Not the polite version. Not the restrained one.
She spoke of the garden at Lady Amelia’s. Of William’s hand at her wrist. Of the kiss forced upon her while she struggled. Of Edward’s face when he saw them. Of the carriage ride home. Of the rumors.
When she finished, silence stretched between them.
Beatrice’s eyes shone with anger. “He loves you.”
Charlotte shook her head almost at once. “That is not the point.”
“It is entirely the point,” Beatrice insisted. “A man does not look at a woman the way you describe without loving her.”
Charlotte stared into the fire. “Love does not shield a duke from scandal.”
“No,” Beatrice conceded quietly. “But neither does cowardice.”
Charlotte flinched.
“I am not running from him,” she said. “I am removing myself from the danger. The ton already believes I attempted to entrap him. If I remain, that story grows. If I go, it fades.”
“And what of what he wants?”
“What he wants,” Charlotte said softly, “must come second to what protects him.”
She rose and crossed to the window, looking out into the dark street.
“Julian deserves a proper figure in his life,” she continued. “A woman who belongs to his world. Who will not be whispered about in drawing rooms. After everything they have endured—after Eleanor—they need stability.”
“And you believe you are unstable?” Beatrice asked.
Charlotte did not answer.
After a moment, she turned back.
“I need your help,” she said instead. “I must go to Hawthorne Hollow. I must speak to those who remember the accident. I cannot allow William to control the narrative.”
Beatrice’s expression shifted from sisterly concern to practical resolve. “We will go,” she said. “In the morning.”
The front door opened then, accompanied by the sound of boots being set down in the entry.
Beatrice’s husband entered the sitting room moments later, removing his gloves. He paused when he saw Charlotte.
“I had not expected company,” he said mildly. “Though I suppose recent events make everything … expected.”
Charlotte braced herself. “You have heard?”
He gave a short nod. “It travels quickly.”
He crossed to the fire and poured himself a small measure of brandy before continuing, “I have also heard another name traveling,” he added thoughtfully. “William Armitage.”
Charlotte’s spine straightened at once.
“In what context?” she asked.
He glanced between the two women before answering, “Among certain men in the village. Gamblers. Men who operate outside polite society.”
Beatrice frowned. “You never told me that.”
“It was idle talk at first,” he replied. “But the sums mentioned were not idle.”
