Philip stepped inside—and froze.
His eyes landed on Jasper Finch, standing by the window, whisky glass trembling in hand.
Chapter 25
Philip had walked Sophia to their chambers after breakfast, her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. She'd looked pale, her usual glow dulled by fatigue. Pregnancy, though joyful, had begun to wear on her. He stayed at her side until her breathing softened and sleep pulled her under, then kissed her temple and slipped from the room, careful not to wake her.
He went in search of his father.
The corridors of Bramblewick were quiet, save for the occasional muffled footstep or the distant clatter of silver being polished in the kitchens. When he reached his parents' rooms, he knocked lightly. The door opened, revealing his mother, seated near the hearth with a book in her lap.
"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Mama."
She smiled, though her eyes were still heavy with concern—concern for Abigail, he knew. Her leaving the breakfast table with Emmeline before the dishes had even been cleared was a reminder of how isolated she had become. His mother had always worn her heart in her eyes, especially when it came to her children. "Your father's not here," she said gently. "He's in his study, I believe. Hasn't come out since breakfast."
Philip nodded and turned to go.
He descended the steps and approached the study, only to be halted by one of the footmen.
"Pardon me, my lord," the young man said, bowing slightly. "His Grace instructed that no one be permitted entry. Except you, my lord. He said only you may enter, should you come."
Philip's brow furrowed. "Who's with him?"
The footman hesitated. "The Duke of Winterset, my lord."
Philip's breath left him in a single, sharp exhale.
Without another word, he stepped to the door, knocked, and said clearly, "It's Philip."
A voice within answered. "Enter."
Philip pushed open the door—and stopped cold.
His one-time best friend, Jasper Finch, stood by the window, his back facing the room. The same man who had once taken vows before God to love, honor, and protect Abigail. The same man who had abandoned her—discarding her like something he was ashamed of, not the wife he had married just the day before.
Philip's hands clenched at his sides.
"You absolute bastard," he bit out. "I was certain no one had followed us from Lyndhurst. How dare you show your face here."
Jasper flinched at the words but didn't turn.
Philip advanced. "You left my sister in that godforsaken house—confused, frightened, alone. I told you Charlotte was lying. I told you."
Still, Jasper said nothing.
Philip's voice cracked with fury. "Why make sure to have a wedding night in truth? Why bed her, only to desert her the very next day and shatter her heart?"
Jasper turned. His face pale, eyes rimmed with red, the glass still untouched in his hand. Shame clung to him, a visible weight.
"It was necessary... to make her believe we were truly beginning a life together." He looked away. "She needed to feel it—what it meant to be betrayed. I thought... it was justice. Thathurting her would be punishment enough for what I believed you had done to Charlotte."
Nathaniel didn't move from his place behind the desk. He was still watching. Listening.
"You mean you needed to seal the union, to trap her so there could be no undoing it?" He shook his head slowly, disgust plain on his face. "And punishment for what? For your sister’s fantasies? You destroyed Abigail’s life for the sake of vengeance?"
Jasper's voice was quiet, almost hollow. "I convinced myself it was justice. That I was owed retribution for what you did to Charlotte. And if you wouldn't admit to it, then hurting Abigail was the only way I could make you feel it."
Philip's jaw tightened. "So instead of taking into account the kind of person your sister was and the fact that we have been best friends since childhood, you sought vengeance and took your pound of flesh from the one person who trusted you. Who loved you."
