years.

At the hallway corner, I ran right into Heinz. He carried a stack of documents against his chest, looking every bit the posture-perfect, meticulous butler.

"Good morning, Lady Liese."

"Good morning, Heinz."

He bowed politely and glided past without a sound. Atop his stack sat the familiar ledger of the household accounts.

(It's always the capable ones like him. That's why nobody suspects a thing.)

In front of the study door, I composed myself with a quiet breath.

Until four years ago, this door was off-limits. Father was busy, the study was quiet, and it wasn't a place for children. Even after returning, I hadn’t visited once. I knocked timidly.

"...Come in."

His deep voice answered. Inside, the room smelled just as I remembered—paper and ink. Thick volumes packed the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and Father sat at the large desk by the window.

The single guest chair by the wall was buried under a pile of papers. Standing before the desk, I pinched my skirt and curtsied.

"Forgive me for interrupting your busy morning, Father. May I have a moment of your time?"

Father’s pen stopped. "...Ah."

He raised his eyes, meeting mine. Seeing him closely, he looked even thinner than at the dinner table the day I returned, with faint dark circles beneath his eyes.

(Dearest Father, the wrinkle between your brows... you have one more than your sprite in the fanbook.)

His hand twitched toward his forehead before stopping mid-air.

I glanced at the edge of the desk. Beside a mountain of paperwork lay an old leather-bound notebook with worn corners from frequent opening.

(Ah, Mother's diary.)

I knew about it; the fanbook's profile on Marquis Georg mentioned he still re-read his late wife’s diary every night. Father quietly slid the notebook beneath a pile of papers. I pretended not to notice—everyone has things they'd rather keep private.

"So, what did you wish to discuss?"

"Yes... Though it may be forward of me to say..." I folded my hands before me. "Dearest Father, it might be best not to hand documents over to that butler... I believe it would be wise to perform a thorough investigation into him."

(He's embezzling the orphanage donations to funnel into Stepmother's dress fund... Comparing our ledgers side-by-side with the orphanage receipts should make it obvious right away. Checking if any recent thank-you letters came in would work, too.)

Father froze.

The hand holding his pen hovered in the air as a single black drop fell from the nib, spreading into a small blot on the document he was writing. A heavy silence settled over the room.

I grew anxious. Was it too sudden? A daughter who just returned, telling him to suspect a butler who had served for years—anyone would scold me for such absurdity.

"...May I ask your reason?"

"Call it an intuition, Father. I cannot offer anything concrete."

(Forgive me, Dearest Father. I can hardly explain that I read it in a bonus booklet... Though if you inspect the incoming and outgoing funds, or verify the donation receipts...)

Father closed his eyes slowly. Once, twice. He took a deep, heavy breath, then opened his eyes and set the stained document aside.

"Very well. I shall look into it."

His answer was brief, but he didn't laugh at my words or press me for proof. He simply looked straight at me and nodded.

I blinked. (...You're actually listening to me? To something so baseless?)

Something settled comfortably in my chest.

(Of course. Father still reads Mother's diary every night. I know he sent me away out of kindness to protect me. He feels guilty, so he's willing to listen to even my smallest opinion.)

Father's shoulders trembled ever so slightly.

(A way of making amends, perhaps? He really doesn't need to worry so much.)

His hand tightened around the paperweight on his desk, his knuckles turning white as if holding something back. I tilted my head.

(Dearest Father looks exhausted again. Working as Prime Minister must be so much harder than it seemed in the fanbook.)

"...Is there anything else?" His voice sounded rasper than before.

"No, Dearest Father. That is all."

"I see." Father paused, dropping his eyes to his desk documents before raising his face awkwardly. "...Have you chosen your dress?"

"Yes. I asked the tailor to use the most modest fabric available."

(Plain gray cotton is more than enough for me. Big Sister's green satin dress is far more important. Coming from Madame Rosa's workshop, it's bound to be a masterpiece.)

The corner of Father's mouth twitched slightly. It almost looked as though he was holding something in, though it was likely just my imagination.

"Leave it to Johanna. ...Do not concern yourself with the cost."

"Thank you, Dearest Father. I shall not disrupt your work any longer. Excuse me."

Curtsying once more, I turned toward the door. I could feel Father's gaze on my back, a lingering presence in the room as if he wanted to say something more.

Just as my hand touched the handle, he spoke.

"Liese."

I turned back. Father had his hands clasped on the desk, watching me.

"...Thank you for telling me."

That was all. Surprised, I bowed my head slightly, my face remaining composure-flat as always.

(Dearest Father, trying to be considerate even though he's a taciturn character... He really has been a gentle person all along.)

Just before closing the door, I saw him press the bridge of his nose once more.

◇

Stepping into the corridor, morning sunlight streamed through the windows.

I placed a hand on my chest as I walked. I had said what needed to be said; Father would handle the rest smoothly. A Prime Minister's investigation wouldn't leave any loose ends.

(Hopefully, this means those kids will get a bit more firewood this winter.)

This was about as much as I could do—a mob daughter who merely happened to know a tiny glimpse of the future.

As I rounded the corner, Heinz approached from the other side carrying another stack of papers, likely heading for the study.

"Lady Liese, were you visiting Master's study?"

"Yes. Just briefly regarding my debut."

A white lie is a lady's necessary etiquette. Heinz offered a pleasant smile and bowed deeply.

I walked past him. Behind me, the sound of knocking on the study door echoed down the hall, followed after a beat by Father's low voice:

"...Come in."

It was the same voice as always. Without looking back, I headed for the library.