The Greatest Showman#1312 - bossy

Viscount John de Bioford clearly felt Renly's provocation and counterattack. He laughed angrily, his mockery laced with contempt. Then, without warning, his smile vanished, his eyebrows arched sharply, and his expression turned fierce. He struck his cane against the floor repeatedly—Bang! Bang! Bang!—each strike resounding like thunder.

"Etiquette? Are you talking about etiquette with me? Do you even know your place? Who do you think you are? And who do you think I am? Since when do I owe you the courtesy of etiquette? You? You are not worthy!" John's voice dripped with disdain, his glare brimming with undisguised disgust and hatred. The weight of his status pressed down like a hammer, reinforcing the vast chasm between them.

His eyes burned with fury as he continued his tirade. "The day you chose disgrace, you ceased to exist in name and identity. And now you come here, speaking of honor? Of etiquette? How laughable! You are a disgrace to your family! Your father and mother should be weeping in sorrow. You should be exiled beyond Elba Island, never to be seen again!

"God! I can't believe you are still here at this party! Even if Richard has lost his wits, you should know your place. Hide! Do not let yourself be seen! Your mere presence is an affront—an absolute disgrace! Do you understand?"

His words poured down like a relentless storm, drowning the room in his fury. No one had the chance to interrupt.

Beatrice's cheeks flushed with anger, her eyes flashing. She attempted to interject twice, but John's tirade bulldozed over her voice, leaving her fuming in silent frustration, glaring at him.

"You should shut up."

The words were quiet at first, nearly lost beneath John's relentless shouting. But Matthew did not waver. His voice grew in intensity, each word sharpened with resolve. "You should shut up!"

His firm rebuttal cut through the air like a blade, abruptly halting John's rant.

John's expression twisted in shock and disbelief as he met Matthew's gaze.

Matthew held his stare, unflinching. "The empire on which the sun never sets has long since crumbled. The old ideals of a century ago lie buried with rotting corpses underground. Anyone clinging to such vile, archaic beliefs deserves to be history as well."

Matthew, usually silent and reserved, revealed a piercing edge that left the room in stunned silence. As a royal criminal defense lawyer, his words carried weight.

John, momentarily dumbfounded, could not find an immediate retort.

Matthew pressed on. "I've heard the British people no longer hold the royal family in high regard. Some even wish to abolish it. And let's not forget—the story of Princess Diana was only fifteen years ago."

His words sliced through the room with ruthless precision, ignoring the presence of William, Kate, and Beatrice. He stripped away the illusions, exposing the raw and uncomfortable truth.

William's expression shifted slightly, yet he offered no rebuttal. Because Matthew's words were undeniable.

"As for the nobility," Matthew continued, his gaze locking onto John's darkened face. "Beyond their empty titles, what remains? Nothing. Yet they persist in their delusions, pretending the empire still stands, confining themselves to their little circles. In truth, they are nothing more than actors, performing an elaborate charade."

Then, in a final flourish, Matthew raised his hands and clapped twice—slow, deliberate, cutting.

The applause, though soft, rang out like a slap to John's face.

Renly's lips curled into a faint smile. His anger had never stemmed from mere disappointment in George and Elizabeth. No, it was their insatiable greed. Yet Matthew's fiery response was unexpectedly amusing to him.

"Matthew, stripping away all illusions like this is rather impolite toward the Viscount," Renly remarked with an easy smile. "Noble etiquette teaches restraint in emotions. Social etiquette teaches respect for elders. Your behavior is quite improper."

Matthew merely shrugged, entirely unbothered.

But John's fury boiled over. Renly's words had been a veiled insult, mocking John's lack of noble decorum and his complete disregard for basic dignity.

"Performance. What a performance," John sneered, straightening his posture. At that moment, his aristocratic heritage shone through—his composure regained, his condescension towering over even William and Kate. Years of lineage and tradition lent him a weight that could not be ignored.

His gaze shifted to Richard. "Since actors have been invited to the party, and since they pride themselves on their craft, why not have them perform? Shouldn't they demonstrate their skills for the guests? Perhaps then they might earn a sliver of our respect—like court musicians and ballerinas of old."

His words dripped with disdain, his intent unmistakable.

In high society, private performances were common—a pianist showcasing their talent, a painter unveiling their work. But these performances were intimate, shared only among close friends and respected peers. However, another kind of performance existed—where nobility treated artists as mere entertainers, their talents enjoyed only as fleeting amusements.

This was the humiliation John intended.

"Sir, that is inappropriate," Richard interjected, shaking his head firmly.

But John pressed forward, relentless. "Why? Does he refuse? I thought this was his profession. Or is he afraid to reveal his true mediocrity? Afraid to be exposed?"

Never once did John directly address Renly. His glance barely skimmed over him, his contempt so deeply ingrained that it did not require direct acknowledgment.

"Of course not!" Beatrice finally snapped, unable to contain herself.

John's gaze settled on her. "Beatrice, when adults speak, children should not interrupt. Even the Duke of Cambridge knows this. Please, do not embarrass yourself."

Beatrice seethed, ready to fire back.

Richard, equally incensed, prepared to challenge John again.

But before they could utter a word, another voice rang out.

"Okay."

All eyes turned toward the speaker.

Renly.

"Renly!" Beatrice gasped in disbelief.

Yet Renly stood tall, his expression composed, his lips curled into a faint smile. "Why not? On such an occasion, a display of artistry among peers is only fitting. And, as I hear it, I seem to be the man of the hour tonight. Would it not be a shame to disappoint the guests? I should show my gratitude to our host."

There was no trace of reluctance or humiliation—only calm confidence.

From the sidelines, George and Elizabeth's faces twisted in dismay. The situation was spiraling out of control. If Renly performed, the Hall name would suffer irreparable disgrace. Yet, the dilemma was of John's own making, and Renly had agreed. Their protestations would be futile.

George's gaze darkened. He knew—Renly had done this deliberately. A calculated move to humiliate them. To exact his revenge.

Renly turned slightly, his eyes locking onto George and Elizabeth's. He spoke, his voice steady. "In theatre, as in life, Mozart is Mozart. And Salieri is Salieri. Even Emperor Joseph II could recognize the difference. Couldn't he?"

A challenge. A statement. A reckoning.

The stage was set.