Chapter 1
Charlotte Westbrook sat in her father’s office and tried to breathe.
The room still smelled faintly of sealing wax and old paper, of ink and leather and the lemon oil her mother had favored for the shelves. Everything was exactly as it had been a week ago. That was the cruelest part. The world had not altered its shape to match her grief.
Her hands were folded in her lap; fingers clenched so tightly her knuckles ached. The black sleeves of her mourning gown fell neatly to her wrists, concealing the long, pale scar that ran along her right forearm.
The skin beneath the fabric throbbed anyway, a dull reminder of splintered wood and overturned wreckage, and the moment she had been pulled free while her parents were not.
Across the desk, the solicitor cleared his throat.
“I am sorry, Miss Westbrook,” he said, for what must have been the third or fourth time. His voice was steady, practiced. “But I am bound by duty to be precise.”
Duty. The word landed like a stone.
Charlotte lifted her gaze. Mr. Halcombe sat stiffly in her father’s chair, his papers laid out in orderly stacks, his spectacles balanced low upon his nose.
He had attended the funeral. He had shaken her hand. He had told her, kindly, that there would be matters to discuss once arrangements were complete.
She had not expected this.
“The estate,” he continued, tapping one page with his finger, “is insolvent.”
The word echoed in her ears. Insolvent. She had heard her father use it once, years ago, when speaking of another man’s misfortune. She had not thought it could ever belong to them.
“I do not understand,” she said, though she feared she already did. “My father’s accounts—”
“Were extended well beyond prudence,” Mr. Halcombe replied. “Several ventures failed to recover their initial investment. Chief among them”—he paused, just briefly—“the arrangement with Lord Wyndham.”
The room seemed to tilt.
Charlotte’s breath caught painfully in her chest. “William,” she said before she could stop herself.
The solicitor’s mouth tightened. “Yes. Lord Wyndham.”
Viscount of Wyndham, she thought dimly. The title she had once spoken with pride. With anticipation.
The papers before him blurred together—figures marching in cruel lines, sums circled in red ink. Losses. Debts. Liabilities. The words pressed in until she could no longer distinguish one from another.
“The creditors have been patient,” Mr. Halcombe said. “But patience has its limits. The house will be seized to settle outstanding accounts. The contents auctioned. You will be permitted to retain personal effects, of course, but—”
“When?” Charlotte asked.
He hesitated. Just long enough.
“Three days,” he said.
Three days.
Her childhood home. Gone. The place where she had learned her letters at the breakfast table, where her mother had sung while arranging flowers, where her father had kissed her brow each night before retiring to this very room.
Three days.
Beside her, Beatrice’s hand tightened around hers. Charlotte had not realized she was trembling until her cousin’s grip steadied her.
They had kept vigil together once before, years ago, when Beatrice’s mother died unexpectedly. Charlotte had been the one to stay awake through the nights then, holding Beatrice’s hand while grief passed in waves. Now the roles had been reversed, and Beatrice bore it with quiet strength.
“And … has there been any word?” Charlotte asked quietly. “From him?”
