“Her birthday,” Charlotte continued, warmth building as the words took shape. “Just the two of us. Well—three, if your father wishes.” She smiled. “We can decorate. We can ask the cook to make something special. And we can play music. For her.”
His eyes widened, hope flaring so brightly it nearly stole her breath. “Really?”
“Really,” she said, already rising. “I’ll ask permission, of course. We can do it properly.”
Julian launched himself at her, arms wrapping tight around her waist. “You’re the best,” he declared into her skirts.
She laughed, holding him close. “I think your mother would have liked it very much.”
He pulled back suddenly, excitement crackling through him again. “We should play for Papa,” he said. “Our song. The one we’ve been practicing.”
Charlotte hesitated—just for a heartbeat.
There it was. That line she should not cross. The voice that warned her she was only the governess, that this was not her place, that she was becoming too entwined.
And yet—
She thought of Edward’s face when grief slipped its guard. Of the way he had steadied her without words when William had shaken her world. Of how music had once lived in this house and deserved, perhaps, to live again.
Her cheeks warmed. “I think,” she said quietly, “that would be a lovely way to say thank you.”
Julian beamed.
They returned to the keys, the melody unfolding again—this time lighter, more certain. Charlotte played alongside him now, their hands moving in quiet harmony.
Halfway through, she felt it.
That unmistakable awareness.
She glanced toward the doorway.
Edward stood there, one shoulder braced against the frame, finger lifted lightly to his lips as though to preserve the moment. His gaze was fixed not on her, but on Julian—soft, unguarded, filled with something like wonder.
Charlotte’s heart stumbled.
Their eyes met.
For a breathless second, the world narrowed to that shared look—music threading the space between them, memory and hope colliding in silence. Something passed there, unspoken but undeniably real.
“Charlotte,” Julian whispered sharply, affronted. “You stopped.”
She startled, heat rushing to her cheeks. “Sorry,” she murmured, fingers returning to the keys.
Edward smiled then—not the thoughtful, distant version she knew, but something genuine and fleeting.
The music resumed.
And for the first time in a long while, the house listened.
Chapter 22
Edward read the letter twice before allowing himself to exhale.
The handwriting was unfamiliar by design—tight, slanted, deliberately unremarkable. Christopher had been careful. That, in itself, unsettled him.
He leaned back in his chair, the paper held loosely between his fingers, eyes fixed on the far wall while the contents replayed themselves with relentless clarity.
William Armitage had always been reckless. A gambler. A rake. A man who mistook charm for consequence and believed himself immune to both. None of that surprised Edward.
