Chapter 10
Edward did not speak as they entered the study.
He closed the door behind them with measured care, more from habit than intent, and crossed immediately to the desk as though drawn by gravity.
The room was as he had left it earlier—papers stacked neatly, the fire low but steady, the air faintly scented with ash and old leather. It was a familiar order, comforting in its predictability.
Christopher, on the other hand, did not move at all.
Edward sensed him lingering near the door, felt the weight of his attention like a presence at his back. He removed his coat, draped it over the back of the chair, and reached for a ledger he had no immediate intention of opening.
Only then did Christopher speak.
“You know,” he said mildly, “if you wished to admire the governess, you might have spared yourself the trouble of pretending otherwise.”
Edward did not turn. “I was not admiring.”
Christopher hummed thoughtfully. “You were certainly looking.”
Edward set the ledger down with deliberate control and straightened. “She was in the way.”
“In the way of what?”
“The stairs.”
Christopher smiled to himself. “Ah. Yes. Those notorious, distracting stairs.”
Edward turned then, fixing him with a look that had quelled battalions. “You are enjoying this.”
“Immensely,” Christopher said. “It’s been some time since you’ve provided entertainment of any kind.”
Edward crossed the room and took his seat behind the desk. “You nearly caused Miss Bennet to fall.”
“And then prevented it,” Christopher replied cheerfully, finally moving farther into the room. He dropped into the chair opposite Edward’s with the ease of a man who had never been made to feel unwelcome anywhere. “You should be thanking me.”
Edward steepled his fingers. “You were flirting.”
“I was breathing,” Christopher corrected. “She happened to be present.”
Edward’s mouth tightened. “You should conduct yourself with more care.”
Christopher’s brows lifted. “With the maid?”
“With anyone,” Edward said evenly. “You are no longer a boy. Your reputation precedes you, and you do nothing to contradict it.”
Christopher laughed quietly. “You wound me. I’d hoped my charm would be considered a public service.”
“You treat it as a pastime.”
“And you treat self-denial as a vocation,” Christopher countered.
Edward reached for his pen. “You should find something meaningful to occupy your time.”
Christopher leaned back, studying him. “I have. You.”
Edward paused.
Christopher grinned. “You’re fascinating when you’re uncomfortable.”
“I am not uncomfortable.”
Christopher gestured vaguely toward the door they’d just closed. “You followed her with your eyes all the way down the stairs.”
Edward’s pen stilled.
“That,” Christopher continued lightly, “is new.”
Edward lifted his gaze. “Do not mistake observation for interest.”
“Of course,” Christopher said. “And do not mistake interest for indulgence.”
Edward exhaled through his nose. “Pray, restrain yourself.”
“I am restrained,” Christopher replied. “Entirely. You haven’t looked at a woman that way since—”
“Finish that sentence,” Edward said quietly, “and you will regret it.”
Christopher studied him for a moment longer, then inclined his head. “Very well.”
Silence settled, not strained, but thoughtful.
Christopher broke it first. “She’s young.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “She is capable.”
“I didn’t say otherwise.”
“And she is an employee in my household,” Edward added. “Nothing more.”
Christopher’s expression softened, teasing giving way to something more perceptive. “Then why does she trouble you?”
Edward did not answer at once.
Because she laughed where the house had forgotten how. Because Julian smiled at her as though she were a door he hadn’t known he was allowed to open. Because she spoke to Edward as if he were not carved from marble, but flesh.
He said instead, “You should stop encouraging Miss Bennet’s attentions.”
Christopher smiled faintly. “Ah. There it is. Concern.”
Edward leaned back in his chair. “It would serve you well to take something seriously. Your estate. Your future.”
“And yours?” Christopher asked.
Edward’s eyes narrowed.
“How long,” Christopher continued, “do you intend to live as a recluse?”
Edward’s voice cooled. “I fulfill my obligations.”
“Yes,” Christopher said. “You bury yourself in them.”
Edward looked away.
Christopher crossed his arms. “The Winter Solstice Ball is approaching.”
“I will not attend.”
“You should make an appearance,” Christopher said. “The difference matters to people who count such things.”
Edward shook his head. “I have no interest in society.”
Christopher smiled faintly. “Society has a habit of not caring what we prefer.”
“The event is not mine.”
“No,” Christopher agreed. “But it is tradition. And the county will expect the Duke of Averleigh to be seen.”
Edward’s fingers tapped once against the desk. “They will manage without me.”
Christopher was quiet for a moment before leaning forward. “You can’t raise a child in a mausoleum and expect him not to learn how to grieve before he learns how to live.”
Edward stood abruptly and turned away, crossing to the window. Outside, the grounds lay pale beneath winter light, bare branches etched against a sky the color of old pewter.
“You speak as though I do this by choice,” Edward said.
Christopher’s voice softened. “You do. Every day.”
Edward’s shoulders rose and fell once.
“I am not prepared to remarry,” Edward said, flat and final—as though saying it aloud might keep the thought from taking shape.
Christopher did not contradict him. “I know.”
Edward frowned slightly.
“But Julian will grow,” Christopher continued. “And one day he will notice what is missing. Children always do.”
Edward said nothing.
“I’m not asking you to replace Eleanor,” Christopher added quietly. “Only to consider whether Julian deserves more than silence in his home.”
Edward’s reflection in the glass looked older than he felt. Or perhaps younger. He was no longer certain.
Before Christopher could speak again, a knock sounded.
Edward turned at once. “Enter.”
Mrs. Channing stepped inside, posture straight, expression composed. In her hand was a single envelope—plain, unadorned, the paper rough beneath her fingers.
“A letter, Your Grace,” she said. “Delivered by courier.”
Edward accepted it. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Channing’s gaze flicked briefly to Christopher, then back to Edward. Whatever she read in Edward’s face was enough; she inclined her head without comment and withdrew, closing the door behind her with accustomed quiet.
The stillness that followed felt heavier than before.
Christopher’s expression shifted as his attention settled on the envelope left behind. “That doesn’t look official,” he remarked, nodding toward it.
Edward broke the seal without responding. He read the letter once, his eyes scanning quickly. Then he read it again, slower this time, as though some hidden meaning might emerge if he allowed the words to settle.
The room seemed to narrow imperceptibly, the air thickening as though the walls themselves had leaned in to listen.
At last, Edward folded the letter with deliberate care and set it aside.
“What is it?” Christopher asked.
“Nothing,” Edward replied.
Christopher frowned. “You don’t look amused.”
Edward placed the folded paper on the desk, aligning it precisely with the edge. “An accusation.”
Christopher’s brow furrowed. “Of what?”
“My family,” Edward said evenly.
The levity drained from Christopher’s expression. “From whom?”
“Anonymous.”
“And what does it claim?”
Edward hesitated—only a fraction of a second, but enough. “That a carriage accident was not an accident.”
Silence fell between them, dense and unyielding.
Christopher’s voice was quieter when he spoke again. “Do you know the family?”
“No.”
“Then why does it matter?”
Edward’s gaze dropped briefly to the folded letter, though he did not touch it.
Because the name Westbrook stirred something uneasy in him.
Because coincidence had a way of arriving precisely when one least wished it—quietly, persistently, refusing to be dismissed.
“It is idle gossip,” Edward said at last. “Someone seeking attention.”
Christopher studied him with a familiarity earned over years of shared battlefields and unspoken truths. “And you believe that?”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “I have no reason to disbelieve it.”
Christopher nodded slowly, accepting the answer even if he did not entirely trust it. He rose and reached for his coat. “Very well. But if it ceases to be nothing, you’ll tell me.”
Edward did not respond.
Christopher paused at the door, one hand resting on the latch. “You don’t have to carry everything alone, Edward.”
Edward inclined his head slightly. “Goodnight.”
Christopher left.
The study settled once more into stillness, the kind that pressed rather than soothed. Edward remained seated, his hand resting near the folded letter without quite touching it. Outside, the house breathed quietly, unaware of the fissure that had just formed beneath its foundations.
Westbrooks.
Hawthorne Hollow.
Not an accident.
He did not open the letter again.
He did not burn it.
He simply sat, listening to the silence, and wondered when—precisely—his orderly world had begun to tilt.
And why the accusation refused to leave him.