Behind him, the house was still. Sophia, a few months pregnant now, had been napping often, her body adjusting to the quiet demands of new life. He glanced toward the hallway, then back to the window.
Things were shifting. Something was coming.
And he wasn't sure they were ready.
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 knewpreciselywhere 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.
