Smuggling, however—
That gave him pause.
Not because it seemed implausible. Quite the opposite. William had always flirted with danger, drawn to ventures that promised quick profit and required little scrutiny. Smuggling fit him far too well.
Christopher’s note mentioned whispers along the river routes near the village—cargo moved at odd hours, payments exchanged through intermediaries, debts settled in silence rather than coin.
Edward’s jaw tightened.
Then came the line that mattered most.
A failed business arrangement between William Armitage and George Westbrook. Shortly before Westbrook’s death.
Edward closed his eyes briefly.
Charlotte had told him as much—haltingly, guardedly, as though unsure she was permitted to speak of her father at all. At the time, Edward had filed it away as coincidence. Now, the timing felt anything but.
He would speak to her again.
But not yet.
Not until he had something firmer than rumor and conjecture. Charlotte had already been made to carry too much uncertainty. He would not add to it lightly.
His gaze dropped back to the page—and halted.
Thomas.
Christopher had written the name with visible hesitation, as though reluctant even to commit it to paper. A suggestion only.
A whisper passed along by men who trafficked in half-truths and exaggeration. That Thomas Thornton—Edward’s brother—might once have crossed paths with William’s dealings.
Edward’s hand curled reflexively, crumpling the edge of the letter.
No.
Thomas had been many things—charismatic, impulsive, fiercely loyal—but he had, above all, been a man of honor. He would never have involved himself in criminal trade. Never have endangered the family name. Never have allied himself with William Armitage in anything that stank of illegality.
Edward dismissed the notion outright.
Some rumors did not deserve oxygen.
The final lines of Christopher’s letter were unmistakably less restrained.
A pointed observation about Edward’sinterestin Charlotte Westbrook. About the lengths he was already willing to go for her protection. About the danger of caring so fiercely for someone who, by every rule of order and propriety, should not matter so much.
Edward felt irritation flare—swift and sharp.
Christopher had always been infuriatingly perceptive.
He folded the letter and slid it into the drawer he kept locked beneath his desk. The key turned softly. Final.
A knock sounded.
Edward straightened at once. “Enter.”
The door opened to reveal Charlotte—with Julian at her side.
The boy stood unusually still, hands clasped together as though bracing himself. Charlotte’s expression was composed, but Edward had learned to read the tension beneath it: the watchfulstillness of someone waiting to see which way a moment would break.
