Edward watched as he descended the steps with his usual easy confidence—coat immaculate, posture loose, as though the world bent comfortably around him. A footman moved to take his gloves, but Christopher waved him off with a grin and turned instead toward one of the maids standing near the terrace.
Edward frowned.
They stood closer than propriety required. Too close. The maid laughed softly at something Christopher said, her head tipping back just slightly, her hand lifting in a reflexive gesture that brushed his sleeve.
Christopher leaned in, said something Edward could not hear—and then, with a familiarity that made Edward’s jaw tighten, he reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Intimate. Unthinking. Revealing.
Edward had just opened his mouth to call out when movement at the edge of the path caught his eye.
Charlotte.
She approached from the garden, steps controlled, posture composed, her face still pale in the failing light. The moment Christopher noticed her, he straightened.
His hand dropped at once. The maid stepped back, color rising in her cheeks, and murmured something before retreating toward the house.
Charlotte did not pause. If she noticed the exchange at all, she gave no sign. She inclined her head politely to Christopher asshe passed, then continued, disappearing through the side door without looking back.
Christopher exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.
Edward stepped away from the window before he could be seen lingering.
A moment later, there was a knock. Then Christopher entered the study without waiting to be announced, his expression shifting into something more sober as soon as he took in Edward’s face.
“You sent for me,” Christopher said. “That rarely bodes well.”
Edward did not bother with pleasantries. “We have a problem.”
Christopher closed the door behind him and leaned against it, arms folding loosely across his chest. “You sound grave,” he observed. “That, too, is rare.”
Edward did not bother with pleasantries. He turned to face him fully. “My cousin, Liam, appears to be causing trouble.”
Christopher’s brows lifted. “Armitage? What’s he done now?”
Edward hesitated—only a fraction of a second—then said, “Before I answer that, there is something you need to know.”
He crossed the room and poured a measure of brandy, more for the steadiness of the motion than any desire to drink it.
“Charlotte is not who she appears to be,” he said quietly.
Christopher straightened at once. “Explain.”
“She did not deceive me in spirit,” Edward continued, controlled, precise. “But she allowed me to believe she was someone else.” He turned, meeting Christopher’s gaze squarely. “Her name is Charlotte Westbrook.”
The name landed heavily between them.
Christopher went still. “Westbrook,” he repeated. “As in—”
“As inthatWestbrook,” Edward said. “Her parents are dead. Killed in a carriage accident near Hawthorne Hollow.”
Recognition sharpened Christopher’s expression. “Christ.”
Edward nodded once. “She came to my household with nothing. No fortune. No protection. She believed the name she had been born with no longer belonged to her.”
Christopher exhaled slowly. “Go on.”
Edward set the glass aside, untouched. “Liam sought her out today. Spoke to her privately. Too familiarly.” His jaw tightened. “And he told her that her parents’ deaths were not an accident.”
