"Mrs. Rigby and I will care for Emmeline. You can return for dinner—hopefully a little more rested."
She had tried to protest—softly, stubbornly—but in the end, he reminded her that Emmeline needed her well. That she could not pour from an empty cup. At last, Abigail relented.
He helped her to her rooms, where she changed out of her soiled gown. He wrapped her in a clean cloak, kissed her forehead, and bundled her into the waiting carriage himself.
He stood in the doorway, watching her disappear down the street, already counting the hours until she would return.
Upstairs, Emmeline had finally worn herself out and fallen asleep in Mrs. Rigby's arms. The house was quiet. Still.
Mrs. Rigby sat by the window, reading while keeping watch over the little one.
Jasper retreated to the drawing room and let himself sit—alone with his thoughts.
He reached for Abigail's letter again and read it, though he already knew every word by heart. It was bittersweet. Her belief in him as a father echoed the unconditional love his own father had once given so freely. But the letter also reminded him of Lord Everly—of what Abigail's father must still think of him. And truly, if someone had harmed Emmeline the way he had harmed Abigail, Jasper wasn't certainhecould forgive them either.
His thoughts wandered to his great-aunt Eugenia, who had departed a few days after the party. That morning, she had pulled him aside, her expression grave.
"Charlotte is declining," she had said. "Her lucid moments are growing fewer. The childlike mannerisms you saw last year have taken hold of her. She spends her days reading nursery tales and singing children's rhymes. She throws tantrums, weeps over imagined slights. I think it may be time to consult a physician—someone who deals with the nerves, or..." Eugenia had hesitated, "...consider a private home for her care."
Jasper hadn't known what to say then. He still didn't. Eugenia had told him she would wait for his instructions.
Now, hours after Abigail's departure, he found himself alone in the dining room. Mrs. Rigby had insisted on staying upstairs with Emmeline so he and Abigail could dine quietly together.
But Abigail had not yet returned.
At first, he told himself she must've lost track of time. Perhaps her parents had persuaded her to stay and rest a while longer. But as the hour stretched on, unease twisted low in his gut.
Finally, he summoned a footman and sent him to Everly House to inquire if she was still there. Jasper stepped out onto the front stoop to see the man off, watching until the hired carriage disappeared into the stream of London traffic.
He had just turned to go back inside when a knock came—sharp, sudden.
He opened the door himself, worry making him forget propriety.
A constable stood on the front steps.
"Your Grace?" the officer asked. "There's been an accident. One of your carriage horses was spooked near Grosvenor Square. The carriage overturned."
Jasper felt the world still around him. His chest turned to ice.
"Your wife—Her Grace, the Duchess of Winterset—has been taken to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. She was unconscious when they found her. I'm sorry, my lord—she's badly injured."
Jasper swallowed hard. "Is she alive? Is she going to be all right?"
The officer nodded solemnly. "When I arrived, she had already been placed in a carriage bound for the hospital. The doctor riding with her said she's gravely hurt, but alive. Unconscious, though her breathing was steady." For a moment, Jasper couldn't speak. Then, tightly, he nodded.
"Thank you. I'll leave at once," he said, stepping to close the door, ready to go upstairs and speak with Mrs. Rigby—then paused.
"Would you..." He cleared his throat. "Would you mind calling at Everly House next? Her parents must be informed. Let them know she's at St. Bartholomew's. I expect they'll want to join me there—if they do, I'll see them at the hospital."
The officer nodded and turned away.
Jasper closed the door, turned, and took the stairs two at a time.
He found Mrs. Rigby in the nursery and leaned close to her ear, careful not to disturb Emmeline, who was playing quietly on the carpet.
"There's been an accident," he said quietly. "I must go. Abigail's been taken to St. Bartholomew's."
Mrs. Rigby paled and glanced down at the child, whose soft sniffles and occasional cough betrayed the lingering cold she'd been fighting. She nodded firmly.
