Chapter 22
Roselawn had grown colder with each passing day — and not only from winter's chill.
The halls echoed more sharply in Jasper's ears now, the silence a constant torment.
Every ticking clock, every gust of wind against the windowpanes sounded like Abigail's absence — a haunting reminder of all he had done.
Jasper had remained at Roselawn since the close of the Season, rarely venturing beyond its grounds.
Most days, he sat in his study, staring out the windows that overlooked Lyndhurst. He knew Philip and Sophia were in residence next door — he had seen them strolling the estate grounds on those rare, sunlit winter days.
But it was not them he hoped to glimpse.
The duke. The duchess. Abigail.
Philip had once claimed his father, the Duke of Everly, intended to file a missing person's report if Jasper failed to produce Abigail without delay.
But that had been months ago — and still, nothing.
No inspector had come to Roselawn. No questions had been asked.
Not even the duke himself had appeared to demand her appearance.
Either the Duke was still waiting.
Or — and Jasper found this more likely with each passing day — the duke knew precisely where his daughter was.
And if that were true, then they were hiding her.
Hiding her from him.
A week before Christmas, Jasper sat once more in his study, a fire crackling in the hearth as he stared out the window toward Lyndhurst. His hands trembled as he brought his glass to his lips. The brandy burned on the way down, but the warmth was fleeting. It never lingered long enough.
Then he caught sight of movement — trunks being hauled onto a coach under the cover of darkness — and his heart leapt. Philip and Sophia's carriage was being readied. Jasper pressed closer to the window, watching from the shadows. It was nearing midnight. Far too late for casual travel.
He sent a letter at once to his investigator. The instructions were clear: have a runner find and follow the carriage then report where it travels to. If they were bound for the Earl of Blackwell's estate — Sophia's father — then it would be nothing.
But the message that returned the following evening stirred something deep and feral in Jasper. The carriage had stopped overnight at an inn — but they were not headed toward the Earl Blackwells estate. They were traveling west. Toward Cornwall.
Three days passed.
Jasper paced the halls, his boots scuffing patterns into the carpets. He barely ate. Barely slept. When the next letter arrived— Jasper tore it open with fingers that barely obeyed him.
The runner had confirmed the destination. The carriage had traveled southwest, past towns Jasper had never visited, until it stopped near the coast.
An estate — isolated and expansive — nestled against the cliffs.
The runner had inquired in the village nearby, slipping coins into the right hands. The townsfolk had spoken of the residents easily enough. The Duke and Duchess of Everly, they said, had taken up residence there for two winters now. A quiet family. Friendly, but private.
From time to time, a young woman was seen with them.
Blonde. Beautiful. Always with her head down.
She rarely spoke to anyone.
Abigail.
He shuddered and sank into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands. She was alive. She was... safe.
He thought often about Charlotte during those long, dim hours after returning to Roselawn from London—hours heavy with silence and shadow.
The sister he'd once believed he was saving, now trapped within a gilded cage at their great-aunt's estate, tended by nurses and maids who feared her rages and humored her babbled demands and infantile tones.
Her madness had consumed her swiftly, perhaps always lying just beneath the surface.
Letters came from her caregivers. Charlotte had taken to speaking like a child, calling Jasper "her Jasper," demanding sweets or silk or whatever she fancied, with the same childish certainty that once commanded his loyalty.
It nauseated him.
His guilt had teeth now. It gnawed at him — merciless and unrelenting. Without the blinders of anger or the armor of vengeance, it struck deeper than ever. Every word he'd hurled at Abigail returned like shrapnel, each one cutting into the raw edges of his conscience.
He had aimed his barbs for maximum damage — and he'd succeeded.
But the truth was, he had bled, too.
"You believed every word. Every touch. So very foolish."
"You are not suited to be my duchess."
"I no longer wish to be burdened by you."
Her tears haunted him. Her confusion. The way she'd whispered his name — not in defiance, but in heartbreak. And his final, cowardly blow before the carriage door shut between them:
"I do not wish to hear another word from you."
Her voice, trembling and broken, followed him into every quiet room, every dream. Her bags had remained at her feet—unpacked from the carriage. Her eyes had been full of confusion, not understanding that the man she loved had decided to destroy her.
And he had.
He hadn't just tried to shatter her trust or her heart — he had aimed to break something deeper. Something sacred.
The same fragile part he had once believed Philip had destroyed in Charlotte, when she'd claimed to have lost his child and no longer wished to live.
But Abigail had lived. She had endured his cruelty. Escaped it.
That was why, he was certain, the Everly’s had disappeared from Lyndhurst- to keep her hidden. To keep her safe from him.
He had come close — so close — to returning to Greystone Hollow after leaving her there. He had imagined falling to his knees at her feet, choking on apologies, begging for a single shred of mercy.
But before the truth had come to light, he'd lashed himself to his bitterness, refusing to yield. He had clung to the belief that he was justified. That her brother had betrayed him. That he was owed retribution.
Now he knew better.
And the truth offered no comfort—only the endless ache of what he had done.
But after the truth, after he had learned of Charlotte's lies... there was no shield left.
Only love.
And grief.
He was certain Abigail hated him. How could she not? He had destroyed their marriage with surgical precision, wielding words designed to wound — each one loosed with intent, each one a calculated blow.
And still...
He owed her — and her family — the truth. An apology. Not a polite gesture or a whispered regret, but a full accounting of all that had come to pass. His failings. Charlotte's lies. Every truth laid bare.
They might refuse to receive him. They would have every right. But he would make the attempt regardless.
His parents must be turning in their graves.
The Everly’s had been their dearest friends since youth. He could still hear the soft whispers exchanged between Grace Browning and his mother, spoken half in jest but full of hope — that he might one day fall in love with Abigail and make her his wife.
And he had.
From the moment he saw her at her debut ball, he had loved her. He still did.
But what he had done...
Only madness could explain it. Madness born of grief, of guilt, of a soul unraveling beneath the weight of shame. He had believed himself unworthy — a failed brother, an undeserving husband.
He had imagined his parents' disappointment. Not for loving Abigail — never that — but for daring to love her after Charlotte's accusations against Philip.
Yet now, with the clarity of hindsight, he knew the truth.
They would not have condemned the marriage.
They would have been devastated by what he had done to Abigail.
Even if Philip had done what Charlotte once claimed— his parents would never have sanctioned cruelty.
He needed to see Abigail. He had to try.
At first light, he began making arrangements.
Once it was confirmed that the Duke and Duchess of Everly were indeed in residence at the coastal estate Philip and Sophia had traveled to, he instructed his solicitor to secure a lease for a nearby property.
His trunk was packed with sufficient personal effects for an extended stay.
His carriage and horses were made ready.
Yet through it all, one thought circled ceaselessly:
Nathaniel and Grace had discovered the truth — that he had abandoned their daughter at Greystone Hollow. They had come for her, spirited her away to a place he had never known them to possess. They had not returned to Lyndhurst. Nor had they gone on to London.
They had vanished — to protect her.
To keep her safe from him.
Coming to terms with the fact that his parents' oldest friends had felt compelled to protect their youngest child, their daughter—his wife—from him was awful truth indeed.
But then again, he had no one to blame but himself.