A moment later, Edward entered with two steaming cups.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting one with a wan smile.
He sat across from her, and for a moment, neither spoke. The flames crackled softly, casting golden light across his face. He looked tired, as though the day had worn him out.
She waited. Something weighed on him—she could see it in the tightness at the corners of his mouth, the restless flex of his fingers.
Finally, he spoke. “I found Simon.”
Beatrice’s head rose, the movement small, almost cautious. “Where?”
“A gaming hall off Covent Garden.”
Beatrice winced, a delicate crease forming between her eyebrows. “That must have been… loud.”
“And smoky,” he added dryly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-humorless line. “And filled with the kind of people who thrive on shirking their duties.”
Beatrice’s fingers tightened around her teacup. “Did he admit anything?”
Edward looked into his tea for a long moment. “He claimed he didn’t know who the mother could be. Too many mistresses in too little time.”
Her chest tightened. “I see.”
Edward continued, his voice dropping, almost as if he were speaking to the fire instead of her. “He is so certain that life will simply sort itself out. That others will clean up after his mess. That consequences are for lesser men.”
Beatrice studied his face—the hard line of his jaw, the gentle shadow the fire cast across his cheek. “Do you believe him?” she asked quietly.
“I believe he has no idea what he’s done,” Edward replied flatly. “And that is the problem.”
Beatrice shifted in her chair, only a fraction, but enough that her skirt brushed the carpet near his boot. “It must be difficult. He is your cousin.”
His face contorted in disgust. Whether at Simon or himself, she wasn’t sure.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “It isn’t pity I need. Simon… he is my responsibility.” A pause. “Or he should have been.”
Beatrice frowned. “What do you mean?”
A muscle ticked in Edward’s jaw. “Our fathers were brothers—mine the elder. By all rights, I should have taken him under my wing when we were young. Taught him better. Shown him what it meant to be a man with a title and obligations.”
Her breath caught. He had never spoken of this before.
“I assumed,” he continued, his voice roughened by memory, “that he would grow out of his recklessness, the way a boy does when he realizes the world won’t indulge him forever.” He huffed a humorless laugh. “But he never did. And I never guided him.”
“Edward…” she trailed off.
He set his teacup on the saucer with a faint clink. Leaning back, he let his head rest against the high back of the chair, his eyes glinting in the glow of the fire. The shifting flames carved sharp lines across his face, revealing a man worn to the bone.
“When my father died of heart failure,” he said quietly, “I was twenty-four. Still not fully trained. One day, I had a family; the next, I had a title, a household I did not know how to run, estates in disarray, and a mother too deep in grief to speak for weeks. And judgment. So much judgment. The debts alone?—”
Beatrice felt the weight settle on her chest like an unwelcome cloak. She could almost picture a young Edward, sharp but untempered, standing alone in a cavernous study with ledgers piled high, servants waiting for orders, relatives whispering criticisms behind closed doors.
He shook his head. “I had no idea what I was doing. Not at first.”
She swallowed. She had never heard him speak like this—not the surface charm, not the quick wit, but something bare and honest.
“You managed,” she whispered.
