Chapter 48
The carriage came to a gentle stop outside Winterset House, its lanterns casting golden halos on the pavement as dusk settled over London. Philip leaned forward and peered through the window at the familiar facade—handsome, dignified, and, to his eyes, still stained by betrayal.
"Ready?" Sophia asked softly beside him. Their infant son, Frederick, lay nestled in her arms beneath a cotton muslin blanket, his rosebud mouth slack with sleep.
Philip gave a terse nod and stepped down first, then turned to assist his wife. As they ascended the steps, a knot began to tighten between his shoulders. This was the house his sister now called home for the Season—under the same roof as the man who had destroyed her.
He had been livid upon learning that Abigail and Emmeline would be residing here rather than with their parents. His father had said it was necessary—for appearances, for Emmeline's future—but Philip had not been convinced.
The door opened before he could knock, revealing Mrs. Rigby's warm, familiar face.
"Lord and Lady Browning," she greeted, her eyes lighting with fondness. "And this must be Master Frederick. Please, come in. Her Grace is in the drawing room with Miss Emmeline. She's been awaiting your visit."
The house was quiet, tastefully grand. As they moved through the corridors, Philip
felt years of memory pressing against him. Laughter. Dinners. Friendship. All soured
now by a single lie—and the man who had believed it.
They stepped into the drawing room, where the afternoon's warmth still lingered despite the fading light.
Abigail sat on a fainting couch near the window, a light shawl draped around her shoulders.
Emmeline was nestled at her side, one small hand resting on her mother's lap, her legs swinging idly as she pointed at something beyond the glass.
Abigail's posture was stiff with pain, but she made no move to shift her daughter away.
A bandage wrapped partway around her head, and her arm was secured in a linen sling. Yet she looked up and smiled, and for a moment, Philip could almost believe they'd stepped back in time.
"Philip," she said softly. Then, warmer, "Sophia."
He crossed the room quickly but paused just short, his gaze noting the bruises still faintly visible along her cheekbone and temple. He leaned in and kissed the crown of her head instead. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," Abigail replied. "Though I'm afraid I won't be dancing any reels for a while."
Philip gave her a gentle smile. "You look more like yourself than I've seen in a long time."
Sophia moved forward, her face aglow. "Would you like to meet your nephew?"
Abigail's expression lit with joy. She laughed softly. "Very much."
Sophia settled beside her, placing Frederick on a cushion between them. Abigail couldn't hold him—not yet—but she reached out, brushing her fingers along his tiny hand and marveling at his sleepy yawn.
Philip lingered a moment longer, watching the four of them—his wife, his sister, his son, and his niece—and felt a flicker of something inside him begin to thaw.
"Abigail," he said quietly.
She glanced up.
"Is Jasper in residence?"
"Jasper?" Abigail smiled faintly. "I believe so. If you ask one of the staff, I'm sure they'll direct you to my husband."
Philip nodded, watching her for a moment before turning toward the hallway.
He didn't have to search long. Jasper stood just beyond the doorway, as though awaiting judgment. His back was straight, his hands clasped behind him like a soldier before the gallows.
"Shall we?" Philip said, his tone clipped.
Jasper inclined his head and led the way toward the study. Only once the door closed behind them did Philip speak.
"My father said you've been making amends. That Abigail's begun to find herself again."
Jasper nodded once. "I've wronged your sister in ways I can never fully atone for. But I love her. I love Emmeline. I intend to spend the rest of my life proving both."
Philip folded his arms, his expression hard. "We were closer than brothers, you and I.
But when it mattered, you didn't believe me. You destroyed our friendship. You humiliated my sister. Abandoned her. Abandoned your own child."
Jasper's jaw tensed. "And I am sorry. For all of it. I miss your friendship more than I can say. You and your family were part of my life for so long, and your absence... I feel it like the loss of a limb."
Philip's hands curled into fists. "You believed a woman we both knew to be manipulative. I was never anything but loyal to you."
"I didn't believe her—at least, not at first," Jasper said, his voice rising with old torment.
"When she first accused you, I thought she was lying.
Or twisting the truth. But then she claimed she'd lost the child—and that my disbelief had driven her to it.
I felt responsible. I thought, who would lie about such a thing?
I should have trusted my first instinct.
Should have opened my eyes. But I didn't. I gave in to guilt.
And worse, I married Abigail not out of love, but out of spite—and then I left her. "
He sank into a chair, elbows braced on his knees, running his hands over his face. "There's no excuse. None."
Philip stood unmoving.
"You destroyed her," he said quietly.
"I know," Jasper whispered.
The silence between them stretched, heavy but no longer explosive.
Philip drew in a breath and glanced toward the door. "She laughed today. When she met Frederick. She said your name with a smile. I never thought I'd see that again."
Jasper looked up.
"For her sake—not yours—I'll speak plainly." Philip's voice dropped. "If you ever hurt her again, I will destroy you. There will be no second chance."
Philip gave a sharp nod, then crossed to the door.
"Come. Your daughter, your wife, and your nephew are waiting."
Jasper rose.
And for the first time in over a year, the space between them wasn't warm—but it was no longer filled with bitterness. It was something else. Something that, perhaps, with time, could become peace.