"I beg your pardon," the man said, straightening. "My name is Mr. Simon Black. I work under Lord Evering—the investigator you hired."
"Evering," Jasper echoed, nodding. "He instructed you to stay behind?"
"Yes, my lord. Said I was to remain in the village until I received word or saw you myself. I recognized your carriage earlier today and waited nearby."
"Can I get you a drink, Mr. Black?" Jasper asked.
"Yes, sir. A brandy, please."
Jasper gestured to the barman. "Brandy for him."
"Lord Evering gave me your description, so I'd know you if you came to town."
The barman slid a glass in front of him, and Simon took a small sip of his drink. He then reached inside his waistcoat, pulling out a small, leather-bound notebook and a stub of a pencil. His eyes flickered down to it, then back to Jasper, before continuing.
"I wrote to you with what I'd discovered. The townsfolk knew the family you asked about—Lord and Lady Browning—and their daughter, Lady Abigail, whom I believe to be your wife. Described as reserved, with long dark blonde hair. Keeps to herself. Polite. Beautiful." He paused, meeting Jasper's gaze. "That must be your lady, sir?"
Jasper nodded slowly, his pulse steady but pounding.
"They come into town often in good weather," Simon continued. "Usually to visit the market or walk along the shore. There's a baker they do business with weekly. Kind people, it seems. The Duke greets every shopkeeper by name."
Jasper let the words wash over him—until:
"Lady Abigail's always the one pushing the pram," Simon added. "The child is always with her. The villagers were told she's the Browning's' granddaughter—Emmeline. Cute as a button, they said."
Something twisted sharply in Jasper's gut.
"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely, sitting straighter. "A... pram?"
Simon blinked. "Yes, my lord. The young woman—Lady Abigail—she's often seen with the Duke and Duchess, always pushing the pram. The child's name is Emmeline. One of thebaker's apprentices told me. His mother owns the shop. Said the baby is always smiling."
Simon continued speaking, but Jasper no longer heard him.
Emmeline.
The faint crying he'd heard outside the study door—he hadn't thought much of it, not after hearing Abigail's voice. But now...
His breath caught.
Could it be true? Abigail had fallen pregnant on their wedding night?
The thought had never even crossed his mind—not in all his sleepless nights, not through all the bitter days of guilt and silence. Not once.
But there had been a wedding night. He had made sure of it. In anger, in grief, in a cruel attempt to match the betrayal he believed Charlotte had suffered, he had taken Abigail to bed—ensuring the marriage was consummated so no one could deny what had happened.
He had done what Charlotte falsely accused Philip of doing: bedded and abandoned the woman he had promised to love.
But Charlotte had lied.
Abigail wouldn't have been lying.
And she hadn't lost the child.
A child that had never even been a possibility for Charlotte... but one Abigail had carried. Alone.
Jasper had left her to bear the consequences of his shame. To face childbirth without comfort. To raise a daughter thinking her father had walked away—unfeeling, unrepentant, unaware.
This was so much worse than anything he had ever imagined.
