Chapter 25
They arrived at half past eleven, and Philippa knew precisely what had occurred before they'd even crossed the threshold.
It was in the way Sebastian held the door for Estella—not the stiff, dutiful courtesy he'd been performing all Season, but something warm and…
proprietary. His hand hovered at the small of her back as she stepped inside, and when she glanced up at him, he looked down at her with an expression so nakedly tender that Philippa had to press her lips together very firmly to hold back a grin.
Well. That was settled, then.
She received them in the drawing room. Estella was glowing with happiness in a simple muslin day dress, her hair freshly pinned. Sebastian had managed to tame his hair, though the shadows under his eyes suggested he hadn't slept in quite some time.
They sat on the settee, close enough that their shoulders touched. Sebastian's left hand rested on his thigh, and as Philippa watched, Estella's fingers found it and laced through his, casual and certain, as though they'd been doing this for years.
His hand stopped trembling.
It was impossible to hold back a smirk. Philippa had been right about them. She'd known it from the first night, when she'd watched a scarred marquess track a shy girl across a ballroom with such single-minded focus.
But being right didn't make what came next any easier.
"I take it congratulations are in order," she said.
Estella's cheeks turned pink, but her smile was beaming. "He asked and I said yes."
"After her sister interrogated me on the doorstep," Sebastian added. His mouth did something extraordinary—it curved upward. An actual smile.
Philippa catalogued it with quiet amazement. She wasn't certain she'd ever seen the man smile before. It transformed his face entirely, softening the severity.
"Charlotte is a force of nature," Philippa said. "She'll make an excellent marchioness's sister."
"She'll be unbearable," Sebastian said, and his tone held such warmth that Philippa had to look away.
She poured tea, and the ritual steadied her. Milk for Estella, nothing for Sebastian, sugar and lemon for herself.
"You said there was something you needed to tell us." Sebastian’s tone was more guarded now.
She only imagined how much it pained him to come here and speak of this topic. She was doing him no favors by prevaricating.
Philippa folded her hands in her lap. She'd rehearsed this conversation a hundred times since Estella had first told her the full scope of Sebastian's guilt. She'd composed and discarded a dozen different approaches, searching for the right words.
There were no right words. Only the truth.
"What I'm about to tell you must remain between us," she said. "I'm trusting you both with a secret that could endanger people I love. People who are not yet safe."
Sebastian straightened. Beside him, Estella's fingers tightened around his.
"You have our word," Estella said quietly.
"Sebastian." Philippa met his gaze. "You've been carrying the weight of that fire for two years. I know you blame yourself for the disrepair of the house and for the party. You blame yourself for Andrew's death, and for my sister's."
The familiar tension returned to his shoulders. "Because I am to blame."
"You are not." She said it simply, and watched the words fail to land. She'd expected that. "The fire was not an accident of neglect, Sebastian. It was set deliberately."
Silence.
"At least, that’s what I suspect." She watched emotions war for dominance in his expression, and hurried to add, "No, I know it. I just don’t have enough evidence to take it to the magistrate."
Sebastian's face went blank. "That's not possible."
Philippa drew a breath. "My sister's husband, Lord Barrington, was in considerable debt. He'd been hemorrhaging money for years with gambling and poor investments. He’d long since spent her dowry, and—well, one can’t marry another heiress when one is married."
She paused and let that settle.
"I suspected early on. The investigation was cursory—these things always are when the cause appears obvious. An old house, a party, candles left unattended. No one looked further because there seemed to be no need. But I did."
Estella's face had gone pale. "You're saying he burned down the house…on purpose."
"For the money. And perhaps—" Philippa's voice faltered, just slightly. "Perhaps to be free of a wife he'd grown tired of."
The words hung in the air.
"You believe he killed her." Sebastian's voice was barely audible. "He killed his own wife for—"
"No." Philippa held up a hand. "That is what I need to tell you. What I should have told you months ago and didn't, because I was afraid." She met his eyes. "My sister is alive."
Sebastian stared. Beside him, Estella made a small, sharp sound.
"Lydia is alive," Philippa repeated. "Andrew saved her. He heard her calling from the east wing, and he went back in. He pulled her out through a servants' passage before the roof collapsed. She was badly hurt, but she lived."
The color had drained from Sebastian's face until the scar stood out in sharp relief. "Andrew saved her."
"Yes. But I'm afraid he never made it out of the passage himself. The structure gave way. He'd gotten Lydia to the garden entrance, but the smoke—" She stopped. "He stumbled. As you know the roof gave way, and…"
She trailed off. Neither of them needed to relive this story.
The silence that followed was vast.
"He saved her," Sebastian said again. "Andrew saved her. I didn't know—"
"No one knew." Philippa leaned forward. "That was the point. When Lydia recovered enough to speak, she begged me not to reveal that she'd survived. Barrington believed she was dead. If he learned otherwise…"
"He'd come for her," Estella said softly.
"Yes. And for the child."
Sebastian's head snapped up. "Child?"
"Lydia was with child the night of the fire. She didn't know it yet—none of us did until weeks later." Philippa's throat ached, but she kept her voice steady. "She has a son. He'll be two this autumn. His name is Andrew."
The sound Sebastian made was not quite a breath and not quite a word. "Where is she?" he asked.
"Hidden in the country, under a different name.
She has a small cottage, a housekeeper I trust, and a life that is quiet and safe.
" Philippa paused. "I've been supporting her through intermediaries.
Much as you supported the Hale family, Sebastian.
Discreetly. And with the constant fear that it isn't enough. "
The parallel was not lost on him. She saw it register in his eyes.
"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice was rough. "Two years. I've spent two years believing—"
"I know." The words came out smaller than she intended. "I know what you believed. And I am sorry. More sorry than I can say."
She'd practiced this part too, and it still wasn't enough.
"When I first approached you, I didn't know the full extent of your guilt.
I knew you blamed yourself, but I thought—I assumed it was the ordinary kind.
The kind any decent man would feel after such a tragedy.
" She shook her head. "It wasn't until Estella told me what you'd confessed—about the party, about convincing Andrew to stay—that I understood how deep it went. "
"And even then you didn't tell me," Sebastian said.
It was worse than an accusation. It was bewilderment.
"No. Because I was afraid." She met his eyes. She owed him that much. "Afraid for Lydia. Afraid that if the truth came out, even privately, it would set events in motion I couldn't control."
Beside him, Estella was crying quietly. She brought Sebastian's hand to her lips and pressed a kiss to his scarred knuckles, and he turned to look at her with an expression that made Philippa's own eyes sting.
"Andrew died a hero," Philippa said. "I need you both to hear that.
He didn't die because of a reckless party or a neglected estate.
He died because he heard a woman screaming and he ran toward her instead of away.
That was Andrew's choice. His courage. And because of it, my sister is alive and her son exists. "
Sebastian's eyes closed. And then his face crumpled. The composure he'd maintained through the entire conversation finally gave way, and what was left was raw and human.
Estella pulled his hand to her chest and held it there, and Philippa looked away to give them the moment. She studied the teapot. She studied her own hands. She studied the pattern on the wallpaper until her vision blurred with her own unshed tears.
When she looked back, Sebastian's eyes were on her. "You say you know her husband set the fire."
She nodded. "Unfortunately the best evidence I have is my sister's testimony."
Both Sebastian and Estella nodded in understanding. To ask her to come forward with an accusation was to put her and her son in danger.
"Lord Barrington," Sebastian said the name gruffly. Philippa wondered if it was possible that this man might despise her sister's husband as much as she did. His lip curved up in a snarl as he added, "What's being done about him?"
"I have a solicitor working on the matter.
Mr. Hartwell. He's been gathering what evidence he can—financial records, testimony from servants who were at the house that night.
But it's slow work, and Lydia—" Philippa hesitated.
"Lydia is not ready to testify. She's safe and she's healing, but the thought of facing him… "
"She shouldn't have to." Sebastian's voice had hardened into something Philippa recognized. The voice of a man who had just been given a target for two years of bottled fury. "There are other ways."
"Yes." Philippa met his gaze. "And now that there are three of us who know the truth, perhaps those ways become more viable."
It was not a request. It was barely even a suggestion. But she knew Sebastian heard it for what it was—an invitation into a different kind of partnership. Not the reluctant alliance of a guilty man and a scheming duchess, but something built on shared purpose.
"You'll have whatever you need," Sebastian said. "Resources. Connections. My name, if it helps."
"It will help." Philippa allowed herself a small smile. "A marquess's name tends to."
Estella wiped her eyes and straightened. "I'd like to meet her," Estella said. "Lydia. When she's ready."
Philippa looked at Estella—Andrew's sister, Sebastian's future wife—and saw the same quality she'd seen in Andrew himself. The instinct to move toward people in pain rather than away from them.
"I think she'd like that," Philippa said. "Very much."
The conversation continued. Sebastian asked sharp questions about Barrington's current whereabouts.
Estella asked gentle questions about Lydia's health and the child.
Philippa answered what she could, deflected what she couldn't, and felt, for the first time in two years, the weight of carrying this alone begin to ease.
When they rose to leave, Sebastian paused at the door. He turned back to Philippa.
"You should have told me sooner," he said. But the edge was gone.
"Yes," she agreed. "I should have. I'm sorry."
He inclined his head. It was not forgiveness—not entirely. But it was an acknowledgment that they were on the same side, fighting the same fight, and that some sins were committed not out of malice but out of love.
Estella took Philippa's hands and squeezed them. "Thank you," she said. "For everything. Not just today. For all of it."
Philippa squeezed back. "Take care of each other."
They left together, Sebastian's hand at the small of Estella's back.
Philippa stood in the empty drawing room and listened to the front door close.
She went to the window and watched them walk to the carriage.
Sebastian handed Estella up, and she saw Estella turn and say something that made him shake his head, and then she saw the smile again.
That extraordinary, devastating smile that she hadn't known the man was capable of.
Philippa pressed her fingers to the glass.
She thought of Lydia, in her cottage in the country. She thought of the little boy with Andrew's name and his mother's dark eyes. She thought of Barrington, wherever he was, believing his wife was dead and his crimes buried in the ashes.
There was work to do. But for the first time in two years, Philippa wasn't doing it alone.
She turned from the window and poured herself a fresh cup of tea. Then she sat down at her writing desk, and she began to plan. There would be a wedding to arrange, a villain to ruin, and a sister to protect. She picked up her pen.
Dear Mr. Hartwell,
There has been a development…