Chapter 20
The carriage wheels had barely stilled before Edward was aware of her quiet distress.
Charlotte sat rigid beside him, hands folded too tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed on nothing at all. A single tear slid free despite her obvious effort to contain it, disappearing into the dark fabric of her sleeve.
The sight unsettled him more than he expected.
Too much had come to light in a single day—her true name, William’s insinuations, the shadow now cast over a tragedy Edward had once accepted without question. Charlotte no longer felt like a figure he could neatly place within the bounds of duty.
She was no longer simply his governess. She was a woman carrying a part that brushed dangerously close to his own—and to a matter he could no longer ignore.
Edward reached into his coat without thinking and offered his handkerchief.
“Are you well?” he asked quietly.
Before she could answer, the carriage door opened. Julian was already moving, energy undimmed by the long day.
“Home!” he announced, hopping down with enthusiasm that felt almost jarring against the heaviness pressing Edward’s chest.
Mrs. Channing appeared at once, brisk and efficient. “Come along, Master Julian. Cook has saved you something warm.”
Julian hesitated only long enough to glance back at Charlotte. “You’re coming, aren’t you?”
Charlotte smiled—brave, brittle. “In a moment.”
Satisfied, he allowed himself to be ushered inside, his footsteps echoing away down the stone corridor.
Edward watched until the sound faded.
Then he turned back to Charlotte.
“You look unwell,” he said, more gently than he intended. “Come. The library is warmer.”
She did not argue.
The door closed softly behind them, sealing out the rest of the house. The library smelled faintly of leather, dust, and woodsmoke—familiar, grounding.
Charlotte sat as though her strength had suddenly deserted her. She did not cry at first. She simply stared at the floor, shoulders trembling with the effort of restraint.
Edward remained standing for a moment, unsure whether approaching her would worsen things. Finally, he crossed the room and held out his handkerchief.
She took it this time without looking at him.
“Lord Armitage told me something,” she said at last, voice barely above a whisper.
Edward’s spine tightened. “You need not repeat it if—”
“He said my parents’ carriage was sabotaged,” she interrupted softly. “That it was not an accident at all.”
The words landed with a force that stole the air from his lungs.
Anger flared—hot, immediate, and untampered. At William. At the audacity of saying such things to her. Of disturbing what little peace she had managed to claim.
But beneath that anger, something colder took shape.
The letter.
The anonymous hand. The careful wording. The accusation of murder. The mention of Hawthorne Hollow.
It had arrived the very day Charlotte Westbrook entered his household.
Edward turned away before she could read the shift in his expression.
“That is an extraordinary claim,” he said quietly.
“I know,” she replied. “I would not have believed him, had he not spoken with such certainty. He said there were … inconsistencies. That something was taken from the wreckage. A medallion.” She swallowed. “I do not know what to think.”
Edward closed his eyes briefly.
Someone knew she was here. Someone had known exactly when she arrived.
And worse—someone wanted him to know.
William Armitage had never been a man of idle curiosity. Nor of kindness.
Charlotte glanced at him, searching his face. “I am sorry,” she said again. “For lying to you. For bringing this trouble into your house.”
Something in her tone—resigned, small—cut deeper than any accusation.
Edward exhaled slowly. “I understand the impulse to leave the past behind,” he said at last. “Especially when it has taken everything from you.”
Her eyes lifted then, startled by the gentleness in his voice.
“I am still … angry,” he added honestly. “But I am not without sympathy.”
Her shoulders eased a fraction.
He hesitated, then asked, “How do you know my cousin?”
The tension returned at once.
She drew a breath. “We were meant to be engaged.”
The words struck harder than he expected.
A sharp, unreasonable surge of jealousy flared through him—white-hot and unwelcome. Edward clenched his jaw, forcing it down.
“He called upon my parents several times,” she continued quietly. “There were discussions. Plans. But nothing more.” She shook her head faintly. “When my father’s business arrangement with him failed, he stopped coming. I had not heard from him since before the accident.”
Edward’s unease deepened.
“I have never trusted William,” he said flatly. “Not in business. Not in character.”
Her gaze switched to him, something like relief flickering there.
“I will see this investigated,” Edward went on. “But until I know more, I want you to be cautious.”
He reached toward her instinctively—then stopped himself, his hand hovering uselessly in the air before he drew it back.
“If he contacts you again,” he said firmly, “or attempts to come to Ashford, you will come to me at once. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she said at once. “Of course.”
She hesitated, then added in a rush, “You are not … you are not dismissing me, are you?”
The question struck him unprepared.
“I promised Julian,” she continued, voice tight. “I told him I would not leave. And I do not wish to. I want to stay—for him. And for—”
She stopped.
Edward’s breath caught.
For me, he thought.
He did not allow himself to look at her too closely.
“We will not decide that now,” he said instead. His tone was neutral, final without being cruel. “There is too much unsettled.”
The tension did not vanish—but it loosened.
Charlotte’s shoulders sagged with relief she could not fully conceal. She nodded once, pressing the handkerchief to her lips. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Edward inclined his head, already withdrawing. He leaned back against the edge of the desk, one hand braced there, as though grounding himself. The library felt suddenly too close, the silence too full.
“You should rest,” he said. “This day has been … more than enough.”
She rose at once, obedience instinctive, though her gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat longer than necessary. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
“Good afternoon.”
She left quietly, the door closing behind her with careful restraint.
Only then did Edward allow his composure to slip.
He turned toward the mantel, jaw tightening, thoughts colliding—William’s words, Charlotte’s fear, the letter still folded in his desk drawer like a coiled threat.
He crossed the room and pulled the bell cord sharply.
When the footman appeared, Edward did not hesitate.
“Send word to Lord Barrow,” he said. “Tell him I require his presence at once.”
The footman bowed and withdrew.
Edward remained standing in the center of the library, the fire crackling softly behind him, his reflection staring back from the darkened window.
Too much had come to light.
And whatever game had begun, he intended to see it ended—on his terms.
***
The light was already thinning when Edward heard the crunch of carriage wheels on gravel.
He rose from the desk at once, restless energy driving him toward the window. The western sky burned low and amber beyond the bare trees, the last of the sun caught in the branches like embers refusing to die.
He had not realized how tightly coiled he was until the sight of the carriage brought a sharp, irrational relief.
Christopher had come.
Edward watched as he descended the steps with his usual easy confidence—coat immaculate, posture loose, as though the world bent comfortably around him.
A footman moved to take his gloves, but Christopher waved him off with a grin and turned instead toward one of the maids standing near the terrace.
Edward frowned.
They stood closer than propriety required. Too close. The maid laughed softly at something Christopher said, her head tipping back just slightly, her hand lifting in a reflexive gesture that brushed his sleeve.
Christopher leaned in, said something Edward could not hear—and then, with a familiarity that made Edward’s jaw tighten, he reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Intimate. Unthinking. Revealing.
Edward had just opened his mouth to call out when movement at the edge of the path caught his eye.
Charlotte.
She approached from the garden, steps controlled, posture composed, her face still pale in the failing light. The moment Christopher noticed her, he straightened.
His hand dropped at once. The maid stepped back, color rising in her cheeks, and murmured something before retreating toward the house.
Charlotte did not pause. If she noticed the exchange at all, she gave no sign. She inclined her head politely to Christopher as she passed, then continued, disappearing through the side door without looking back.
Christopher exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.
Edward stepped away from the window before he could be seen lingering.
A moment later, there was a knock. Then Christopher entered the study without waiting to be announced, his expression shifting into something more sober as soon as he took in Edward’s face.
“You sent for me,” Christopher said. “That rarely bodes well.”
Edward did not bother with pleasantries. “We have a problem.”
Christopher closed the door behind him and leaned against it, arms folding loosely across his chest. “You sound grave,” he observed. “That, too, is rare.”
Edward did not bother with pleasantries. He turned to face him fully. “My cousin, Liam, appears to be causing trouble.”
Christopher’s brows lifted. “Armitage? What’s he done now?”
Edward hesitated—only a fraction of a second—then said, “Before I answer that, there is something you need to know.”
He crossed the room and poured a measure of brandy, more for the steadiness of the motion than any desire to drink it.
“Charlotte is not who she appears to be,” he said quietly.
Christopher straightened at once. “Explain.”
“She did not deceive me in spirit,” Edward continued, controlled, precise. “But she allowed me to believe she was someone else.” He turned, meeting Christopher’s gaze squarely. “Her name is Charlotte Westbrook.”
The name landed heavily between them.
Christopher went still. “Westbrook,” he repeated. “As in—”
“As in that Westbrook,” Edward said. “Her parents are dead. Killed in a carriage accident near Hawthorne Hollow.”
Recognition sharpened Christopher’s expression. “Christ.”
Edward nodded once. “She came to my household with nothing. No fortune. No protection. She believed the name she had been born with no longer belonged to her.”
Christopher exhaled slowly. “Go on.”
Edward set the glass aside, untouched. “Liam sought her out today. Spoke to her privately. Too familiarly.” His jaw tightened. “And he told her that her parents’ deaths were not an accident.”
Silence fell.
Christopher’s voice was guarded when he spoke. “That is not something one says lightly.”
“It is not,” Edward agreed. “Which is why I am no longer inclined to dismiss it.” He paced once, restless. “I received an anonymous letter making the same accusation. It arrived the very day Charlotte entered my household.”
Christopher’s eyes narrowed. “You think someone knew she was coming.”
“I think nothing about this is coincidence,” Edward said flatly. “Not where Armitage is concerned.”
Christopher pushed off the door, all trace of humor gone. “What do you want from me?”
“I want information,” Edward said. “Quietly obtained. I want to know where Liam has been, who he has spoken to, and what debts he carries. And I want everything there is to know about that accident at Hawthorne Hollow.”
Christopher nodded without hesitation. “I can do that.”
“Use a false name,” Edward added. “Do not connect the inquiries to me, to Ashford, or to her. If you uncover anything, you will write to me under that name. The village is close. The correspondence will be swift.”
Christopher studied him for a moment. “You’re taking this personally.”
Edward did not deny it. “I intend to protect her.”
Something warm and sober settled into Christopher’s expression. “You care for her.”
“That is immaterial,” Edward said.
“Is it?” Christopher asked gently. “Because from where I stand, you are standing precisely where you swore you never would again.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “Do not.”
Christopher stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Edward. Eleanor would have wanted you to live. She would have wanted Julian to see his father whole—not merely present.”
The name struck low and unexpected.
Edward met his gaze, gratitude and pain threading together. “I will not act recklessly,” he said. “Not with her. Not with my son.”
“I know,” Christopher replied. “That is why I will help you.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the fire snapping softly between them.
When Christopher turned to leave, Edward spoke once more. “Be careful.”
Christopher smiled faintly. “When am I ever?”
The door closed behind him.
Edward returned to the window, the night settling thick beyond the glass. Somewhere in the house, Charlotte moved through the corridors—close enough to matter, distant enough to remain forbidden.
First, the truth.
Then—only then—would he decide what he was willing to risk.
And what he was no longer willing to lose.