Page 44 of The Duke’s Christmas Redemption

“Will he?” Sir Geoffrey’s lips curved in a smile that held no warmth. “Before I share with him what I discovered in your husband’s study? Such interesting reading material you hold, Your Grace. The late Duke’s private journal, unless I mistake the binding?”

Charlotte’s fingers tightened on the book, but she kept her voice level.

“You seem remarkably familiar with His Grace’s private papers, sir. One might almost think...”

“One might think many things,” he interrupted smoothly. “About papers, about debts, about a young Duke’s desperate attempts to save his family’s reputation. But then, you know all about that now, don’t you? Or were you planning to read every detail for yourself?”

The barely veiled threat in his tone made Charlotte’s breath catch. Yet something about his manner – the too-sharp edge to his smile, the slight strain around his eyes – suggested desperation rather than triumph.

Charlotte drew herself up to her full height, summoning every ounce of dignity her position as Duchess of Alverton demanded.

“Whatever game you play, sir, you shall not use me as your pawn in it.”

“Game?” Sir Geoffrey’s laugh held a bitter edge. “Oh, this is no game, Your Grace. This is about justice – about debts long overdue. Your precious Duke—”

“My husband,” Charlotte interrupted with quiet authority, “is a man of honour. If you have legitimate business with him, you may present it properly through his man of business. This... this skulking about and making threats is beneath a gentleman’s dignity.”

Something flickered in Sir Geoffrey’s expression – a crack in his carefully maintained facade of superiority. For just a moment, Charlotte glimpsed something that did indeed look almost like desperation in his eyes.

“Honour?” he spat. “Was it honourable, the way his father—” He caught himself, his fingers flexing at his sides as though physically restraining words he hadn’t meant to speak. “But perhaps you’d best read the journal yourself, Your Grace. Then we shall see what value you place on Alverton honour.”

Before Charlotte could respond, hurried footsteps in the corridor heralded Margaret’s appearance.

“Charlotte! His Grace has—”

She stopped short in the doorway beside Phillips, taking in the scene before her with wide eyes. Sir Geoffrey’s smile turned razor-sharp.

“Ah, Lady Margaret. Come to assist your sister-in-law in her investigations? How... touching this family loyalty must be for His Grace.”

“Sir Geoffrey.” Margaret’s voice held ice that Charlotte had never heard from her before. “I believe that you were just leaving.”

“Was I?” He glanced between them, something calculating entering his expression. “But surely you ladies wish to hear the truth about your beloved William? About how his father—”

“Enough.”

The word cracked like a whip across the room, and Charlotte’s heart nearly stopped at the sound of that familiar voice. William stood in the corridor behind Margaret and Phillips, his coat still damp from the storm, his face a mask of carefully controlled fury. Yet when his eyes met Charlotte’s across the room, she saw not anger, but something far worse – deep, crushing disappointment.

“Your Grace.” Sir Geoffrey turned slowly, his smile widening though his face had gone pale. “How fortuitous. I was just having the most interesting conversation with your wife about family histories.”

William’s gaze moved from Charlotte to the journal she still clutched in her hands, and something in his expression shattered. The look lasted only a moment before his ducal mask slammed back into place, but the memory of it would haunt Charlotte for years to come.

“Get out.” William’s voice held deadly quiet. “I thought that I had made my wishes on this matter clear to you earlier today. Get out of my house, or I shall have you thrown out.”

“Come now,” Sir Geoffrey protested, though he took an involuntary step backward. “Surely we can discuss this like gentlemen? After all, your Duchess seems most interested in the truth. Shall we share it with her? Shall we tell her exactly how—”

“Phillips.” William didn’t raise his voice, but authority rang in every syllable. “Escort Sir Geoffrey from the premises. If he resists, send for the constable.”

Sir Geoffrey glared at William, but then, with some apparent effort, gave a shrug, which rather failed to look as casual as he no doubt hoped it did, and allowed Phillips to escort him away.

For a long moment after Sir Geoffrey’s departure, silence gripped the study. Charlotte could hear the rain drumming against the windows, the distant rumble of thunder, the painful beating of her own heart. William remained in the doorway, his tall figure blocking any thought of escape, his expression unreadable in the storm-darkened room.

“Margaret,” he said finally, his voice terrifyingly gentle, “would you be so good as to leave us? I must speak with Her Grace alone.”

Charlotte saw the conflict in her sister-in-law’s face – the desire to help warring with ingrained obedience to her brother’s wishes. But there could be only one answer to that quiet request.

“Of course.” Margaret’s skirts rustled as she curtsied. Before she left, however, she touched William’s arm. “Brother... please remember that sometimes those who love us best may act unwisely in their desire to help.”

William’s only response was a slight stiffening of his shoulders. As Margaret’s footsteps faded down the corridor, he entered the study fully, closing the door behind him with a careful precision that spoke more eloquently of his anger than any display of temper could have done.