Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Hugo found it impossible to concentrate on the tedious drama unfolding on stage when all he could think about was the way Sybil had kissed him a couple of days ago.
Beside him in the theater box, Sybil sat with her hands folded in her lap, but he caught her stealing glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking.
Every time their eyes met, a faint blush colored her cheeks, and she would quickly look away.
She was unusually quiet tonight as she had been avoiding him ever since their kiss.
Everything has changed between us. And we’re both pretending to watch this dreadful play instead of acknowledging it.
He shifted in his seat for what felt like the hundredth time, the red velvet upholstery of the theater box suddenly feeling like the most uncomfortable surface in all of London.
When will this infernal play end?
On stage, some hapless actor was delivering what appeared to be a dramatic soliloquy about lost love and redemption, his words carrying across the packed theater with all the emotional depth of a funeral dirge.
The audience sat in polite, stifled silence—the sort of respectful attention one gave to tedious sermons or lengthy political speeches.
Precisely the kind of mind-numbing entertainment I need tonight. Something to distract me from…
But his treacherous mind refused to cooperate. Instead of focusing on the droning performance below, all he could think about was Sybil.
She wants more. She wants this marriage to be real, but she’s trapped herself with grief and anger.
“Papa, are you quite well?” Rosalie’s question cut through his brooding. “You look rather… intense.”
Hugo blinked, suddenly aware that his hands were clenched into fists on the armrests of his chair. Beside Rosalie sat young Lord Pemberton—the same man who’d asked Sybil to dance at the ball—looking politely concerned.
Right. The suitor. The reason we’re enduring this torture in the first place.
“Perfectly well,” Hugo managed, forcing his hands to relax. “Simply… absorbed by the performance.”
Rosalie’s eyebrow arched in a manner reminiscent of her stepmother. “Absorbed? Papa, you’ve been staring at the ceiling for the past ten minutes.”
“I was contemplating the… artistic choices in the lighting,” he said lamely.
“The artistic choices in the lighting,” Lord Pemberton repeated slowly, glancing up at the perfectly ordinary chandeliers. “Yes, quite… illuminating, Your Grace.”
Good God, even the boy is mocking me now.
“Indeed,” Hugo muttered, turning his attention back to the stage where the actor was now declaring his undying devotion to some invisible beloved with the passion of a man reciting tax law.
At least someone’s declaring their feelings. Even if it’s fictional drivel.
“Oh, thank heavens,” Rosalie whispered as the curtain finally began to descend. “I thought that would never end.”
Never end. Rather like this evening of polite conversation and careful chaperoning.
“It was certainly… thorough,” Lord Pemberton offered diplomatically as the audience began to stir around them.
“Thorough is one word for it,” Hugo muttered, rising from his seat with relief. “Shall we collect your wraps, ladies?”
“Yes, please. Lord Pemberton, thank you so much for suggesting this evening. The play was quite… educational.”
Educational. The girl has inherited her stepmother’s talent for diplomatic understatement. That same stepmother who now chose to keep her mouth shut rather than contribute to the conversation.
As they made their way through the crush of departing theater-goers, Hugo found himself scanning the crowd. A habit born of years protecting his family, always alert for potential threats or unwanted attention.
Which was why he spotted the Earl of Keats immediately.
Sybil’s father.
The man stood near the main exit, his silver hair neatly arranged, his evening clothes impeccable. But there was something in his bearing, something in the way his eyes searched the crowd, that spoke of desperation beneath the polished facade.
He’s looking for someone. For us.
Hugo’s first instinct was to steer Sybil, Rosalie, and Lord Pemberton in the opposite direction. He owed the Earl nothing—less than nothing, given what the man had done to his own child. The last thing Sybil needed was to be ambushed by the father who’d thrown her sister out to die.
Keep walking. Pretend you don’t see him.
But as they drew closer to the exit, the Earl’s gaze found his. And what Hugo saw there stopped him cold.
Pain. Genuine, devastating anguish.
The Earl’s face transformed the moment he recognized Hugo. Hope flickered in his eyes, followed immediately by resignation, as though he expected to be cut dead in front of half of London society.
Which is exactly what I should do. Walk past him without acknowledgment. Make it clear that he’s not welcome in our lives.
But the man’s expression reminded him uncomfortably of his own feelings when he’d failed his daughters. The desperate desire to make amends for mistakes that seemed impossible to repair.
Damn.
“Sybil,” he said quietly, his decision made. “Take Rosalie and Lord Pemberton and wait for me by the carriage. I’ll be along shortly.”
“But Papa—”
“Go.” His tone brooked no argument. “Now.”
Rosalie looked as though she wanted to protest, but something in his expression convinced her to comply. She took Lord Pemberton’s arm and followed a silent Sybil toward the exit, casting worried glances over her shoulder.
Hugo approached the Earl slowly, noting how the man straightened his shoulders as though preparing for battle.
Or execution.
“Your Grace,” the Earl began formally, inclining his head, “I didn’t expect… that is, I hadn’t hoped…”
“Lord Keats.” Hugo’s tone was carefully neutral. “You wished to speak with me?”
“If you would spare a moment.” The Earl’s hands trembled slightly, Hugo noticed. “I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but as one parent to another…”
He’s appealing to the one thing I can’t easily dismiss.
“Very well,” Hugo said curtly. “But make it quick. My family is waiting.”
Relief flooded the Earl’s features. “Thank you. I won’t take long, I promise.”
They moved to a relatively quiet corner of the lobby, away from the departing crowds. Up close, Hugo could see the toll the years had taken on Sybil’s parent. Lines around his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights, a slight tremor in his hands that suggested the weight of guilt carried too long.
He looks like a man haunted by his choices.
“I know what you must think of me,” the Earl began, barely above a whisper. “What Sybil has undoubtedly told you about… about what happened with Emmeline.”
“What do you want?” Hugo asked bluntly, cutting through any attempt at preamble.
The Earl reached into his coat and withdrew a folded letter, the paper slightly wrinkled as though it had been written hastily.
“I want you to give this to her,” he said simply. “And I want you to stay with her when she reads it.”
Stay with her. He expects this letter to upset her.
“I’m not a messenger service.”
“No, you’re not. You’re her husband. The man who promised to protect her.” The Earl’s words grew more urgent. “I’m asking you to protect her from this if necessary. To be there if… if what I have to say proves too overwhelming.”
Protect her from her own father’s words. What is in that letter?
“I won’t force her to read anything she doesn’t want to read,” Hugo warned.
“I’m not asking you to force her. I’m asking you to give her the choice. And to be there for whatever she decides.”
The choice. As if forgiveness were something that could be chosen rather than earned.
Hugo studied the older man’s face, noting the deep lines of regret etched around his eyes. “She may refuse to have anything to do with you. Are you prepared for that possibility?”
“I’ve been preparing for it for eight years.” The Earl’s composure cracked slightly. “But I have to try. As a parent, I have to try to make amends for the gravest error of my life.”
“You destroyed your own child,” Hugo said with quiet fury. “You let her die alone and afraid because you were more concerned with society’s opinion than your family’s welfare.”
“Yes.” The word came out like a confession. “Yes, I did. And I’ve lived with that knowledge every day since. I’ve watched Sybil punish herself for my failures, watched her build a life around caring for others because she believes she failed the one person who mattered most.”
The Earl held out the letter again, desperation bleeding through his controlled facade. “I’m asking you to love my remaining child enough to help her heal from wounds I inflicted. I’m asking you to be the parent I should have been. The husband she deserves.”
The husband she deserves. Not the one she settled for out of necessity.
Hugo stared at the folded paper, weighing his options. He could refuse, walk away, and protect Sybil from whatever additional turmoil this might cause. Or he could take the risk that perhaps, after eight years, some wounds were ready to be examined.
One day, you may make a mistake that costs you your child’s love. When that day comes, I hope someone gives you the chance I’m asking for now.
The unspoken plea hung between them, and Hugo found himself thinking of his own daughters. Of the moments when his temper or pride had nearly cost him their trust.
“I won’t force her to read it,” he said finally, taking the letter with reluctance. “And I won’t contact you afterward, regardless of her response.”
“I understand.” Relief flooded the Earl’s features. “This is… this is my attempt to make things right.”
His attempt. After eight years of silence.
“You realize this may make things worse,” Hugo warned. “She may be angrier after reading this than she was before.”
“I know. But she can’t be more lost to me than she already is.” The older man’s composure wavered. “I’ve already lost one child to my pride and prejudice. I won’t lose another to cowardice.”
Hugo tucked the letter into his coat, the weight of it heavier than such a small thing should be. “If this causes her additional suffering, if it opens wounds that have finally begun to heal, I will hold you personally responsible.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” the Earl replied quietly. “Thank you, Your Grace. For giving me this chance. For protecting her when I failed to.”
And with that, he melted back into the departing crowd, leaving Hugo standing alone with a letter that might change everything.
Or destroy what little peace she’s managed to find.
“Papa?” Rosalie appeared at his elbow, her face creased with concern. “Is everything all right? You look rather grim.”
Grim. I feel like I’ve been handed a lit cannon and asked to deliver it safely.
“Everything’s fine,” he lied. “Just an unexpected encounter with an old acquaintance.”
“Oh.” She looked unconvinced but didn’t press. “Lord Pemberton has called for our carriage. Sybil is waiting outside for it with him. Are you ready to leave?”
Ready to leave. Ready to go home and deliver a letter that might shatter my wife’s carefully constructed world.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Let’s go home.”
Because whatever happened next, Sybil would need him. And this time, he intended to be there for her.
No matter what that letter contained.