He did not open the letter again.
He did not burn it.
He simply sat, listening to the silence, and wondered when—precisely—his orderly world had begun to tilt.
And why the accusation refused to leave him.
Chapter 11
Edward had not intended to begin the morning in the nursery.
He had risen early, as he always did, with the intention of reviewing correspondence before the household fully stirred. But the sound—low at first, then unmistakable—had drawn him from the corridor like an unwelcome summons.
Laughter.
Not loud. Not unruly. But real.
It carried down the passage in brief bursts, punctuated by Julian’s voice—animated, eager—and the calmer, steadier cadence of Miss Fenton’s replies. Edward slowed as he approached the open door, irritation tightening his jaw.
The nursery had not sounded like this in years.
Julian sat at the table near the window, a scattering of books spread before him. But he was not reading. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows planted, listening with intense focus as Miss Fenton gestured animatedly toward a rough sketch she had drawn on a slate—something that resembled a map, though not one Edward immediately recognized.
“If we follow the tree line,” she was saying, “we can practice keeping our bearings. North will be there—see? And you can learn which plants grow better in shade and which prefer the open.”
Edward cleared his throat. Both of them looked up.
Julian stiffened at once, color rising in his cheeks. Miss Fenton straightened more slowly, her expression shifting from animated to composed in a heartbeat.
“Your Grace,” she said evenly.
Edward stepped into the room, his presence altering the air as surely as a change in weather. His gaze swept the table—unopened primers, the slate, the absence of order he expected.
“What is this?” he asked.
“A lesson,” Miss Fenton replied.
Edward lifted a brow. “It does not resemble one.”
Julian opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Miss Fenton’s chin lifted a fraction. “I was suggesting we take part of the morning outside. Near the forest. Julian could learn basic navigation and identify local plants and insects. It would reinforce observation, memory, and—”
“No,” Edward said flatly.
The word landed with finality.
Miss Fenton’s eyes flashed. “You did not allow me to finish.”
“I do not need you to,” Edward replied. “Julian requires structure. Discipline. Not rambling walks through the woods disguised as instruction.”
Julian’s shoulders slumped.
Edward noticed—and ignored it.
“Children,” he continued, “are adept at manipulation. Particularly intelligent ones. You would do well not to mistake enthusiasm for obedience.”
Miss Fenton’s composure cracked—not entirely, but enough for him to see the strain beneath it.
