Anger flared—hot, immediate, and untampered. At William. At the audacity of saying such things to her. Of disturbing what little peace she had managed to claim.
But beneath that anger, something colder took shape.
The letter.
The anonymous hand. The careful wording. The accusation of murder. The mention of Hawthorne Hollow.
It had arrived the very day Charlotte Westbrook entered his household.
Edward turned away before she could read the shift in his expression.
“That is an extraordinary claim,” he said quietly.
“I know,” she replied. “I would not have believed him, had he not spoken with such certainty. He said there were … inconsistencies. That something was taken from the wreckage. A medallion.” She swallowed. “I do not know what to think.”
Edward closed his eyes briefly.
Someone knew she was here. Someone had knownexactlywhen she arrived.
And worse—someone wanted him to know.
William Armitage had never been a man of idle curiosity. Nor of kindness.
Charlotte glanced at him, searching his face. “I am sorry,” she said again. “For lying to you. For bringing this trouble into your house.”
Something in her tone—resigned, small—cut deeper than any accusation.
Edward exhaled slowly. “I understand the impulse to leave the past behind,” he said at last. “Especially when it has taken everything from you.”
Her eyes lifted then, startled by the gentleness in his voice.
“I am still … angry,” he added honestly. “But I am not without sympathy.”
Her shoulders eased a fraction.
He hesitated, then asked, “How do you know my cousin?”
The tension returned at once.
She drew a breath. “We were meant to be engaged.”
The words struck harder than he expected.
A sharp, unreasonable surge of jealousy flared through him—white-hot and unwelcome. Edward clenched his jaw, forcing it down.
“He called upon my parents several times,” she continued quietly. “There were discussions. Plans. But nothing more.” She shook her head faintly. “When my father’s business arrangement with him failed, he stopped coming. I had not heard from him since before the accident.”
Edward’s unease deepened.
“I have never trusted William,” he said flatly. “Not in business. Not in character.”
Her gaze switched to him, something like relief flickering there.
“I will see this investigated,” Edward went on. “But until I know more, I want you to be cautious.”
He reached toward her instinctively—then stopped himself, his hand hovering uselessly in the air before he drew it back.
“If he contacts you again,” he said firmly, “or attempts to come to Ashford, you will come to me at once. Do you understand?”
