HER MOTHER TOLD THE DUKE SHE COULDN’T READ—THEN HE FOUND HER SECRET ROOM OF LAW BOOKS

Chapter 27

A week later, Lady Eleanor brought news of a proposal from several families affected by the inquiry.

They wanted to create a small fund to help widows and heirs obtain independent reviews of complicated estate documents when they could not afford prolonged disputes.

“They want your name on the founding committee,” Eleanor said.

Charlotte nearly dropped her tea. “No — yes — I am not a lawyer.”

Eleanor smiled. “You have mentioned this before.”

Nathaniel, seated across the room, looked suspiciously innocent.

Charlotte narrowed her eyes. “You knew I was being consulted. You encouraged this.”

“I may have failed to discourage it.”

Lady Margaret entered in time to hear the last sentence. “What is he guilty of now?”

“Trying to make me respectable.”

Margaret took the letter from Eleanor, read it, and handed it back. “You should do it.”

Charlotte stared. Her mother moved toward the tea tray.

“Do stop looking surprised whenever I have a sensible thought. It becomes insulting.”

Nathaniel looked down at his cup. His shoulders moved once. Charlotte pointed at him.

“Do not laugh.”

“I would never.”

He was lying badly.

The committee began with six cases.

Charlotte did not become what society had tried to make her in the newspapers — a prodigy, a crusader, a curiosity. She became something she preferred: reliable.

She organized files. She referred legal questions to qualified solicitors. She helped families understand which documents mattered and which promises required verification. Some problems had solutions and some did not, and she learned to say so plainly.

Nathaniel remained part of her life without forcing the shape of it. He asked her to dinner; she sometimes said no because she had work. He came to Whitmore House and sat in the hidden library beneath the roof, where his head nearly struck a beam the first time.

Charlotte laughed so hard she had to sit down.

“This room is hostile to rank,” he said, rubbing his forehead.

“It has excellent instincts.”

He brought her a proper lamp for the desk in December. Not jewellery. Not flowers. A lamp with an adjustable arm and a glass shade that cast clear light across a full page without smoking the ceiling.

Charlotte looked at it for so long that Nathaniel became uncertain.

“Is it wrong?”

“No.”

“Too practical?”

“No, Nathaniel.” She touched the brass base. “It is perfect.”

His relief made her love him a little more.

She had not yet told him she loved him. She was fairly certain he knew.