Chapter 65
The Ashford residence had been in a state of unrest ever since word of Cassandra’s escape reached them.
Nathaniel had spent most of the time since waiting for word from Cassandra, though he could not quite say what he expected to hear.
Part of him had anticipated her storming through the doors, demanding an explanation for why her own family had attempted to arrange her marriage without consulting her. He could almost hear the accusations already and whatever scandalous consequence that might come with it.
Her headstrong nature left him in little doubt that she would willingly drag the family into yet another scandal. It was precisely because of her stubborn and disagreeable disposition that he had been forced to resort to such underhanded methods with her.
Whatever happened next would have consequences. She might return to the palace, speak to the queen, or turn the entire affair into a scandal. The Ashford name could suffer, and Nathaniel had no desire to spend the next several months scrubbing his reputation clean.
What he had not anticipated was this prolonged silence from her.
He had only two options to pick from. He could either wait to see how Cassandra would react or he could take preemptive measures to counteract whatever she was planning.
Nathaniel found the uncertainty irritating, but Edmund appeared far more troubled by it.
His son had scarcely been able to keep still since they received the news. Restlessness radiated from him, his entire body tensing whenever the sound of carriage wheels reached them from beyond the house.
Each time, he would turn towards the windows, only to find that the carriage belonged to some stranger merely passing the gates.
He had been behaving strangely ever since the arrangement fell through, though Nathaniel could hardly fault him for that. Edmund invested a great deal of effort into making the arrangement succeed.
Yet anger was not what Nathaniel saw in his son’s eyes.
There was apprehension there, accompanied by something Nathaniel could not quite put a name to.
He studied Edmund for several long moments before finally speaking to get his attention.
"Have you heard anything?" He inquired, suspicious.
Edmund shook his head. He looked like he could barely contain the urge to tear out his own skin.
"Then stop pacing. You are making the room unbearable." Nathaniel bit out, rubbing his temples to ease the headache gradually brewing.
Edmund made an attempt to sit, but it lasted scarcely a minute. His fingers tapped against the armrest before he was on his feet once more.
Nathaniel glared at him but his son barely noticed, lost to the bussing thoughts in his head.
His concern and suspicion grew until it was all Nathaniel could focus on.
Edmund, on the other hand, had never been so ill at ease, like a taut bowstring, vibrating with tension.
His thoughts kept circling back to the same man.
Whitmore.
Now that the plan to marry Cassandra to him had failed so spectacularly, what did that mean for their future as business partners? More importantly, where did it leave Edmund?
Whitmore might decide that he was no longer worth the trouble and withdraw from their arrangement altogether. The possibility had been gnawing at him ever since the marriage had fallen through. Yet he could not speak of it. Not to his father, not to anyone.
Even Nathaniel’s concerned looks and probing questions had failed to pry the truth from him. Edmund could not afford to reveal the extent of his dealings with Whitmore, especially not now.
As far as Nathaniel knew, Whitmore was merely a man who had taken an interest in Cassandra, a man willing to marry her and relieve the Ashford’s of the burden of dealing with her. That was all Edmund had ever allowed his father to believe.
It said something about how little Cassandra meant to him that he had been willing to hand her over to a man he scarcely knew simply so he would no longer have to concern himself with her. Before everything had unravelled, Edmund had taken a sick pleasure in it.
There had been something deeply satisfying about realizing just how easily he could reduce Cassandra’s importance with a single decision. It stoked that dark part of his soul that had resented her for years and knowing he could dispose of her so effortlessly had fed that bitterness.
But lately, his father had begun asking questions about Whitmore. More questions than Edmund was comfortable answering.
And he was running out of excuses.
Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed on him now.
"Why are you so concerned about Whitmore?" he asked.
The question startled Edmund. His father had somehow managed to identify the very source of his unease with uncomfortable accuracy.
Edmund schooled his features into what he hoped was a mask of indifference before turning to face him. Judging by Nathaniel’s knowing look, he had not succeeded.
"I am not." He lied. "I am simply worried about Cassandra and whatever foolishness she could be up to now. It is quite stressful. You, of all people, would understand."
But Nathaniel saw through the lie clearly as though it were made of glass. He paced across the room to where his son stood stiffly.
Edmund was several inches taller than him now, broad-shouldered and long past the age when Nathaniel could simply look at him and see a boy. Yet when Nathaniel stopped before him, Edmund found himself feeling strangely like one.
"Easy, son. You look troubled. What business do you have with that man?"
"Nothing that concerns you." The words came out harsher and more dismissive than he intended. The instant they left his mouth, Edmund wished he could drag them back, swallow them, and pretend he had never spoken.
Nathaniel’s expression was as serious as he had ever seen it. "Everything that concerns my son concerns me."
Edmund swallowed. There was no answer he could give that would satisfy his father without revealing something he had no intention of confessing.