Chapter Eleven
The key to William’s private study felt impossibly heavy in Charlotte’s palm as she stood before the ornately carved door. Margaret’s footsteps had faded towards the main stairs, where she would keep watch, leaving Charlotte alone with her conscience and the weight of what she contemplated.
A lady did not invade her husband’s private sanctuary.
A Duchess did not stoop to searching through locked away papers like a common sneak-thief.
Yet the memory of William’s face when Sir Geoffrey had spoken of his father’s debts drove her forward, pushing the key into the lock with trembling fingers.
The room held the musty sweetness of old papers and leather bindings, overlaid with the familiar scent of William’s sandalwood cologne. Heavy curtains filtered the storm-darkened daylight, casting the space in gothic shadow that seemed altogether fitting for the task before her.
Charlotte moved carefully through the gloom, mindful of her skirts against the furniture.
William’s presence seemed to linger here more strongly than anywhere else in the house – in the precise arrangement of papers on his desk, in the way that his favourite chair sat angled towards the window, in the careful organisation of the shelves that lined the walls.
“Forgive me,” she whispered to the empty room, running her fingers along the spines of leather-bound ledgers.
The late Duke’s journal must be here somewhere, hidden among these carefully preserved records of Alverton’s darker days.
A flash of lightning illuminated the room, drawing her attention to a locked cabinet beside the fireplace.
Something about its placement, slightly apart from the other furniture, suggested particular significance.
Charlotte crossed to examine it more closely, her heart beating a rapid rhythm against her ribs.
The cabinet key proved to be the smallest on the ring Mrs Walden had helped her locate. It turned with reluctant protest, as though the very metal objected to revealing its secrets. Inside, Charlotte found stacks of correspondence bound with faded ribbons, several well-worn ledgers, and—
“Oh!”
The soft exclamation escaped her as another lightning flash revealed a small book bound in worn green leather. No dust lay upon it, though the pages had yellowed with age. William had handled this recently – perhaps even this morning, after Sir Geoffrey’s departure.
Charlotte drew it out with careful fingers, her breath catching at the elaborate ‘A’ worked into the cover. This must be it – the late Duke’s private journal. The answer to Sir Geoffrey’s threats surely lay within these pages.
But before she could open it, voices in the corridor outside froze her in place. One she recognised as Phillips’ measured tones, but the other...
“His Grace is not at home, sir. As I informed you—”
“Don’t play the faithful servant with me.
” Sir Geoffrey’s voice dripped with contempt.
“I know perfectly well he’s hiding in his study like a coward.
I’ve had time to consider the result of our earlier conversation, and I’ve concluded that I am not happy – I’m not willing to leave it at that.
We have much more to discuss. Now stand aside. ”
Charlotte’s heart seemed to stop beating. She stood in the middle of William’s most private sanctuary, holding evidence of her betrayal of his trust, while his enemy approached.
She clutched the journal to her chest, her mind racing. The private study offered no proper hiding place – William kept it far too orderly for that. The sound of angry footsteps grew closer, accompanied by Phillips’ increasingly strained protests.
“Sir, I really must insist—”
“Must you?” Sir Geoffrey’s voice held dangerous amusement. “And how do you propose to stop me? Shall we see what society makes of a servant laying hands on a gentleman?”
The cabinet stood open behind her, its shelves in disarray from her search. Even if she managed to replace the journal, Sir Geoffrey would surely notice the signs of disturbance. William’s careful organisation had been wholly disrupted by her actions, and now...
Another flash of lightning illuminated the room just as the study door’s handle began to turn.
In that brief, brilliant moment, Charlotte caught sight of herself in the pier glass – the Duchess of Alverton, pressed against her husband’s private cabinet like a thief discovered. The shame of it nearly overwhelmed her.
But there was nothing for it now. Drawing herself up to her full height, she closed the cabinet with careful precision, the small volume still clutched in her hand, unthinkingly. If she must be discovered here, she would at least face the consequences with dignity.
The door opened, revealing Sir Geoffrey’s startled face.
“Well, well,” he drawled, recovering quickly. “What have we here? Her Grace, the Duchess of Alverton, caught in a most... compromising position.”
“Sir Geoffrey.” Charlotte forced her voice to remain steady, though her heart thundered so loudly that she feared he must hear it. “I was not aware that you had intended to return to Alverton.”
“Clearly not.” His sharp eyes took in every detail of the scene – her presence in the private study, the journal held in her hands – hands which suffered a faint tremor that she couldn’t quite control.
“How fascinating to find you here, of all places. Does your husband know that you make free with his private papers?”
“Her Grace need not explain her presence in her own home,” Phillips interjected from the doorway, his usual composure somewhat ruffled but his loyalty unshakeable. “While you, sir—”
“While I,” Sir Geoffrey cut in smoothly, “have business with the Duke that cannot wait. But perhaps Her Grace might assist me? After all, she seems quite... interested in family matters.”
The way he emphasised the word ‘family’ sent chills down Charlotte’s spine. Yet she forced herself to meet his gaze steadily, channelling every lesson in dignity that her mother had ever taught her.
“If you have business with His Grace, you may call again when he is at home.” She took a step forward, praying that he would not notice how her knees trembled beneath her skirts. “Phillips will show you out.”
“Will he?” Sir Geoffrey’s lips curved in a smile that held no warmth. “Before I share with him what I discovered in your husband’s study? Such interesting reading material you hold, Your Grace. The late Duke’s private journal, unless I mistake the binding?”
Charlotte’s fingers tightened on the book, but she kept her voice level.
“You seem remarkably familiar with His Grace’s private papers, sir. One might almost think...”
“One might think many things,” he interrupted smoothly. “About papers, about debts, about a young Duke’s desperate attempts to save his family’s reputation. But then, you know all about that now, don’t you? Or were you planning to read every detail for yourself?”
The barely veiled threat in his tone made Charlotte’s breath catch. Yet something about his manner – the too-sharp edge to his smile, the slight strain around his eyes – suggested desperation rather than triumph.
Charlotte drew herself up to her full height, summoning every ounce of dignity her position as Duchess of Alverton demanded.
“Whatever game you play, sir, you shall not use me as your pawn in it.”
“Game?” Sir Geoffrey’s laugh held a bitter edge. “Oh, this is no game, Your Grace. This is about justice – about debts long overdue. Your precious Duke—”
“My husband,” Charlotte interrupted with quiet authority, “is a man of honour. If you have legitimate business with him, you may present it properly through his man of business. This... this skulking about and making threats is beneath a gentleman’s dignity.”
Something flickered in Sir Geoffrey’s expression – a crack in his carefully maintained facade of superiority. For just a moment, Charlotte glimpsed something that did indeed look almost like desperation in his eyes.
“Honour?” he spat. “Was it honourable, the way his father—” He caught himself, his fingers flexing at his sides as though physically restraining words he hadn’t meant to speak. “But perhaps you’d best read the journal yourself, Your Grace. Then we shall see what value you place on Alverton honour.”
Before Charlotte could respond, hurried footsteps in the corridor heralded Margaret’s appearance.
“Charlotte! His Grace has—”
She stopped short in the doorway beside Phillips, taking in the scene before her with wide eyes. Sir Geoffrey’s smile turned razor-sharp.
“Ah, Lady Margaret. Come to assist your sister-in-law in her investigations? How... touching this family loyalty must be for His Grace.”
“Sir Geoffrey.” Margaret’s voice held ice that Charlotte had never heard from her before. “I believe that you were just leaving.”
“Was I?” He glanced between them, something calculating entering his expression. “But surely you ladies wish to hear the truth about your beloved William? About how his father—”
“Enough.”
The word cracked like a whip across the room, and Charlotte’s heart nearly stopped at the sound of that familiar voice.
William stood in the corridor behind Margaret and Phillips, his coat still damp from the storm, his face a mask of carefully controlled fury.
Yet when his eyes met Charlotte’s across the room, she saw not anger, but something far worse – deep, crushing disappointment.
“Your Grace.” Sir Geoffrey turned slowly, his smile widening though his face had gone pale. “How fortuitous. I was just having the most interesting conversation with your wife about family histories.”
William’s gaze moved from Charlotte to the journal she still clutched in her hands, and something in his expression shattered. The look lasted only a moment before his ducal mask slammed back into place, but the memory of it would haunt Charlotte for years to come.