And why had the truth waited until now—until she had finally begun to believe she might be safe?
The carriage rolled on through gathering dusk, carrying them back toward Ashford.
Toward answers she was no longer certain she wished to uncover.
And toward a reckoning she could no longer outrun.
Chapter 20
The carriage wheels had barely stilled before Edward was aware of her quiet distress.
Charlotte sat rigid beside him, hands folded too tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed on nothing at all. A single tear slid free despite her obvious effort to contain it, disappearing into the dark fabric of her sleeve.
The sight unsettled him more than he expected.
Too much had come to light in a single day—her true name, William’s insinuations, the shadow now cast over a tragedy Edward had once accepted without question. Charlotte no longer felt like a figure he could neatly place within the bounds of duty.
She was no longer simply his governess. She was a woman carrying a part that brushed dangerously close to his own—and to a matter he could no longer ignore.
Edward reached into his coat without thinking and offered his handkerchief.
“Are you well?” he asked quietly.
Before she could answer, the carriage door opened. Julian was already moving, energy undimmed by the long day.
“Home!” he announced, hopping down with enthusiasm that felt almost jarring against the heaviness pressing Edward’s chest.
Mrs. Channing appeared at once, brisk and efficient. “Come along, Master Julian. Cook has saved you something warm.”
Julian hesitated only long enough to glance back at Charlotte. “You’re coming, aren’t you?”
Charlotte smiled—brave, brittle. “In a moment.”
Satisfied, he allowed himself to be ushered inside, his footsteps echoing away down the stone corridor.
Edward watched until the sound faded.
Then he turned back to Charlotte.
“You look unwell,” he said, more gently than he intended. “Come. The library is warmer.”
She did not argue.
The door closed softly behind them, sealing out the rest of the house. The library smelled faintly of leather, dust, and woodsmoke—familiar, grounding.
Charlotte sat as though her strength had suddenly deserted her. She did not cry at first. She simply stared at the floor, shoulders trembling with the effort of restraint.
Edward remained standing for a moment, unsure whether approaching her would worsen things. Finally, he crossed the room and held out his handkerchief.
She took it this time without looking at him.
“Lord Armitage told me something,” she said at last, voice barely above a whisper.
Edward’s spine tightened. “You need not repeat it if—”
“He said my parents’ carriage was sabotaged,” she interrupted softly. “That it was not an accident at all.”
The words landed with a force that stole the air from his lungs.
