Lady Ines Scandalous Hobby-Chapter 152 - Hundred And Fifty Two

The silence in the Royal Opera House was absolute. It was a heavy, suffocating blanket that covered every lord, lady, and servant in the room. Even the candles seemed to flicker less, as if holding their breath to see what would happen next.

The Queen sat on her velvet throne, the black leather book open in her lap. Her face, usually a mask of bored indifference, was now twisted into an expression of deep confusion and growing disgust.

She turned a page. The crisp sound of the paper turning echoed like a gunshot in the quiet hall.

She read a few lines. Her eyes widened. Her lips pursed into a thin, white line. She looked up from the book, her gaze landing directly on Priscilla. It was not a look of approval. It was a look of someone who had just stepped in something unpleasant on the street.

Priscilla stood tall in the center of the room. She was beaming. Her smile was wide and triumphant. She clasped her hands in front of her violet dress, waiting for the Queen to gasp at the smut. She was waiting for the Queen to ostracize Ines for writing filth.

But the Queen did not gasp. She did not shout at Ines.

Instead, the Queen closed the book with a sharp snap.

She held it out, away from her body, pinching the corner of the cover as if the book itself were dirty.

"You brought this to me?" the Queen asked. Her voice was ice cold.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Priscilla said, bobbing a quick curtsy. "It proves the depravity of the author."

"Depravity indeed," the Queen muttered. She looked at Priscilla with a strange intensity. "It is... very specific."

The Queen beckoned Priscilla closer with a flick of her wrist.

"I will not read such things aloud," the Queen declared. "It is beneath my dignity. If you are so proud of this discovery, child, you read it."

Priscilla’s eyes lit up. This was better than she had hoped. She would be the voice of justice. She would be the one to read the scandalous words that would ruin Ines forever.

"It would be my honor, Your Majesty," Priscilla said.

She stepped forward and took the black book from the Queen’s hand. The leather felt cool and heavy. She turned to face the crowd. She looked at the sea of masks. She found Ines in the crowd—the woman in silver standing so still, so pale.

Goodbye, Ines , Priscilla thought viciously.

She opened the book. She didn’t bother to check the page. She just flipped to a section near the middle, wanting to find the most shocking part.

She cleared her throat. She pitched her voice to carry to the back of the room.

"April 14th," Priscilla read aloud.

The crowd leaned in. April 14th? That was recent. That wasn’t a Chapter number. It sounded like a diary entry.

Priscilla continued, reading with dramatic flair.

"I saw him again today. The Duke. He looked magnificent in his blue coat. I stood behind the pillar at the tea party, just to be close to him. I wore my lavender perfume. I drenched myself in it because I know he smells it. I want him to breathe me in."

Priscilla paused for a dramatic effect. She smiled at the crowd, expecting them to be shocked by the lustful description.

But the crowd was not looking at Ines. They were looking at Priscilla.

A murmur started in the front row.

"Lavender?" Lady Brie whispered loudly.

"Doesn’t Lady Priscilla always wear lavender?"

"She is wearing it tonight," Lord Hudson muttered to his wife. "I can smell it from here."

Priscilla frowned slightly. She didn’t understand the whispers. She looked down at the page again. She decided to read the next paragraph. It was sure to be more damning.

"He pretends to like her," Priscilla read. Her voice was strong, confident. "He pretends to care for Ines Hamilton. But I know the truth. I see the way his eyes wander. He is trapped. He is waiting for me to save him. He is waiting for me to remove the obstacle."

Priscilla stopped.

A cold drop of sweat slid down her back.

Remove the obstacle.

Those words... they sounded familiar. They sounded like her own thoughts.

She looked at the page again. The handwriting was messy, frantic. It didn’t look like a carefully edited novel. It looked like the scribblings of a madwoman.

She read the next line silently.

I have a collection of his things. A handkerchief I stole from his coat pocket. A button from his cuff. I keep them under my pillow. I kiss them every night before I sleep. I am the only one who truly loves him.

Priscilla’s hands began to shake. The book trembled in her grip.

This wasn’t Arthur Pendleton. This wasn’t a romance novel about a made-up Duke.

This was a diary.

And it wasn’t just any diary. It was a diary written from her perspective. It detailed her movements. It talked about her perfume. It talked about stealing things—things she had never actually stolen, but the book made it sound so real, so sick, even with her handwriting.

She looked up. The triumph was gone from her face, replaced by a dawn of absolute horror.

The room was buzzing now. The whispers were no longer quiet.

"Is she reading her own diary?"

"She sounds obsessed."

"Did you hear that? She steals his buttons?"

"She thinks the Duke is trapped? The man looks besotted with Lady Hamilton!"

Priscilla looked at the Queen.

The Queen was not smiling. She was staring at Priscilla with a look of profound disturbance.

"Go on," the Queen commanded softly. "Do not stop now. You said this was proof."

Priscilla swallowed hard. Her throat felt dry as dust.

"I... Your Majesty..." Priscilla stammered. "This... this is not right."

"Read," the Queen ordered. Her voice was like a whip crack.

Priscilla looked down at the book helplessly.

She read one more line, her voice shaking so hard it was barely a whisper.

"If she does not leave him, I will destroy her. I will ruin her name. I will make up lies. I will do anything to make Carcel mine. He belongs to me. He has always belonged to me."

Priscilla shut the book.

Thud.

She couldn’t read anymore. The words on the page were a mirror, reflecting a twisted, ugly version of herself. It made her sound insane. It made her sound dangerous.

She looked at the crowd. They were recoiling from her. Mothers were pulling their daughters closer. Men were looking at her with wariness.

She looked at Ines.

Ines was still standing in the same spot. She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t spoken. But now, behind the silver mask, her eyes were hard. She wasn’t the victim anymore. She was the judge.

Priscilla realized then. It was a trap.

The manuscript she bought... the manuscript she paid a fortune for... it was a fake. Ines had written it. Ines had written a fake diary to frame Priscilla as a stalker.

"It’s not mine," Priscilla gasped.

She dropped the book. It hit the floor with a heavy sound.

"It is not mine!" she shouted, her voice rising to a hysterical shriek.

She turned to the Queen, holding out her hands in a pleading gesture.

"Your Majesty, please! You must believe me. I did not write this! I am not... I am not obsessed! I am not crazy!"

The Queen looked at the book on the floor, then back at Priscilla.

"You brought the book to me," the Queen pointed out calmly. "You claimed it was a manuscript. Now you say it is not yours? Then who does it belong to?"

Priscilla felt the walls closing in. She felt the eyes of the entire ton burning into her skin. She was drowning, and she needed to pull someone down with her.

She spun around. She pointed a shaking finger at Ines.

"They are hers, Your Majesty!" Priscilla screamed. "She wrote it! She wrote it to frame me!"

Priscilla took a step toward Ines, her face twisted with rage and panic.

"Lady Ines Hamilton is Arthur Pendleton!"

Priscilla yelled. "She is the writer! She wrote this book! She is the liar!"