edward-st-george

[edward-st-george]

Edward followed. Not right away—never that. There was a beat, a pause in the breathless quiet after her words where his limbs felt locked, like some fool puppet tangled in his own strings. The air between them was thick with the thing he hadn’t said, a presence all its own. Something unformed and unfinished. But then her footsteps turned, soft and decisive, and he moved. He always moved for her, didn’t he? Even when he shouldn't. Even when she didn’t ask. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The usual arsenal—the lazy grin, the biting jest, the disarming tilt of his head—felt hollow, blunted at the edges by something tighter in his chest. He’d been reckless his whole life, made a career out of it, but somehow this—touching her, wanting her—felt like leaping off a cliff with his eyes open. The kind of recklessness that came with consequences, the kind that left things behind when it all inevitably went to hell. And Edward didn’t leave things behind. He never let them close enough. Except her. God, except her.

She walked just ahead, her shoulders squared, her chin lifted in that way of hers that said she would never ask for comfort but needed it all the same. He knew that posture. He’d seen it in mirrors after his mother left, after his father stopped pretending to care. That proud, desperate shape you wore when the world dared you to flinch. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need anyone. But she’d asked for him. And it undid something in him that she had. He stayed a step behind. Close enough that she knew he was there, would always be there, but not close enough to touch. Not yet. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of everything he should’ve said. I saw you. I felt it too. I wanted to be brave. He wanted to call her name, to reach out, to bridge the space between them—but his hands stayed at his sides. Because what if she turned to him and saw the truth? That he didn’t know how to love anything he couldn’t also destroy. That all of his charm was a shield, and underneath it, Edward St. George was still just that boy who learned the safest way to survive was never to need. So instead, he walked to the inn in silence. It was the only thing he had the courage to give.

The End.

Alice wasn’t used to silence. Not between them. Not in the spaces she shared with Edward St. George, who always had something irreverent on his tongue or some maddening, knowing look in his eyes that set her teeth on edge. Or used to. This—this silence was something else. It swelled around them, a fragile, trembling thing too easily shattered by the wrong word, and Alice, who was rarely at a loss for anything, found she had nothing. She should speak. She should mock the way he looked at her, the way his hand had lingered against her skin, warm and reverent like she was something sacred. It would be easy to sneer, to cut through the unbearable tenderness and pretend it hadn’t happened. But she didn’t. Couldn’t. Because when he’d touched her — gentle, careful, like she was made of something precious — her breath had caught in her throat, and her pride, so often her shield, had cracked just enough for the truth to slip in.

She was falling. And she hated it.

It had been happening slowly. Too slowly. A shift she hadn’t noticed at first — a glance too long, a gesture too thoughtful. His attention to her had always been pointed, but lately, it had taken on a different shape. He noticed things about her no one else ever had. The way she worried her needle when she was designing. How she twisted her rings when she was thinking. He noticed her silences. He noticed her. And in this quiet alleyway, so close she could feel the heat of him, with her breath still uneven from the chase and the panic still lingering like smoke in her chest, all she could see was that look in his eyes. That raw, unguarded longing he was too much of a coward to name.

When he stepped back, it felt like a sudden chill. Like the air between them had turned to frost. Her heart clenched with it. Not the absence of his touch, but what it meant. He would not reach for her. He could look at her like she hung the stars in the sky, like she mattered in ways that terrified her—but he wouldn’t leap. He wouldn’t cross the space between them, not truly. And that, Alice understood too well. She had known men like that before. Men who wanted but never fought. Who desired, but never chose. And she had no more time for cowards, no more space in her soul to beg someone to be brave enough for her.

So she did what she always did. She straightened her spine, smoothed the expression from her face, and closed the door on everything tender and dangerous that had almost just happened. “Would you mind escorting me to the inn?” she asked softly, her voice calm, almost cool — a tone that felt too empty for what sat bruised beneath her ribs. “I don’t feel entirely at ease returning to my shop tonight. Not with… earlier.” She didn’t look at him. Didn’t trust herself to. Not when his eyes could still hold her in place like that. Not when she wanted — God help her — to ask why he’d looked at her like she was worth something more than every cruel lie she’d been fed by the world.

It wasn’t rejection, not quite. But it was cowardice. And Alice Heywood had weathered too many storms to stand still for that. So she walked ahead, not waiting to see if he’d follow. Because of course he would. He always did. But this time, she wouldn’t let herself hope for anything more.

[edward-st-george]

Edward stretched out like a cat in a sunbeam, one arm slung over the back of his chair, the other nursing a half-empty glass. He watched Chastity’s dramatics with the amusement of an older brother thoroughly entertained by the sound of his own torment. Her muttering, the grand sighs, the withering glances—it was all theatre, and he adored theatre, especially when he didn’t have to pay for a ticket. “Since when did I need to like someone to do business with them?” he said, tone lazy, lips curled in a grin that was far too pleased. “I’ve had cordial dealings with thieves, liars, and one man who wore a toupee made of horsehair. Taste is not a prerequisite.” But her sharp observation landed. She sat up, victorious, and he could practically see the glitter in her eyes when she said it. You do like her. That one hit its mark, and he let the silence hang for a moment too long. His jaw tightened—not enough to confirm, but enough for her to notice if she was looking closely. Of course she was. “Alice is matched to a man who couldn’t charm his way out of a nursery,” he said coolly, eyes flicking to the fireplace, away from her stare. “If I gave a damn about who she was with, that might mean something. But I don’t. She’s clever, I’ll give her that. And ambitious. Which makes her a good investment, not a good... complication.”

He shifted, eyes returning to Chastity with the sharpness of a blade wrapped in silk. “You’re getting too clever for your own good,” he said with a half-laugh, tapping his temple like she’d need to slow it down. “And while I applaud your sudden ability to sniff out sentiment like a bloodhound, I assure you, you’ve caught the wrong scent. My heart’s still right here.” He tugged open his shirt slightly and peered down theatrically. “Nope. Hollow as ever. Might want to get your eyes checked, darling.” But the glint in his eyes dimmed just for a breath, and when he raised his glass again, the motion was slower. “You’ve got a match to make work, Chas. Try not to spend all your energy matchmaking me into a tidy little ruin. One of us has to get out of this unscathed.” He winked, recovering the swagger in an instant, but the edge hadn’t dulled. Not entirely.

The problem with sharing blood was assumption. With the same curve in your left ear, the same blue eyes, you assumed the other face, the one that resembled yours, saw and heard things exactly as you did.

Affectionate forewarning was a condescending indictment, a jibe was a brutal dismissal, and meaner for it.

I should sit here all evening, Chastity thought, just to annoy him.

It wasn't possible to change weight out of sheer force of will, but Chastity tried anyway, thinking leaden thoughts by the ton, allowing gravity to do its work all while she bit down on her tongue to resist the urge to rise to Edward's obvious bait.

Swooning, really.

The silent treatment wasn't a new invention, but Chastity had perfected it. An eye roll. Dimples at her cheeks accentuated by a deep set frown. Limp wrists dangling off the arms of her chair.

The challenge was sustaining it.

Rumination became grumbling. Odd mutters of, "Since you're making no effort at all with Lady Rosemary, it will soon be me supporting you," and, "He knows how to read and even if he didn't–"

"And this modiste," she went on muttering. "Taste, talent, cleverness, nerve, it almost seems as if he likes her, which couldn't be possible because she sounds like a person, not a mirror." She huffed a small laugh, but it caught, speared by realization.

Chastity blinked, bracing her heels against the floor to shuffle herself upright in her chair. "You do!" she cried, equal parts incredulous and gleeful. "You do like her!" Her eyes roved over him, as if she might see the evidence written on his skin. "And not in your usual, bedding whatever moves near you way. You...you think well of her!"

[edward-st-george]

Edward took the bag with the casual entitlement of a man who'd never had to earn trust to spend it. He weighed it in his palm, not like he was checking for accuracy—he trusted Peter, in the same way a man trusted the tide: it would come in, go out, and drag a few things under if you stood too close. But even tides could be bartered with. The weight was promising. He flashed a grin—sharp, rakish, and entirely unsaintly. "‘More than we agreed,’" Edward echoed, stepping back to let the firelight stretch long down the corridor. "Darling, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were sweet on me." He turned, coat flaring as he strolled deeper into the right wing of the inn—away from the public rooms, toward the side not listed on any ledgers. He didn’t need to check if Peter followed. A man like that never handed over coin without keeping it close enough to burn someone with it.

Inside, the door shut with a gentle click. Not locked. Edward never locked a door unless he meant to keep someone in. He dropped the bag onto the table beside the decanter. The sound was satisfying—wealthy and heavy. His fingers skimmed the top of the pouch like one might a lover’s collarbone, before he poured himself a drink. Only one. Peter could ask if he wanted one. Edward liked to keep the first favor floating between them. "You always did have a nose for finding the unlisted corners of the map," he said as he sank into the armchair, drink in hand, one leg draped over the other with indecent ease. "And here I thought you were going straight." He tilted the glass in lazy salute, blue eyes glittering with something too mischievous to be called trust. "Not that I mind. I like a man who remembers where the shadows are thickest." A beat. A smirk. "And who pays for the privilege." His head tilted, curls tousled by carelessness and liquor, or perhaps both. "So then," he said, voice dropping to something lower, smoother—silver with a hint of threat—"what’s got you offering coin for silence, Peter? Trouble in your higher circles, or are we just hiding something too precious to move through daylight?" He grinned like the devil behind a tavern counter, teeth white and mood darker. "Floor’s yours." And for a moment, he looked very much like what he was: a man who played at charm the way others played cards—fast, with flair, and always expecting to win.

A NAME MAY HAVE CHANGED FROM PIET TO PETER BUT STILL REMAINED WAS A CUNNING NATURE FILLED WITH GREED AND SELF-PRESERVATION. It was worthwhile to do things above board in the daylight yet to truly get safety as what was wanted was to deal in both the honourable and dishonourable. The two were partners and not friends which would be a mix dealt with during the long years of Piet’s former life before he came to be known as Peter. Something else lingered between himself and Edward. Or someone. Unknown for now was the best course of action to keep things strictly business related. “It is.” When things needed to be moved off book from the ports, having a place to store was most valuable. More valuable knowing they were going to friends in similar situation as he was. Discretely a bag of coins placed in front of Edward. “There’s more in there than we agreed. For privacy.”

[edward-st-george]

The night air hit Edward like a challenge. It was cooler now, biting faintly at the heat still clinging to his skin where rough hands had shoved him out the club's front door not moments ago. The laughter inside still rang—hollow, distant, insufferable—like music from a ballroom he was no longer invited to. Not that he'd wanted to stay. Not really. Not after they’d made it clear what he was and wasn’t. Edward brushed the dust from his lapels with the kind of exaggerated grace that turned misfortune into theatre. Always the performance. Always the smile. His mouth curled with rakish bravado, but there was something brittle in the press of his thumb to that old signet ring, long since stripped of any family honor. He hadn’t even said anything that scandalous—at least not compared to usual. Well, perhaps he had. He’d said what he saw, and that, it turned out, was worse than lying. He let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. One shoulder leaned against the lamppost like he belonged to it. Boots scuffed the cobblestone. Above, the stars looked indifferent. Predictable, that. They always were. He just spoke, voice dry and idle like they were two gents out for a stroll and not one of them fresh from being ejected. “I suppose I could have phrased it differently,” Edward said, eyes fixed on the street beyond. “But let’s be honest—if you set the Ton’s hypocrisy on fire, you can’t act surprised when they call you uncivilized.” There was a touch of something sharp behind the charm. Not quite anger. Resentment? No—older than that. Weariness, maybe. But even that didn’t settle long. He was too restless for melancholy.

“They never want the truth. Just the story they can retell at dinner, preferably with me painted as the cautionary footnote.” His smile twisted sideways, his tone dipping into that space between philosophy and provocation. “Funny, isn’t it? They’ll toast a man who saves a regiment by accident, but they’ll exile him for remembering their secrets too clearly.” He finally glanced at Alistair, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “You’d think I’d learn. Keep the truth in my pocket with my dice and my knives. But I can’t help myself—something about drowning men handing out mirrors.” He waved a hand loosely. “Never mind me. I’ve been drinking.” The smirk returned—slanted, lazy, devil-may-care. It didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’m not finished here,” Edward added after a pause, glancing back at the club. “But I might be done pretending the place ever had room for me to begin with.” And then he turned fully, facing Alistair, the flicker of mischief reasserting itself like armor sliding back into place. “Tell me you brought a flask or a plan to steal one. Because I’m in need of both, and if I’m not allowed back inside, I intend to make the night jealous of me out here.” The light caught his jaw as he grinned, all glittering defiance and charm, a man who could laugh with blood on his lip and call it a joke. He straightened the lapel of his jacket with a dramatic flick and sauntered toward the shadows of the alleyway, already expecting Alistair to follow. Edward St. George did not sulk. He schemed.

Alistair could not help and shake his head at the other. He did not doubt at all that those words left the other's mouth exactly as it was. "I am an inconsistent hero. Would not want to leave you out here on your lonesome with the expectation I show up-" It was more or less a jest. Alistair would drop anything for someone he considered a friend. It does seem like you could have phrased it differently. I do not doubt you were speaking what you saw. But was it s-said...said exactly like that? Because, if so, are you surprised they did that to you?" His question soft, the crooked smile on his face somewhere between apologetic and concern. "Are you mixing your metaphors my friend? Drowning and mirrors?" He also would not put it past the other to have said something that would go over his head. Alistair was many a thing, but he was not renowned for his intelligence. He would not call himself stupid, but certainly not smart. Not in his eyes. Leaning further forward, a hand rustled his own jacket back into place- nervous habits, and then adjusted himself. "No? Does that mean you are done with here or is this something else?"

[edward-st-george]

Edward leaned his elbows over the polished bar, the sleeves of his linen shirt rolled carelessly up his forearms, a gleam of mischief dancing in those devil-may-care blue eyes. He watched Caroline speak with that particular crooked smile of his—the one that suggested he’d either just thought something wicked or was about to say it. Likely both. "Sticky fingers, shattered windows, and small daggers tucked into cherubic hands—remind me to send the young Sinclairs a bottle of brandy on their next name day. If they’re anything like their father, they’ll need the practice early." He poured himself a modest finger of something amber and warm—purely for appearance’s sake, of course—and held the glass up in salute. “To surviving noble children and making it look graceful.” Then, as if remembering something terribly amusing, he tilted his head toward her, voice dipped in dry sarcasm. “And how is the pay with the Sinclairs, truly? Still writing cheques with invisible ink?” The grin that followed was all teeth and charm—he never asked such questions unless he already knew the answer, and he always enjoyed watching others squirm or laugh their way around the truth.

When she brought up his inability to settle, he gave a mock gasp and pressed a hand to his chest as though wounded. “You wound me, madam. You make it sound as though my reputation is earned.” Then again, perhaps it was. He leaned in just a touch, voice dropping into that low, velvet rhythm he used when he wanted to see just how far his luck could stretch. “Now, if I am everyone’s to sample, I must ask—are you simply being generous? Or have you already had your fill?” A beat, then a smirk. “I won’t be offended either way. My ego is remarkably durable. Unlike debutantes and Sinclair windows.” He straightened then, plucking up a cloth and casually wiping at a clean spot on the counter. “But I do confess,” he added, almost too easily, “you’re one of the few patrons I’d miss if you vanished into marriage or morality. Not that I’d say so twice.” His gaze flicked over her glass. “Another, then? Or are you about to go full countryside on me and start singing hunting songs off-key?”

She gazed at him with amusement before a dry chuckle escaped her mouth.

"Heavens no! Oh not all the time at least. Would you believe how many gowns I've had to be rid of due to the little one's spilling ink on me? And that's when they're not running around the house with ink covered quills. And not to mention their sticky fingers. At times they've not even touched anything sticky yet their fingers remain that way. One of them nearly broke a window the other day. Oh and don't forget the screaming, the crying, the yelling, and most recently the kicking... the Sinclairs are lucky that I'm a sturdy woman and not some fragile debutante who'd break under such pressure and stress." Caroline said frankly before sipping more of the drink she had just been given.

"But, I still manage to enjoy my job. The Sinclairs treat me well enough, that's all I could ask for in this line of work. I like what I do after all, despite the things I have to go through. The children are indeed little cherubs with daggers in their pockets, but I won't complain... it all makes for great drinking stories." She said, joking with her last sentence.

Caroline gazed at Edward with a smirk.

"Ah, I'm one of your favorites? I'm glad to know that." She replied with a bit of intrigue lining her tone, a slightly flirtatious look in her eyes.

She couldn't help but laugh at what he said.

"Ah, Sir St. George... you're as naughty as ever." She joked with a sudden playful glint in her eyes.

"And honestly I found it most amusing, knowing you, you'd be the last person in Mayfair that I know who'd ever settle down with anyone. You're far too debauched for that and I say that with the utmost respect." She said as she gazed at him.

Caroline could feel the drink begin to loosen her up even more. She was no lady when she drank, her rough countryside roots revealed themselves when she drank, and she was absolutely unapologetic about it.

"If I were in charge of it, I'd have matched you with... everyone of the entire Ton because everyone deserves a taste of Sir Edward St. George." She said with a laugh.

"Oh but I am glad I wasn't selected. I've enough to deal with already." She added before bringing the glass to her lips and taking another sip.

[edward-st-george]

closed starter @honeyedache (christopher) || the baron's cup

Edward strolled through the fairgrounds with the idle swagger of a man who had placed all his bets on chaos and was quite happy to watch it unfold. A sugared apple hung lazily from one hand—he'd won it off a baroness in a bet he hadn’t entirely explained—while the other toyed with the edge of his coat, half-ready to vanish should the wrong man appear. But it was the right man he spotted next: none other than Duke Christopher Whitlock, rigid and self-important, looking as though scandal hadn’t licked at the hem of his title like wildfire just last week. “Your Grace,” Edward drawled, slipping through the crowd like silk through fingers. “A pleasure as always. I do hope the family’s keeping well… or at least keeping quiet.” The corners of his mouth lifted just so, his tone all smooth civility with a glint of knives underneath. “London can be so loud with whispers lately, don’t you think? So many mouths, so few secrets left worth keeping.” He bit into the apple, exaggerated delight in his eyes. “But then, you Whitlocks do have a certain... resilience.” He stepped in just close enough to make the exchange feel like a secret. “If I may offer advice—as someone wholly unqualified but endlessly entertained—keeping it within the family is not always the best idea.”

[edward-st-george]

closed starter @maelliflucus || the baron's cup

Edward ducked behind a screen of overly perfumed matrons just as the unmistakable sound of an angry rider barking for a “blasted scoundrel in a navy coat” rang through the crowd. He pivoted with the ease of a man used to fleeing both scandal and husbands, slipping past a flustered servant and straight into the shade of a lavish flower stand. Without missing a beat, he plucked a rose—deep red and scandalously thorned—and spun on his heel, his back to the chaos he’d just caused. His smile bloomed as effortlessly as the flower in his hand. “My lady,” he purred, offering the rose with a half-bow to the first unsuspecting beauty in his line of vision, “fate has been cruel to me today, but clearly she has taste. You look like the sort of woman who might save a man with a single smile… or bury him just as easily.” His eyes flicked subtly over her shoulder, tracking the furious rider stalking through the racegoers, oblivious to the charade unfolding under his nose. “Would you mind terribly pretending I’m charming for the next thirty seconds? I’d be eternally—well, temporarily—grateful.” He leaned just a touch closer, voice low and conspiratorial. “I promise I’ll repay the favor. Preferably when no one is chasing me with a riding crop.”

[edward-st-george]

closed starter @cordialchaos || the baron's cup

Edward straightened with a lazy grace, brushing a smear of something suspiciously oily off his gloved fingers just as the low whistle of a bystander sliced through the quiet behind the stables. He didn’t flinch—he never did—but instead turned slowly, as if caught adjusting a cravat rather than slipping a slick length of soap beneath the saddle strap of one of the favored riders’ horses. Edward, naturally, grinned like the devil caught mid-dare. “Ah,” he said, with the slow drawl of a man caught in nothing he couldn’t explain away, “you’ve found me in the midst of a terrible crime—sabotage via saddle polish. Though if anyone asks, I was only attempting to restore the leather to its former glory. You’d be shocked at the state of these poor animals’ tack. Practically neglectful, really.” He stepped forward, casually blocking the view of the now-dubiously secure rigging behind him. “Tell me, do you always sneak about horse stalls looking this dashing, or am I just having an exceptionally lucky day?” His smile turned roguish, conspiratorial, the kind that promised either a kiss or chaos—or both. “And let’s be honest,” Edward added, with a flick of his wrist toward the crowded stands, “what is one little mischief in the face of all that fortune waiting to be misplaced? Let the nobility lose a bit of silver to balance out the centuries, hmm?” He held out a hand, not in apology but in invitation—into his lie, his charm, his game. “Care to join me for a wager, or shall I leave you here to wrestle with your conscience alone?”

[edward-st-george]

closed starter @agildedecho || the baron's cup

Edward lounged against the polished rail of the Alvarado box with all the indolent ease of a man who never earned anything he enjoyed. His cravat was charmingly askew—deliberately so—and the glint in his eye was wicked as ever as he turned to Domingo, who looked far too composed for Edward’s liking. "Tell me, Dom," he began, voice low and smug, just loud enough to carry, "are you hiding behind all this velvet and spectacle because you're afraid to mount up yourself? Or is this race beneath a man who has his family’s fortune tied up in the winning purse?" He gestured grandly toward the track, where horses pawed the ground in anticipation. "Seems a shame to host the event and not give us the pleasure of watching you fall flat on your arse in front of all of Mayfair." He didn't wait for a reply—of course not. Edward thrived in his own chaos. He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. "Though if I were you, I'd be more concerned with the betting tent. You never know who’s slipping coin to the wrong bookie or charming drunk baronesses out of their husband’s purse. Not that I’d know anything about that sort of thing..." He trailed off, smiling like the cat who not only ate the canary but dined on it by candlelight. Then, with a wink, Edward added, "But do relax, Dom. I’ll place a bet in your honor. On the prettiest horse, of course. Can’t be worse at picking winners than you are at hosting."

[edward-st-george]

Edward's lips curved into a devilish smirk, his eyes glinting with amusement as he leaned back in his chair, his posture languid but commanding. "Ah, you misunderstand, Marjorie," he drawled, his voice low and teasing. "It’s not your sister’s match that intrigues me—it’s yours. I wonder, does it sting a bit, knowing the royal matchmaker didn’t find you worthy of a suitor all your own? Or perhaps this is simply punishment for that little love triangle you danced around, according to Whistledown?" His gaze lingered on her with an almost predatory interest, watching the way her expression flickered as if his words had struck a chord. "Though, if you ask me, you’re too clever to let something like that bother you." He let out a short, mocking chuckle before continuing. "But surely it’s a bit galling, yes? Seeing yourself paired with another’s castoff, when you could have someone for yourself."

Edward’s eyes glinted with mischief as he leaned forward, his voice slipping into a more playful register. "I do wonder if the knights here ever make you feel like... you’re competing for something. You know, Theodore Alywn’s forever fixated on your other sister. A shame, really, but perhaps you enjoy watching that little drama unfold." His smirk deepened. "Too messy for you, though, isn’t it? Unless, of course, you find the mess rather... entertaining." He tapped his fingers lightly on the table, the light reflecting off his ring as his gaze moved over her, weighing her reactions like a predator calculating his next move. "Then there’s Thayer—what a catastrophe he is. A bastard, a loose cannon. Hardly the sort to settle down, and I’m sure you’d like to avoid that mess altogether." His smirk turned slightly more calculating, almost as if he enjoyed seeing her tension build. "Alistair Bennett? Soft, even for a knight. And don’t get me started on Domingo Alvarado. He's perfection itself, too perfect. The kind of man who makes you wonder what’s really lurking beneath the surface. But, perhaps you’re smarter than that, aren’t you, Marjorie?"

Marjorie pursed her lips about to say something but she thought better of it. She couldn't stand this man, why give him more ammo to shoot her way?

"Understood." She said simply before sipping her wine.

"Well..." Marjorie started, clearing her throat before continuing.

"Not that it is any of your business, I don't see such a match as a competition. For Lord Sinclair can choose whomever he wishes to marry." Marjorie replied as she fidgeted with her fingers a bit as she lied a little bit. She did see it as a competition but she wasn't going to bend over backwards to win him over.

Upon hearing what he said, Marjorie couldn't help but let a chuckle escape her.

"Oh some of the other knights are far more handsome than you Sir, I assure you that you are not the most handsome knight of the Ton." She said with a slight smirk as she shook her head.

"I very politely and respectfully disagree with your boast." She added before sipping more of wine.

[edward-st-george]

closed starter @whereaway || the silver lantern

Edward stood by the bar, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp as Piet entered the room. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a mutual respect born from their shared dealings in the shadows of London’s underworld. Edward watched Piet with a careful, calculating gaze, his mind working through the logistics of their arrangement. He had no illusions about the tenuousness of their partnership—each man was out for himself, but the deal worked, for now. When Piet finally reached him, Edward gave a slight nod, the only acknowledgment of the deal they had struck. "Everything as it should be?" he asked, his tone cool and professional, the weight of their shared interests hanging between them. The air was thick with the kind of tension that came from necessity, not camaraderie, and Edward wasn’t foolish enough to mistake it for anything else.

[edward-st-george]

Edward, with a smirk playing on his lips, knew he had Tobias exactly where he wanted him. The room was charged with a tension that was as intoxicating as any wine, and Edward reveled in the power he held. Tobias' submission was a rush, a heady sensation that fueled Edward's own desire. He traced his fingers down Tobias' chest, feeling the rapid heartbeat beneath his touch. The marks he left were a claim, a brand that signaled ownership, and he knew Tobias reveled in it as much as he did. “You should see yourself right now,” Edward murmured, his voice velvet-drenched sin. “Laid out like this. Yours is a body that begs to be ruined properly.” His touch was firm, his movements deliberate as he took control, relishing in the way Tobias' body responded to his. He leaned down, capturing Tobias' nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak. Tobias' moan was a symphony of surrender, his body arching off the bed as Edward continued his assault on his senses. The taste of his skin, the feel of his body writhing beneath him—it was a heady mix that sent a jolt of desire straight to Edward's core.

Edward's hips moved with a purpose, each thrust deliberate and deep, designed to push Tobias over the edge. He could feel Tobias' body tensing, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps as he neared his climax. The sight of Tobias, flushed and desperate, was almost enough to send Edward over the edge himself. But he held on, wanting to savor every moment, every sensation. "Look at you, flushed and desperate, your body betrays you."" With a final, powerful thrust, Edward threw his head back, a guttural moan escaping his lips as he found his release. His body trembled with the force of it, waves of pleasure crashing over him as he emptied himself into Tobias. The room spun, and for a moment, time stood still as Edward rode out the storm of his climax, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

Already on the brink, he knew he was getting exactly what he wanted when he accepted the key and then walked into the room. Edward had a way of controlling people, Tobias thought, a charm very different to his own but all the more powerful and it seemed he could use it with perfection and with a grace that welcomed others to have it used on them. Or that was the case for him. Control was never his strong suit even when his strong and stubborn nature tried its best to maintain some modicum of it, his reckless nature, his lustful one too, easily took over like it was now. At Edwards words he gives a silent agreement with a nod and gives himself over to Edward completely to do with whatever he wants, a rush coming with it too. It was more than hallway, he could himself so close to the edge he was teetering on it, pushed further by the lines traced over his skin, enjoying them as the dug into him but then a loud moan unlike one he’d made before, his eyes rolling feeling the tongue on his nipple and he’s unable to do anything about it other than give into the feeling of it, giving in to Edward controlling his every reaction. Buring his head in Edwards neck, he bites down hard on his own lip before he feels that familiar warmth spreading inside him, knowing he’s about to explode all over the other man. “I don’t think I’ll forget it anytime soon,” he grins with a tease unsure if Edward can even see it. Marks, he liked. Not many people he’d been with liked to give or take them but it was exactly what he felt was missing in his other encounters. The deeper thrusts took any sense of control, he buries his head in Edwards neck, gripping his skin tight as he feels himself empty out and feels it cling to his skin.

[edward-st-george]

Edward could sense the misfit in her the moment she walked in—a beautiful blade sheathed in disdain, utterly out of place among the mead-stained wood and leering patrons of the Silver Lantern. Ayla Kara stood like someone who had wandered into a place beneath her on a dare and was regretting that the air didn’t smell of roses or restraint. And yet, there she was, leveling him with that cool, unimpressed stare like he were a stain on her glove rather than the man behind the counter who held the room in the palm of his hand. He found it utterly delightful. Most women who entered his inn leaned too easily into their roles—flirted without intent, gossiped without wit, and laughed just a hair too loud in the hope of being overheard. But Ayla didn’t laugh. She dissected. Her comment about his patrons landed like a needle, delicate and precise, and Edward couldn’t help but grin. He liked needles. Especially when he got to press back.

Leaning closer, he let the quiet between them stretch just long enough to be noticed. “They’re exhausting,” he said with a flicker of a smile, “but so very generous in their stupidity. They buy their drinks, spill their secrets, and walk out believing they’ve outwitted the man handing them both.” His gaze lingered on her, not quite polite. “It’s a performance, you see. And I do enjoy playing god to a crowd that doesn't realize it's in a theater.” There was something electric about her disdain—refined, practiced, but not without cracks. He could see the way her gaze swept the room like she was cataloguing offenses, filing them neatly beneath labels like vulgar and unsophisticated. That restraint thrilled him. It meant there was something underneath. “You, on the other hand,” he said, voice slipping into a lower register, warm and laced with mock curiosity, “look like you’d rather be tied to a guillotine than a barstool. Which makes me wonder—why bother at all? Unless, of course, you came for something a bit more interesting than the usual liquor and lies.” He tilted his head, the rogue in him stepping out fully now, smiling like a man with nothing to lose and every intention of making her uncomfortable just to see how she’d respond. “Tell me, Miss Kara, are you always this delightful when surrounded by people beneath your intelligence—or am I just lucky tonight?”

with: @edward-st-george where: the silver lantern

This was not her scene. For one, in the evenings, she imagined the floor had that undeniable stick of impropriety to it, courtesy of mead spills and footprints tracked in by men who did not know to wipe their boots before entering a space. To clutch at her pearls and insist that this was, somehow, an indicator of moral decline and that this was why she did not enjoy the atmosphere would be half oversimplification, half lie. It was, simply put, about the type of moral decay: not the silver-tongued, carefully execute, surgical manner of getting people to say things they had not intended to that Ayla had spent so much time sharpening, but its less precise cousin: drunken patrons offering up their secrets without any of the associated effort. It was too easy. It did not satiate the hunger in the same way.

But her choices for that evening had been two: stay in, and listen to Ela's seemingly never-ending musings on love, or on the beauty of things, or any number of things that made Ayla want to slam the door - or, she could come into town with her one remaining brother. The choice had practically been made for her, so great was the fear she might accidentally snap at her sister, that it had trumped her general distaste for being in public. At least she wouldn't be alone. That was, until she was. Where the Kara heir had disappeared off to was anyone's guess, but Ayla has been left at the counter by herself, feeling every bit like a dog tied to a pole by a market stall. "Do they not get on your nerves, your patrons?" She asks, tone of voice seeming to indicate one thing: they really should. "I could not imagine being surrounded by this many people all day, every day."

[edward-st-george]

Edward gave a short, breathy laugh—the kind that was barely a sound, more a scoff exhaled behind the ghost of a smirk. He looked at Madeleine as if she were a particularly intriguing riddle scratched onto a tavern wall: naïve, yes, but with such bold handwriting one couldn’t help but stop and read it. Her words were so sincere they might have been written in velvet. She was earnestness wrapped in silk and soft smiles, a portrait of conviction that love conquered all. And to Edward, it was both amusing... and mildly infuriating. “Eight children,” he said at last, lifting his brows as if counting them on his fingers. “That poor man. You’ll bury him before the fifth just out of sheer exhaustion.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to cause unease or thrill—he wasn’t particular. “Your world is made of painted glass, Miss Madeleine. And I’ve seen what happens when sunlight shifts—crack,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Just like that. And then what? You tell yourself the break is elegant, part of the design?” He did not share her faith, and made no effort to pretend otherwise. Hope like hers made him restless. It was too clean, too untouched by the grime he’d seen clinging to every so-called love story once the music stopped and the doors closed. Where she saw forever, he saw performance. Where she trusted warmth, he anticipated rot. He'd watched too many smiling couples in his inn trade glances like cold currency, heard too many confessions muttered into liquor about duty, obligation, quiet miseries passed off as loyalty. His eyes found hers again, amused, unyielding. “You believe the Queen is benevolent. I believe she’s bored. You think love will save you. I think love tests you until you snap. You trust your parents' tale. I wonder what they tell themselves at night to keep it polished.” There was no venom in his tone—just a dry, bitter clarity that came from watching too many illusions burn and realizing the fire hadn’t made anything warm, only ash. She spoke of her parents’ love like scripture, but Edward only saw the desperation people hid behind tradition. Love, in his world, was a gamble. Rarely worth the coin. It was a game rigged from the start, dressed in lace and lilies to fool the ones too young or too soft to know better. Madeleine was exactly that kind of fool. Lovely, but blind.

“And yet,” he added, voice turning softer, mockingly gentle, “you’re right about one thing: I’m not a man who wishes to be kept. Because being ‘kept,’ my dear, is just another word for being tamed—and I've yet to see a cage lined with silk that didn’t still have bars.” He could tell she wanted him to believe—just a little. She wanted him to admit that perhaps there was something sacred about all this. But Edward had no patience for sacred. And he wasn’t in the business of letting illusions breathe longer than they had to. He stepped closer, just enough for her to feel the heat of his recklessness. “We would ruin each other,” he said, bluntly now, without any theatrics. “Because I’d pull the curtain on your fairytale, and you’d try to chain me to a dream I’d never believe in. It wouldn’t be fire—it would be war.” And yet the smirk curled again. “But what a lovely war that would be.”

He leaned away, eyes still fixed on her, a half-grin twitching at his mouth. “No, I’m not entirely wicked, Madeleine. Just wicked enough to know how these stories end.” Edward smiled, not kindly, not cruelly—just knowingly—and let her keep her fairytale a little longer. Let her dream of cherry blossoms while he imagined the storm that would tear them down.

No one had ever asked her if it had been exhausting to be ever so hopeful. Madeleine simply had no choice. She was a girl who dreamt of fairy tales, ever since she could remember, dragging her brothers into her make believe worlds of princes, princesses, pirates and fair maidens in distant lands that she had created. She had only ever dreamt of a perfect life with a perfect man, a prince, and the rest, she knew, if she stayed quite hopeful, would come to her. "You mistake me then, Sir Edward - it is not exhausting at all to be hopeful. The Queen is a most kind, obliging soul - and she is devout in all of our success. I treat her implicitly - do you not?" Madeleine asked, it being unfathomable to not trust the very ruler of their country, but then again - perhaps it led to her own curiosity and why she was there in the first place. "Should I be silent, taciturn and cruel for all to see? I do not subscribe to that, Sir Edward. I believe in such hope, I believe in real fairytales happening amongst us, for I see it with my own parents, my own family. Do you not have that in yours?" She asked, quite a forward thing to ask for.

She stayed close to the man, as others looked upon the noble young woman with hungry, and greedy eyes - and others with disdainful eyes, as if to question why she was in such to begin with. "I am far more intelligent than you think, Mister Edward - and my intelligence does tell me to never truly fall in love with any man that does not wish to be kept. You, I can imagine, are a man that does not wish to be kept - or perhaps it would take a very special woman to keep you."

Madeleine listened to his words, quite intently, her smile fading a bit to hear his own words, his own beliefs that so differed from hers. Die before we notice the cracks. "You are wrong." Madeleine argued, her brows furrowed. "I still see the soulmate love my parents share - for they've had five children together, and live quite happily. My mother still speaks of my father with such fondness, after all of these years. Surely they found one another - they are soulmates! I see it - I see it everyday, Sir Edward." She told him, still a hint of a smile on her face. "Perhaps you have not been fortunate to see the way a soulmate connection has worked - but it does happen and we should marry for love, not for anything else. There are no cracks to speak of within the marriages that I have witnessed." She spoke, like a child wishing to be taken seriously, with all of their might.

She covered her mouth with a melodic sound of laughter as he spoke about the bath and shook her head, smirking. "You are entirely evil in your humor, Sir Edward, has anyone ever told you that?" Madeleine shook her head, and sighed at him, at his declaration for her. "No. I will marry someone I dearly love, and he will be a worthy, kind, valiant gentleman and we will have eight children. I've already decided that - and our wedding will be amongst the April cherry blossoms. Does that not sound like a fairytale to you?" She smirked and when he mentioned if he were her match, her skin turned even more red.

"You are not so entirely wicked." Madeleine spoke, shaking her head. "You think we would ruin each other, hmm? How do you determine that?"

[edward-st-george]

Edward barely registered the words when they slipped from Alice’s lips — “thank you.” It was soft, almost as if she’d been afraid of speaking them, like the words were as unfamiliar to her as they were to him. The voice that had so often been sharp, quick with barbs or defiance, was now uncertain. Edward’s heartbeat, still pounding in his ears from the chase, dulled in comparison to the strange stillness in the moment. For a second, he almost didn’t know how to react. His first instinct was to listen for the danger still lurking in the shadows, but it wasn’t the sound of footsteps or the rustle of fabric that drew his attention. It was Alice. But then he saw it: her gaze shifting away from him. It was slight, barely perceptible, a simple tilt of her chin, but it cut through him like a blow. Alice Heywood, who never looked away, not even when the world was crashing down around her — Alice, who faced everything head-on — was pulling away from him. In that instant, it felt like the ground shifted beneath him. Something in his chest twisted, a sharp, unfamiliar pang that made him forget about the night’s dangers. Forget about everything but her.

Without thinking, he reached out. His fingers grazed her cheekbone, just enough to feel the warmth of her skin, before he hooked a finger under her chin. It was a touch that felt almost reverent, like he was afraid she might break beneath him. He tilted her face back toward him, his thumb brushing the soft line of her jaw, trying to find the right words — or at least the right way to make her understand. “Don’t,” he murmured, his voice barely a breath. It was a word that slipped out before he even knew what he meant. His chest tightened with a kind of desperation, the need to hold her gaze, to make her stay with him, to make sure she knew she didn’t have to pull away. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, but neither of them moved. Alice’s eyes finally found his, wide and searching, dark in the dim light of the alley. She was so close now, so impossibly close that he could feel the warmth of her breath, quick and shallow, brushing against his lips.

There was no scorn in her gaze now, no defiance. There was just something raw and vulnerable, something he wasn’t sure he could understand but knew he couldn’t ignore. The world seemed to shrink around them until there was only the two of them standing in that alley, breathing the same air. Alice was not the delicate beauty the ton would have lauded. She wasn’t soft or gentle; she was fire and steel, the kind of woman who commanded attention with every step she took, a woman who never hid. But in that moment, she had, and it stirred something inside Edward, something that felt too dangerous to name. He wanted to reach for her. He wanted to close the distance between them, to pull her into him, to feel the press of her against him, to hear her say anything at all that could ease the suffocating tension in his chest. But he didn’t. He stayed where he was, feeling the slight tremble in her frame, the way she fought to stay still under his touch, like she was afraid of what might happen if she didn’t. His thumb lingered against her skin for a moment longer, an unspoken promise that terrified him. He could feel the weight of it, the weight of everything he wasn’t saying, everything he was too afraid to admit. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, but somewhere along the way, the games, the risks, the reckless flirtations… something shifted. But he couldn’t admit that aloud, not yet. The words felt too raw, too real, to be spoken now, and he was too much of a coward to admit them, even to himself.

Instead, he pulled back, slowly and reluctantly, his hand falling away from her chin. The absence of her warmth, the loss of the touch that had been so unbearably gentle, hit him harder than he cared to admit. It left him cold, hollow in a way he hadn’t known he could feel. He could have walked away. He could have made a joke, teased her the way he always did to deflect anything real. But he didn’t. He stayed. The truth had already passed between them, unspoken but understood. It was there, in the way he had touched her. In the way he hadn’t walked away. In the way he would carry this moment, this feeling, with him long after the night had ended.

Alice’s lungs burned as Edward pulled her through the twisting alleys, their footsteps echoing sharply against the slick stones. Her skirts tangled around her ankles, and she clutched his discarded coat tightly to her chest, the scratchy wool still warm from his body. She should have been furious—at the impropriety, the sheer scandal of it all—but instead, something far more dangerous coiled inside her: a fierce, breathless exhilaration that made her feel terribly alive. The night was thick with the scent of rain and smoke, and somewhere behind them, distant shouts echoed, growing fainter as they outran them. Edward's grip on her hand was firm, protective, and wholly certain, as though letting go was not an option he would even consider.

When he yanked her into a narrow, shadowed passage—barely wide enough for one, let alone two—Alice stumbled into him, her free hand braced against the solid heat of his chest. Edward shifted immediately, bracing a hand above her head, shielding her instinctively. In the dark, it felt as if the world had collapsed inward until there was only the rasp of their breathing, the thud of their hearts beating against the closeness. She tilted her head back, and for a dizzying moment, their eyes met. Not the roguish mischief she had expected, nor the polished charm he so often wore, but something steadier, something fierce and anchoring. Her throat felt tight, her usual effortless confidence faltering beneath the weight of the moment. Swallowing, Alice whispered, “Thank you,” the words foreign and fragile on her tongue. She averted her gaze almost at once, fussing needlessly with his coat to hide the uncharacteristic flutter of nerves that had overtaken her. Her cheeks burned, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear it. Yet somehow, without a single word, Alice felt something shift irrevocably between them.

[edward-st-george]

Edward watched the governess with the kind of interest he usually reserved for strange storms and unpredictable card games—things that looked ordinary until they suddenly weren’t. He liked Caroline, with her soft manners and sharp wit tucked behind tired eyes. She drank like a woman who knew when to keep her mouth shut, and when not to. As she raised the glass, he leaned his elbows against the polished wood of the bar, eyes glinting as she took the first sip of his secret brew. “Children of the Ton behaving?” he repeated, amusement already curling at the edge of his mouth. “God save us. No, tell me—what delightful atrocities have they committed this week?” He liked hearing her reports, and not because he cared about the little monsters. It was the quiet rot that fascinated him, how the prettiest homes always seemed to house the worst habits. A stolen necklace here, a torn dress there. One boy allegedly tried to sell his sister’s virtue for a better cricket bat. “I’m sure they’re all little cherubs with daggers in their pockets,” he said, pouring her a generous second round of the dark, velvet drink. “This one’s for my favorites. Don’t go spreading it around.” When she mentioned Lady Whistledown, Edward barked a laugh loud enough to make a nearby table glance over. “Ah, yes. My illustrious royal pairing,” he said, eyes flashing with wicked mirth. “Lady Hermance. Lovely name. Terrible luck.” He gave Caroline a wink that was far too charming to be appropriate. “A publicity stunt, darling, and a damn good one. Her Majesty’s matchmaking is meant to amuse the public, not actually domesticate the likes of me. I’m not a man built for collars—unless, of course, it’s in the privacy of a well-locked room.” He raised his own glass in mock salute, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “But I’m flattered by your concern. Perhaps you should’ve been the one to match me. I’d wager you know exactly how much trouble I’m worth.”

"Taking a proper respite from my duties, as well as simply enjoying our conversations and your drinks." She answered with a chuckle.

"Thank you. Cheers." She said as she raised her glass before lowering it to her lips and sipping it.

"Mmm." Caroline swallowed it effortlessly before smiling.

"That is fantastic. What is it?" She asked curiously before taking another sip.

She sighed briefly before gazing over at him.

"So, I read the latest Whistledown and you seem to be in it as one of the many people of the Ton who has been matched by Her Majesty. An Hermance Lady. Quite intriguing." Caroline said with a smile as she leaned back in her seat.

[edward-st-george]

Edward leaned back in his chair, a slight grin tugging at his lips as he watched Oliver wrestle with the words hanging in the air between them. The desperation was clear, even if the man tried to keep it hidden beneath the mask of loyalty and determination. Edward had seen it all before—a man with nowhere to go, clinging to any thread of hope, no matter how frayed it might be. It made Oliver perfect prey. “Ah, love,” Edward mused, swirling his glass slowly. “Yes, it’s a beautiful thing when it’s convenient. But the truth is, Oliver, love can change a man. It can make him better—or worse. In your case…” He paused, letting the tension stretch before smirking. “Well, I’d say it’s made you reckless. The question is, will that recklessness be your salvation, or your undoing?” Oliver’s defensiveness didn’t escape him, but Edward wasn’t concerned about that. He knew the man’s heart was in the right place. The problem was, Oliver thought that was enough. “You want to protect her,” Edward said, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. “Juliet, the baby. You want to marry her, and be the knight in shining armor, the one who defies society’s expectations and provides for her. How noble. But, let me remind you, that’s not the world we live in. Love doesn’t pay the bills or hide the truth. The truth is, you’ve already made a mess of things, and no amount of good intentions will clean that up.” He saw the flicker of pain in Oliver’s eyes when he mentioned Juliet being defiled—a touchy subject, and one that clearly tormented him. Edward was fully aware of the weight of such things in the Ton. He knew what would be said behind closed doors.

Oliver’s curiosity seemed piqued, and Edward’s eyes twinkled with an amused sort of understanding. He could see the gears turning in the man’s head. He’d pushed him to the edge, and now he was ready to see if Oliver would fall. “Useful?” Edward repeated with a shrug. “You’ve got heart, Oliver. And that can get you places—if you’re clever enough to use it.” When Oliver seemed to warm to the idea of land, Edward knew he had him. “I’ve got a little place in the country,” he said, nonchalant, as if it was nothing. “Nothing grand, but enough room for a couple. A nice little cottage, away from prying eyes. Just the sort of place where a man can escape from the scandal and have his privacy. I’d trust you with it, Oliver. Of course, trust isn’t the right word here, is it?” Edward’s smirk widened. “I’m not a man who trusts easily. But I do make investments. And you seem like you’ve got a bit of potential.” He could practically hear the tension in Oliver’s voice when he asked about keeping Alice safe, and Edward gave him a reassuring look, though the gleam in his eyes remained calculating. “Your sister, Alice, will be safe under my watch. I made a solid investment in one Heywood, and it turned out well. Why wouldn’t I do the same for the other?” Edward leaned in just a little, his voice softer now. “I promise you nothing will happen to her. Not while I’m around.” Edward leaned back, his grin returning as he gave Oliver a final, knowing look. "So, what do you say, Oliver? We take a little trip to the country, see the land? You can’t possibly turn this down. Not when you’ve got nothing left to lose." The deal was on the table. And Edward was nothing if not a man of opportunity. "If it does, we’ll talk more about terms and I'll have my solicitor write up a contract.” Edward’s smirk never faded. He’d just secured another puppet. And he always got what he wanted.

Oliver wasn’t used to dimly lit taverns, but they were becoming more of a safe haven ever since he was kicked out of the Thorpe household. Much of his life had been spent serving noble families with dedication, not using any time for himself — what a juxtaposition to the affairs that had occurred over the past ten months since accepting the butler position for the Thorpe’s. He slinked in behind Edward, as if the man could offer him protection — as if he couldn’t take care of himself. A strange new feeling it was, feeling helpless and unmoored in the world. The warmth of the tavern offering him a sense of reprieve after spending most of his time searching for short bursts of sleep in alley ways. Edward had always looked at Oliver with intrigue, as if he was under an ever watchful eye. Well aware of the scrutiny Oliver carried on his back like a target, he couldn’t help but commend the other for being seen with him. Edward had a successful business to run — yet, he didn’t mind hiding in the back of the tavern with Oliver Heywood, the man with a scarlet letter on his chest. Taking a sip of his drink, the redhead closed his eyes for a moment and let it warm his chest. Chuckling softly, he shook his head, “I’d never expected it of myself either. I can’t say I regret it though, I only wish I’d done better in protecting Juliet.” It was true, he’d always presumed he’d be married to his job until his last breath — but oh, Juliet had flipped his world on its axis and for the better. He cringed at the phrase that fell from Edward’s lips — defiled a maiden of the Ton. It made their love seem as if it was based on him taking advantage of Juliet — and the thought made his heart hurt. Had he done that? “It’s love, whether or not anyone believes it. so have every intention on marrying Juliet, so long as it’s what she desires.” He quirked a brow, a playful smirk on his lips, “Now Edward, don’t tell me you haven’t done crazy things for love.” A beat. “Useful, you say?” his curiosity was piqued, “Do elaborate.”

His usual carefree demeanor had been replaced with one more sullen, more plagued with worry. He fearful about Juliet and the baby — what would happen to them, would he be able to support them and keep them safe? “I admire you toeing the precarious line like that,” he managed a grin. “Dangerous? For caring too much?” A question, though he knew it was true. He leaned forward on the table, an earnest look in his eye. Oliver wasn’t sure he could trust Edward, but the man might give him an offer he couldn’t refuse, so he hung onto his every word. “I’m willing to do anything. I’m sure you know that.” This was no time to hold his cards close to his chest, he was desperate. Maybe he was too malleable — maybe he was too eager for help — and maybe he believed in the good in people too much. But Edward was reaching out to offer him assistance and he was in no position to refuse.

Loyal. Oliver was certainly loyal, if not to a fault. Taking another swig of his drink, his eyes widened at the possibilities that Edward was placing in front of him. It wasn’t an offer he could refuse, at least without considering it and talking to Juliet first. “Land? Where Juliet and I could raise our child without the prying eyes of high society?” He leaned closer, even though he knew no one could hear them in their corner of the tavern, “You’d trust me with that?” Oliver knew he had the skills to manage land and tenants, being a groomsmen as a child, raising up to a footman in is teenage years, and a butler once he’d reached adulthood along with being willing to get his hands dirty. Maybe this was a good opportunity. But, what if he slipped up? What would Edward do to Juliet and their child?

Chewing on his lower lip, Oliver pondered the opportunity that had landed in his lap. Could he turn it down? He didn’t have a choice, really. “I’ll follow your every rule, your every direction if you offer my family a safe place to rest their heads. And if you help keep Alice out of harm’s way.” He didn’t suspect the worst in people, but he knew this deal was risky — an he wondered, was this the right decision?