Chapter 33

CHAPTER 33

T he morning sun filtered through the thick canopy of the woods, casting long, dappled shadows over the forest floor. The crisp air carried the scent of damp earth and pine, usually so invigorating, but today Edwin hardly noticed. He moved through the woods with Martin at his side, his rifle in hand, but his focus was elsewhere, wandering through memories and doubts that gnawed at him.

Ahead, a stag appeared—a perfect shot, broadside and still as it grazed on the frosted grass. Edwin crouched, steadied his rifle, and aimed down the barrel. For a moment, his mind cleared, his eyes focused on the target. But just as he began to pull the trigger, an image flashed in his mind—Hanna, standing in his study the previous morning, her face pale and drawn. She had handed him those letters with trembling fingers, and her eyes—her eyes had been full of something… something she was hiding.

His grip faltered. Why had she looked so unsettled? Why did she avoid meeting his gaze when she spoke of the letters?

The stag twitched, sensing something, but stayed put.

The letters.

Edwin’s heart clenched, and his thoughts drifted back to the words he’d read, the ones written in Benjamin’s unmistakable hand. But could they truly have come from his brother? Had Benjamin—his brother, so full of pride and honor—really been the man to threaten Lord Worcester?

The moment of hesitation stretched on for too long. His mind was racked with doubt, and his aim slipped.

The stag bolted, its white tail flicking as it disappeared into the brush, leaving only silence in its wake.

“Blast!” Edwin cursed under his breath, lowering his rifle, the frustration biting harder than the cold air.

Martin, who had been watching, strode over, shaking his head. “That was a clean shot,” he noted, his voice tinged with curiosity. “What on earth happened? You don’t usually miss like that.”

Edwin sighed, dropping the rifle to his side and running a hand through his hair. “My thoughts… they are not where they should be.”

Martin gave him a sidelong glance. “Clearly. But it’s not like you to be so distracted, especially during a hunt. Come now, out with it. What’s weighing on you so heavily?”

Edwin hesitated, staring off into the dense woods where the stag had disappeared. For a long moment, he said nothing, but then, realizing there was no use in bottling up his worries, he sighed again and turned toward his friend.

“It’s Hanna. And… Benjamin.”

Martin’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Benjamin? I thought?—”

“I thought so too,” Edwin interrupted, his voice tight with frustration. “But something’s happened. Hanna brought me some letters yesterday. She claims she found them at her father’s house, hidden away—letters that suggest Benjamin was the one responsible for the mismanagement of the funds. That he threatened Worcester. And that he was… guilty of all the things we’ve tried so hard to disprove.”

Martin’s expression darkened. “Letters, you say? And in Benjamin’s hand?”

“Yes,” Edwin replied, bitterness seeping into his voice. “In his very hand. But I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. Something about it feels… wrong. And Hanna, when she gave them to me, she seemed—” He faltered, recalling the tremor in her voice, the way she had looked away when he questioned her. “She seemed troubled. As if there’s more that she’s not telling me.”

Martin leaned on his rifle, his gaze sharpening. “You think the letters might be forgeries, then?”

Edwin rubbed a hand over his face, the weight of it all crashing down on him. “I don’t know what to think. I want to believe she’s telling me the truth. But then, why did she look so… conflicted? She was different, Martin. Not like her usual self. And the letters… the things they say about Benjamin?—”

He clenched his fists, his heart warring between disbelief and the grim reality of what he’d read. “Benjamin was no saint. He liked to drink a little too much, he could have a temper, but he was a mild man,” he said finally. “He was not like this. He wasn’t a man to stoop to threats, to dishonor himself so. And yet… the letters… Hanna insists they’re real.”

Martin pursed his lips, lost in thought. “And you’re certain she’s not lying to you? It could be that she believes her father. Or—” He hesitated, glancing at his friend. “Or she could have been forced to lie to you.”

“I’ve considered that,” Edwin admitted, his voice lowering. “Her father is a man I’ve never trusted. He would have no qualms about deceiving his own daughter if it served him. But even so, why would she help him? She hates the man, and she and I—we have grown closer.”

“Could be many reasons,” Martin mused, rubbing his chin. “Do you suspect that perhaps her behavior has nothing to do with her father or the letters but rather with your as-of-yet undefined relationship? Have you made progress in that regard?”

Edwin shook his head. He had told his friend about their kiss, of course, but they hadn’t discussed the union in detail.

“We were civil with one another. Tender even, at times. I think that is why she quickly agreed to help me, but now everything has changed once more,” he said. “It may have been easier had I not opened my heart to her.”

“Well, yes. Love makes everything more difficult, indeed,” Martin said.

Love. Did Edwin love his wife? He wasn’t certain, having never experienced such feelings. He wanted to protect her, and the fact that she might be keeping something from him hurt him more than he would have otherwise suspected.

He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “She thinks I ought to stop prodding. I cannot. I do not want to. I’m caught in the middle of it.” He paused, his eyes narrowing with determination. “But I won’t stop, Martin. I won’t let this stand. I’ll find the truth, no matter how deep they’ve buried it.”

Martin straightened up, his expression serious. “If you’re certain of Benjamin’s innocence, then you’re right not to let the matter rest. We’ll hire investigators, men who know how to uncover what’s been hidden. If those letters are false, we’ll find the proof.”

Edwin nodded, his jaw set with resolve. “I owe it to my brother—to clear his name once and for all. And if Worcester is involved in this deceit, I’ll bring him down for it. I won’t let Benjamin’s memory be tarnished.”

“Just be aware that Hanna might not feel the same and things may become more strained,” Martin warned him. “I think perhaps it might be best if you do not tell her about the investigators.”

Lie to her? Again? Edwin did not like this, but he knew he did not have much choice in the matter. He had to do something—and if Hanna was indeed somehow under her father’s thumb, then he had to put caution first.

“I agree,” he said.

Martin clapped him on the shoulder, his voice firm. “Then let’s see it through, Edwin. Whatever it takes.”

But even as Edwin agreed, a shadow of doubt lingered. He couldn’t shake the image of Hanna’s troubled face as she handed him the letters, nor the feeling that there was something she wasn’t telling him—something that could change everything.