"Ready?" Sophia asked softly beside him. Their infant son, Frederick, lay nestled in her arms beneath a cotton muslin blanket, his rosebud mouth slack with sleep.
Philip gave a terse nod and stepped down first, then turned to assist his wife. As they ascended the steps, a knot began to tighten between his shoulders. This was the house his sister now called home for the Season—under the same roof as the man who had destroyed her.
He had been livid upon learning that Abigail and Emmeline would be residing here rather than with their parents. His father had said it was necessary—for appearances, for Emmeline's future—but Philip had not been convinced.
The door opened before he could knock, revealing Mrs. Rigby's warm, familiar face.
"Lord and Lady Browning," she greeted, her eyes lighting with fondness. "And this must be Master Frederick. Please, come in. Her Grace is in the drawing room with Miss Emmeline. She's been awaiting your visit."
The house was quiet, tastefully grand. As they moved through the corridors, Philip
felt years of memory pressing against him. Laughter. Dinners. Friendship. All soured
now by a single lie—and the man who had believed it.
They stepped into the drawing room, where the afternoon's warmth still lingered despite the fading light. Abigail sat on a fainting couch near the window, a light shawl draped around her shoulders. Emmeline was nestled at her side, one small hand resting on her mother's lap, her legs swinging idly as she pointed at something beyond the glass. Abigail's posture was stiff with pain, but she made no move to shift her daughter away.
A bandage wrapped partway around her head, and her arm was secured in a linen sling. Yet she looked up and smiled, and for a moment, Philip could almost believe they'd stepped back in time.
"Philip," she said softly. Then, warmer, "Sophia."
He crossed the room quickly but paused just short, his gaze noting the bruises still faintly visible along her cheekbone and temple. He leaned in and kissed the crown of her head instead. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," Abigail replied. "Though I'm afraid I won't be dancing any reels for a while."
Philip gave her a gentle smile. "You look more like yourself than I've seen in a long time."
Sophia moved forward, her face aglow. "Would you like to meet your nephew?"
Abigail's expression lit with joy. She laughed softly. "Very much."
Sophia settled beside her, placing Frederick on a cushion between them. Abigail couldn't hold him—not yet—but she reached out, brushing her fingers along his tiny hand and marveling at his sleepy yawn.
Philip lingered a moment longer, watching the four of them—his wife, his sister, his son, and his niece—and felt a flicker of something inside him begin to thaw.
"Abigail," he said quietly.
She glanced up.
"Is Jasper in residence?"
"Jasper?" Abigail smiled faintly. "I believe so. If you ask one of the staff, I'm sure they'll direct you to my husband."
Philip nodded, watching her for a moment before turning toward the hallway.
He didn't have to search long. Jasper stood just beyond the doorway, as though awaiting judgment. His back was straight, his hands clasped behind him like a soldier before the gallows.
"Shall we?" Philip said, his tone clipped.
Jasper inclined his head and led the way toward the study. Only once the door closed behind them did Philip speak.
"My father said you've been making amends. That Abigail's begun to find herself again."
Jasper nodded once. "I've wronged your sister in ways I can never fully atone for. But I love her. I love Emmeline. I intend to spend the rest of my life proving both."
Philip folded his arms, his expression hard. "We were closer than brothers, you and I.
But when it mattered, you didn't believe me. You destroyed our friendship. You humiliated my sister. Abandoned her. Abandoned your own child."
