2. In Which a Prodigal Returns and Everything Changes – Ashford House, London #2
Charlotte swept through it like a small, well-dressed hurricane, already talking to someone over her shoulder—probably Eleanor, judging by the content—and I had approximately three seconds to brace myself before she turned and saw me.
She stopped mid-sentence.
My entire world narrowed to a single point of absolute clarity.
This was not the thirteen-year-old girl I'd left.
Charlotte Ashbourne was seventeen, and she was...
Beautiful. The word felt inadequate. She was poised where she'd been gangly, graceful where she'd been all sharp elbows and sharper tongue.
Her dark hair was swept up in a style that would have looked severe on anyone else, but on her looked regal.
Her eyes—when had her eyes become that particular shade of intelligent grey that seemed to see everything?
And she was looking at me like she'd never seen me before.
Something lurched in my chest. Something dangerous and entirely inappropriate.
I buried it.
"Uncle Edward," Charlotte said, and her voice had changed, too. Lower. Richer. Completely steady except for a tiny hitch on my name.
"Charlotte." I managed to sound normal. I managed to smile. "You've grown."
"So have you." She was still staring. Then she seemed to collect herself, and the Charlotte I remembered snapped back into place: competent, controlled, already cataloguing me for future use.
"When did you arrive? I expected you this afternoon.
Are you staying at Ashford House? We have dinner at seven, you'll join us, of course.
I have so much to tell you about the Season?—"
She was descending on me with plans, and I was letting her, because it was easier than acknowledging that my step-niece had somehow transformed into a woman who made my pulse do complicated things.
Eleanor was grinning like she knew exactly what was happening.
Juliet was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
And Charlotte was still talking, pulling me into the drawing room where the rest of the family had assembled, and I went willingly because the alternative was standing in the corridor confronting thoughts that had no business existing.
She was seventeen.
She was Juliet's daughter.
She was Charlotte, who used to order me out of trees and had once hit me with a book for hiding during a musicale.
She was absolutely, completely, catastrophically off-limits.
Dinner was chaos in the best possible way.
The full family had assembled: Mary and Matthew from Thornbury, Caroline and Alexander from Waverly, and Margaret and Edmund, still settling in from their journey.
Lucas presided over the table with ducal authority that was only slightly undermined by Eleanor stealing rolls from his plate.
I sat between Mary and Caroline, which meant one side was asking pointed questions about my plans and the other was crying gently about how wonderful it was to have me home.
Charlotte sat across from me, next to her father, and I was discovering that not looking at her required more effort than I'd anticipated.
She was managing the table. Of course she was.
Charlotte couldn't sit through a meal without organising it.
She redirected conversation when it lagged, smoothed over Margaret's accidentally tactless comment about someone's daughter, and generally conducted the dinner like a particularly skilled general managing troops.
Lucas watched his daughter with obvious pride. Juliet watched her with something more complex—affection mixed with a mother's particular concern.
And I watched her and tried very hard to remember she was my niece.
"Edward," Papa said from down the table, "I mentioned to Penworth that you were back in town. He sends his regards."
I dragged my attention away from Charlotte. "Penworth. Is he in London for the Season?"
"He is. His son is making quite a splash, apparently." Father's voice was casual, but there was something underneath it. "You remember young Dunmore?"
I did remember Dunmore. We'd been at Eton together—same year, different social circles. Dunmore had been a round-faced boy who collected beetles and talked about them at length to anyone who would listen.
"Vaguely," I said.
"He's the heir now. The Penworth heir. Eligible, wealthy, titled..." Father trailed off meaningfully.
Across the table, Charlotte had gone very still.
"I'm sure he's very eligible," I said neutrally.
"Penworth and I have plans," Father continued. "Thought we might bring the families together. You'll see young Dunmore soon enough."
Charlotte was looking at her plate with intense focus.
I had the sudden, visceral urge to ask why Charlotte looked like she'd just been sentenced.
I didn't ask. It wasn't my business. Charlotte's Season, her suitors, her future—none of it was my concern.
I was her uncle. Nothing more.
The word felt like a lie even as I thought it.
After dinner, the gentlemen retreated to Lucas's study for port. I found myself between my father and Lucas, listening to Matthew explain something about estate management while Alexander added commentary about crop rotation.
"Charlotte seems well," I said to Lucas when there was a lull.
Lucas's face did something complicated. Pride and concern and something that might have been exhaustion. "She is. Very well. Very... organised."
"Still with the notebooks?"
"You have no idea." Lucas took a drink. "She's spent the last five years managing everyone else's happiness. Now it's her turn, and she's treating her own Season like a military campaign."
"That sounds like Charlotte."
"It does." Lucas was quiet for a moment. "She's still very young, you know. Seventeen. Sometimes I forget, watching her manage a room."
The observation landed somewhere uncomfortable in my chest.
Seventeen.
Young.
My niece.
"She'll be fine," I said, and meant it. "Charlotte always lands on her feet."
"I hope so." Lucas looked at me. "It's good to have you home, Edward. Juliet's missed you. We all have."
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
I stayed another hour, then made my excuses and returned to Ashford House through streets that had gone dark and quiet. My room was exactly as I'd left it—Marguerite's doing, probably, preserving it against my return.
I should have been tired. I'd been traveling for days.
Instead, I stood at the window and looked out at London and tried not to think about grey eyes and a voice that had changed, and the particular way Charlotte had said “Uncle Edward,” as if the word didn't quite fit anymore.
This was going to be a problem.
I'd spent eighteen months running from guilt and grief.
I had a terrible feeling I'd just run straight into something far more dangerous.