Chapter 26
The tavern was quiet, the evening crowd not yet gathered. A few local men played cards near the hearth, their laughter low and infrequent. The windows, fogged by sea air, let in little light, and the scent of salt lingered everywhere—in the beams, the ale, even his coat.
Jasper sat alone, nursing the same glass of brandy he had ordered over an hour ago. The liquor bit less than he'd expected—but then again, nothing could dull the ache in his chest.
He had done it. He had seen Nathaniel and Philip. And he had heard her.
Abigail's voice. Faint, but real. So close.
She was alive.
The chair beside him scraped softly against the wooden floor. Jasper didn't look up.
"Lord Jasper, sir?"
He turned slowly. A young man, no older than twenty-five, had taken the seat beside him. Wind-tossed brown hair, an ink-stained waistcoat, and the alert, exhausted eyes of someone accustomed to watching from the shadows.
"I beg your pardon," the man said, straightening. "My name is Mr. Simon Black. I work under Lord Evering—the investigator you hired."
"Evering," Jasper echoed, nodding. "He instructed you to stay behind?"
"Yes, my lord. Said I was to remain in the village until I received word or saw you myself. I recognized your carriage earlier today and waited nearby."
"Can I get you a drink, Mr. Black?" Jasper asked.
"Yes, sir. A brandy, please."
Jasper gestured to the barman. "Brandy for him."
"Lord Evering gave me your description, so I'd know you if you came to town."
The barman slid a glass in front of him, and Simon took a small sip of his drink. He then reached inside his waistcoat, pulling out a small, leather-bound notebook and a stub of a pencil. His eyes flickered down to it, then back to Jasper, before continuing.
"I wrote to you with what I'd discovered.
The townsfolk knew the family you asked about—Lord and Lady Browning—and their daughter, Lady Abigail, whom I believe to be your wife.
Described as reserved, with long dark blonde hair.
Keeps to herself. Polite. Beautiful." He paused, meeting Jasper's gaze. "That must be your lady, sir?"
Jasper nodded slowly, his pulse steady but pounding.
"They come into town often in good weather," Simon continued. "Usually to visit the market or walk along the shore. There's a baker they do business with weekly. Kind people, it seems. The Duke greets every shopkeeper by name."
Jasper let the words wash over him—until:
"Lady Abigail's always the one pushing the pram," Simon added. "The child is always with her. The villagers were told she's the Browning's' granddaughter—Emmeline. Cute as a button, they said."
Something twisted sharply in Jasper's gut.
"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely, sitting straighter. "A... pram?"
Simon blinked. "Yes, my lord. The young woman—Lady Abigail—she's often seen with the Duke and Duchess, always pushing the pram. The child's name is Emmeline. One of the baker's apprentices told me. His mother owns the shop. Said the baby is always smiling."
Simon continued speaking, but Jasper no longer heard him.
Emmeline.
The faint crying he'd heard outside the study door—he hadn't thought much of it, not after hearing Abigail's voice. But now...
His breath caught.
Could it be true? Abigail had fallen pregnant on their wedding night?
The thought had never even crossed his mind—not in all his sleepless nights, not through all the bitter days of guilt and silence. Not once.
But there had been a wedding night. He had made sure of it. In anger, in grief, in a cruel attempt to match the betrayal he believed Charlotte had suffered, he had taken Abigail to bed—ensuring the marriage was consummated so no one could deny what had happened.
He had done what Charlotte falsely accused Philip of doing: bedded and abandoned the woman he had promised to love.
But Charlotte had lied.
Abigail wouldn't have been lying.
And she hadn't lost the child.
A child that had never even been a possibility for Charlotte... but one Abigail had carried. Alone.
Jasper had left her to bear the consequences of his shame. To face childbirth without comfort. To raise a daughter thinking her father had walked away—unfeeling, unrepentant, unaware.
This was so much worse than anything he had ever imagined.
How many sins would he have to atone for? He was afraid of the answer.
"My lord?" Simon's voice broke softly through the fog.
Jasper cleared his throat, his voice raw. "You're certain? The child's name is Emmeline?"
"Yes, my lord. The Duke introduced her as his granddaughter, Emmeline."
Jasper closed his eyes.
Emmeline. Their daughter.
Abigail had named her without him. He hadn't even been there to help choose a name.
Later, Jasper left the tavern. His carriage waited, and the ride back to the small manor he had leased passed in silence. The house was modest but well-kept, a temporary home with solid walls and no warmth. When he entered, the scent of lavender told him his manservant had already prepared a bath.
He dismissed the servant with a nod and bathed alone, the heat loosening muscles that had been tight for days—but doing nothing to ease the knot in his chest.
In the morning, he would write to the Duke.
Nathaniel had said there would be time to talk—but not yet. Jasper would respect that.
Still, he would not mention Emmeline in the letter. He would wait for their meeting to discover the truth of what he had heard.
Instead, he would request a formal meeting—soon—and reiterate the address of the home he had leased, in case they wished to reach him and had misplaced the paper he had scrawled the address on before he left Bramblewick Estate.
He dried off and dressed, then lay back in bed, staring at the ceiling.
How must she have felt, he wondered, discovering she was carrying the child of a husband who left her the day after their wedding?
His chest ached at the thought.
He could picture it—her fear, her resolve, the quiet strength she had always carried in her eyes. Strength he hadn't understood until it was too late.
He had left her to face it all. And now, a child bore his name and his absence.
"Emmeline."
He whispered the name once in the dark, tasting it like a secret — something sacred, fragile, and almost too precious to believe.
He told himself not to get his hopes up. Not to imagine the child's eyes, or whether they might reflect her mother's gentle spirit...
And still, he did.
He turned onto his side, eyes open in the dark, and tried not to picture the face of the daughter he'd never known.
Tried — and failed.