"What I'm about to tell you must remain between us," she said. "I'm trusting you both with a secret that could endanger people I love. People who are not yet safe."
Sebastian straightened. Beside him, Estella's fingers tightened around his.
"You have our word," Estella said quietly.
"Sebastian." Philippa met his gaze. "You've been carrying the weight of that fire for two years. I know you blame yourself for the disrepair of the house and for the party. You blame yourself for Andrew's death, and for my sister's."
The familiar tension returned to his shoulders. "Because I am to blame."
"You are not." She said it simply, and watched the words fail to land. She'd expected that. "The fire was not an accident of neglect, Sebastian. It was set deliberately."
Silence.
"At least, that’s what I suspect." She watched emotions war for dominance in his expression, and hurried to add, "No, I know it. I just don’t have enough evidence to take it to the magistrate."
Sebastian's face went blank. "That's not possible."
Philippa drew a breath. "My sister's husband, Lord Barrington, was in considerable debt. He'd been hemorrhaging money for years with gambling and poor investments. He’d long since spent her dowry, and—well, one can’t marry another heiress when one is married."
She paused and let that settle.
"I suspected early on. The investigation was cursory—these things always are when the cause appears obvious. An old house, a party, candles left unattended. No one looked further because there seemed to be no need. But I did."
Estella's face had gone pale. "You're saying he burned down the house…on purpose."
"For the money. And perhaps—" Philippa's voice faltered, just slightly. "Perhaps to be free of a wife he'd grown tired of."
The words hung in the air.
"You believe he killed her." Sebastian's voice was barely audible. "He killed his own wife for?—"
"No." Philippa held up a hand. "That is what I need to tell you. What I should have told you months ago and didn't, because I was afraid." She met his eyes. "My sister is alive."
Sebastian stared. Beside him, Estella made a small, sharp sound.
"Lydia is alive," Philippa repeated. "Andrew saved her. He heard her calling from the east wing, and he went back in. He pulled her out through a servants' passage before the roof collapsed. She was badly hurt, but she lived."
The color had drained from Sebastian's face until the scar stood out in sharp relief. "Andrew saved her."
"Yes. But I'm afraid he never made it out of the passage himself. The structure gave way. He'd gotten Lydia to the garden entrance, but the smoke—" She stopped. "He stumbled. As you know the roof gave way, and…"
She trailed off. Neither of them needed to relive this story.
The silence that followed was vast.
"He saved her," Sebastian said again. "Andrew saved her. I didn't know?—"
"No one knew." Philippa leaned forward. "That was the point. When Lydia recovered enough to speak, she begged me not to reveal that she'd survived. Barrington believed she was dead. If he learned otherwise…"
"He'd come for her," Estella said softly.
"Yes. And for the child."
Sebastian's head snapped up. "Child?"
"Lydia was with child the night of the fire. She didn't know it yet—none of us did until weeks later." Philippa's throat ached, but she kept her voice steady. "She has a son. He'll be two this autumn. His name is Andrew."
The sound Sebastian made was not quite a breath and not quite a word. "Where is she?" he asked.
