"Hidden in the country, under a different name. She has a small cottage, a housekeeper I trust, and a life that is quiet and safe." Philippa paused. "I've been supporting her through intermediaries. Much as you supported the Hale family, Sebastian. Discreetly. And with the constant fear that it isn't enough."
The parallel was not lost on him. She saw it register in his eyes.
"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice was rough. "Two years. I've spent two years believing?—"
"I know." The words came out smaller than she intended. "I know what you believed. And I am sorry. More sorry than I can say."
She'd practiced this part too, and it still wasn't enough.
"When I first approached you, I didn't know the full extent of your guilt. I knew you blamed yourself, but I thought—I assumed it was the ordinary kind. The kind any decent man would feel after such a tragedy." She shook her head. "It wasn't until Estella told me what you'd confessed—about the party, about convincing Andrew to stay—that I understood how deep it went."
"And even then you didn't tell me," Sebastian said.
It was worse than an accusation. It was bewilderment.
"No. Because I was afraid." She met his eyes. She owed him that much. "Afraid for Lydia. Afraid that if the truth came out, even privately, it would set events in motion I couldn't control."
Beside him, Estella was crying quietly. She brought Sebastian's hand to her lips and pressed a kiss to his scarred knuckles, and he turned to look at her with an expression that made Philippa's own eyes sting.
"Andrew died a hero," Philippa said. "I need you both to hear that. He didn't die because of a reckless party or a neglected estate. He died because he heard a woman screaming and he ran toward her instead of away. That was Andrew's choice. His courage. And because of it, my sister is alive and her son exists."
Sebastian's eyes closed. And then his face crumpled. The composure he'd maintained through the entire conversation finally gave way, and what was left was raw and human.
Estella pulled his hand to her chest and held it there, and Philippa looked away to give them the moment. She studied the teapot. She studied her own hands. She studied the pattern on the wallpaper until her vision blurred with her own unshed tears.
When she looked back, Sebastian's eyes were on her. "You say you know her husband set the fire."
She nodded. "Unfortunately the best evidence I have is my sister's testimony."
Both Sebastian and Estella nodded in understanding. To ask her to come forward with an accusation was to put her and her son in danger.
"Lord Barrington," Sebastian said the name gruffly. Philippa wondered if it was possible that this man might despise her sister's husband as much as she did. His lip curved up in a snarl as he added, "What's being done about him?"
"I have a solicitor working on the matter. Mr. Hartwell. He's been gathering what evidence he can—financial records, testimony from servants who were at the house that night. But it's slow work, and Lydia—" Philippa hesitated. "Lydia is not ready to testify. She's safe and she's healing, but the thought of facing him…"
"She shouldn't have to." Sebastian's voice had hardened into something Philippa recognized. The voice of a man who had just been given a target for two years of bottled fury. "There are other ways."
"Yes." Philippa met his gaze. "And now that there are three of us who know the truth, perhaps those ways become more viable."
It was not a request. It was barely even a suggestion. But she knew Sebastian heard it for what it was—an invitation into a different kind of partnership. Not the reluctant alliance of a guilty man and a scheming duchess, but something built on shared purpose.
"You'll have whatever you need," Sebastian said. "Resources. Connections. My name, if it helps."
"It will help." Philippa allowed herself a small smile. "A marquess's name tends to."
Estella wiped her eyes and straightened. "I'd like to meet her," Estella said. "Lydia. When she's ready."
Philippa looked at Estella—Andrew's sister, Sebastian's future wife—and saw the same quality she'd seen in Andrew himself. The instinct to move toward people in pain rather than away from them.
"I think she'd like that," Philippa said. "Very much."
The conversation continued. Sebastian asked sharp questions about Barrington's current whereabouts. Estella asked gentle questions about Lydia's health and the child. Philippa answered what she could, deflected what she couldn't, and felt, for the first time in two years, the weight of carrying this alone begin to ease.
When they rose to leave, Sebastian paused at the door. He turned back to Philippa.
"You should have told me sooner," he said. But the edge was gone.
"Yes," she agreed. "I should have. I'm sorry."
