Lily squeezed her sister’s arm and left the drawing room. The corridor was quiet, the afternoon light slanting through the tall windows, and she walked toward Edward’s study with the measured steps of a woman who had rehearsed this conversation in her head six times and was not yet satisfied with any version of it.
She knocked.
“Come in.”
Edward sat behind his desk in shirtsleeves, a stack of correspondence before him and a cup of tea growing cold at his elbow. He looked up when she entered, and something shifted in his expression. Not surprise. Attention.
“Lily. Please, sit down.”
She settled into the chair opposite his desk. The study smelled of leather and ink and the faint trace of brandy from the decanter on the side table.
“Before you ring for tea,” she said, “might I have something stronger?”
Edward’s brow lifted. He did not comment. He rose, crossed to the decanter, and poured two glasses. He set one before her and returned to his chair with the other.
Lily took a long sip. The brandy burned a path down her throat and settled in her stomach, warm and steady.
“I want to ask you about Hugo.”
Edward set his glass down. He leaned back in his chair and regarded her with patient, unhurried attention.
“Perhaps you should speak with Hugo himself, if you wish to know him.”
“I know that. And I will.” She turned the glass between her fingers. “But you are the person who has known him the longest, Edward. You are my brother-in-law, and I respect you. I trust your judgment. I need your insight before I stand beside him in a church in three days and promise him the rest of my life.”
The words landed between them with a weight that surprised her. She had not planned to say it quite that way. But the brandy had loosened something, and the truth of it sat in the room now, exposed and undeniable.
Edward was quiet for a long moment. He picked up his glass, took a sip, and set it down again.
“Hugo Beaumont is a good man.” He said it simply, without flourish. “We met at Eton when we were twelve. We became friends, and we have remained friends since.”
He paused. Lily waited.
“We have been through things together that I would not share without his permission. But I will tell you this: I have seen Hugo in the worst moments of his life. Moments that would have broken lesser men. And he did not break. He bent. He rebuilt. He constructed a version of himself that the world would accept, and he wore it so well that most people believe it is all there is.”
“The charm,” Lily said.
“Yes.” Edward met her gaze. “It is not a lie, exactly. Hugo enjoys life. He enjoys women, wine, and the company of friends. But the persona is a shield, and the man behind it is more complicated, more wounded, and more decent than thetonhas ever been permitted to see.”
“You said wounded.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. He looked down at his glass.
“That is his story to tell, Lily. Not mine. But I will say this: the things Hugo carries have shaped him in ways that are not always visible. He protects people because he knows what it feels like to be unprotected. He rescues broken things because he understands damage from the inside.” Edward looked up. “And the fact that he has not told you these things yet does not mean he does not trust you. It means he is afraid that if you see what is underneath, you will look at him differently.”
Lily’s throat tightened. She took another sip of brandy.
“I should tell you,” Edward continued, “that he dealt with Lady Stapleton. Personally. He went to her house and confronted her, and she will not trouble you or Lady Fairhart again.”
“He did not tell me that.”
“He would not. Hugo does not advertise his virtuous deeds.” The corner of Edward’s mouth lifted. “He also added two thousand pounds to Miss Stapleton’s dowry so that the daughter would not suffer for the mother’s actions.”
Lily stared at him. “Two thousand pounds?”
“He told me afterward. His words were, ‘The girl did nothing wrong. She should not starve because her mother is a villain.’”
Something moved inside Lily. A loosening. A door opening that she had not known was closed.
