Chapter 18
Edward knew something was wrong the moment Charlotte did not appear for breakfast.
It was not her absence alone—governesses were not required at the morning table—but the quiet certainty that settled in his chest the longer the seat beside Julian remained empty.
He told himself it was a coincidence. That she was attending to preparations, or taking her meal privately, or simply keeping to her duties elsewhere.
Still, when Julian glanced toward the doorway for the third time, his small brow creasing with disappointment, Edward felt the first stirrings of unease.
“She is unwell, Your Grace.”
The words came from a maid who paused discreetly at his elbow as he rose from the table. Her voice was confidential, considered. “Miss Fenton sent word she will remain in her room today.”
Unwell.
Edward nodded once, offering thanks, then dismissed her. The exchange should have ended there.
It did not.
He lingered in the hall a moment longer than necessary, the echo of last night pressing in with unwelcome clarity—the garden, the lantern light, the way Charlotte’s breath had caught when he stepped away.
He had told himself he was doing the right thing. That restraint was a kindness.
And yet.
“We’ll check on her tomorrow,” Edward said to Julian, though it was less reassurance than instruction. “We will go down now. Lady Pennington will expect us.”
Julian nodded, but not before Edward saw the brief flicker of disappointment he tried to hide. It should not have mattered, but it did.
Pennington Hall greeted them with polished warmth—bright voices, low laughter, the controlled hush of servants gliding between doors. It was the sort of house that knew how to host, how to make even a winter morning feel deliberate and civilized.
Edward listened while Lady Pennington spoke of frost and roses forced in hothouses, of the pleasure of a full table again. He responded as etiquette required, but his attention pulled again and again toward the staircase.
Unwell.
A single word—yet it had lodged beneath his ribs like something unfinished.
The conversation shifted soon enough.
“Lady Victoria is remaining with us another day,” Lady Pennington said brightly, pouring tea. “Such a comfort to have her company. She has been through so much herself.”
Edward inclined his head. “So I understand.”
“She mentioned enjoying your conversation last evening,” Lord Pennington added with a knowing look. “And the boys seemed to take to one another at once.”
Julian brightened at that. “Henry showed me how to make boats from paper,” he said. “He says they float better if you fold the corners twice.”
Edward felt a flicker of relief at the sound of his son’s enthusiasm. “I am glad,” he said quietly.
“We thought,” Lady Pennington continued smoothly, “that perhaps she might join us for tea. Give you further opportunity to become acquainted.”
The implication was not subtle.
Edward accepted his cup with care. “She is … very kind,” he said.
“She is sensible,” Lady Pennington corrected. “And well-suited to family life. A widow, yes, but with youth still very much on her side. And she understands children.”
Julian nodded vigorously, as though this settled the matter entirely.
Edward felt the familiar tightening at his ribs. Under different circumstances—under any circumstances that did not involve a pale governess with too-knowing eyes and a voice that lingered in his thoughts long after she left the room—he might have welcomed such considerations.
Lady Victoria was warm. Intelligent. Unassuming in her manner yet possessed of quiet confidence. She asked questions rather than commanding attention. She listened.
She was, by all reasonable standards, exactly the sort of woman a duke ought to marry.
When she arrived shortly thereafter, accompanied by her young son, the house seemed to brighten. The boys were ushered together without ceremony and promptly disappeared into animated discussion over toy soldiers and improvised games. Edward watched them with something like wonder.
Julian laughed—freely, without restraint.
Edward turned back to Victoria, drawn into conversation almost against his will. They spoke of the estate, of travel, of the peculiarities of raising children who had known loss too early. There was ease there. Understanding.
And for a brief, worrisome moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it might be like to choose the simple, sensible path.
Then he saw her.
Charlotte stood in the doorway with one hand braced against the frame as though steadying herself. She looked pale—too pale. Her eyes were shadowed, her posture rigid with effort.
Edward stepped back from Victoria at once.
The movement was instinctive. Unconsidered.
Too revealing.
He realized it the moment he did it, the sharp awareness of how exposed the gesture must appear. Charlotte’s gaze flicked to him, something unreadable passing across her face before she lowered her eyes.
“I beg your pardon,” she said quietly. “I did not mean to intrude.”
Her voice was steady. Her hands were not.
Victoria smiled kindly. “You are most welcome,” she said. “We were about to take a walk. Perhaps you would join us? The boys could use supervision.”
Charlotte hesitated—just long enough for Edward to see the effort it took her to compose herself.
“If it pleases you,” she said at last.
Edward’s chest tightened.
They set out shortly thereafter, the Penningtons leading the way, Victoria and the boys close behind. Edward found himself lingering near Charlotte despite his best intentions, drawn by concern he could neither voice nor dismiss.
She walked more slowly than usual. Her breath seemed shallow.
“You should have remained in bed,” he said quietly once they were far enough from the others to speak without being overheard.
“I am well enough,” she replied, eyes forward. “It would have been improper to absent myself entirely.”
The word struck him—improper—so carefully chosen.
He nodded once, though unease gnawed at him.
Lady Pennington’s voice drifted back to them as she spoke animatedly of the evening before. “Such a strange thing, really. Lady Wetherby swears she saw a ghost.”
Edward glanced up.
“She claims it was the Westbrook girl,” Lady Pennington went on, laughing lightly.
“The one whose parents were killed in that dreadful accident not long ago. Terrible business. They were not noble, of course, but quite respectable. And the daughter—oh, she was said to be a beauty. Fair-haired. Like a little fairy, really.”
Edward felt the world tilt.
Westbrook.
The name echoed with uncomfortable familiarity, stirring memories he had tried to dismiss. The letter. The rumors. The sense of coincidence that no longer felt coincidental at all.
He turned toward Charlotte.
She had stopped walking.
Her hand had flown to her side, fingers curling into the fabric of her gown as though bracing against pain—or something far worse.
“Charlotte—” he began.
She did not hear him.
Her knees buckled without warning, her body folding in on itself with alarming suddenness. Edward lunged forward, catching her before she could strike the ground.
“Papa!” Julian cried, panic sharp in his voice.
Edward dropped to his knees, cradling Charlotte as her head lolled briefly against his shoulder. She was cold. Too cold.
“Someone fetch water,” he ordered sharply. “Now.”
The world narrowed to the sound of her breathing—ragged, uneven—and the frantic pounding of his own heart.
He had a single, terrifying thought as he held her there:
What have I done?
And beneath it, more insidious still—
What if I lose her?