Epilogue

EPILOGUE

TWO MONTHS LATER

A s a newly married couple, some of their most contentious arguments happened over Amelia's spending habits—or rather, her reluctance to establish any.

Because, initially, she resisted spending their money.

When Leopold tried putting his foot down on the matter, so to speak, he'd realized rather quickly that he'd made a mistake.

And so, he'd learned to compromise.

They had learned to compromise.

She would order new furnishings, but only for the rooms that were actually used. And as far as decorative pieces, they'd only purchase items made by local artisans.

Since she could no longer wear the gowns from her previous wardrobe, not comfortably, anyhow, Leopold had offered to pay for Madam Chantal, London's most sought-after modiste, to pay a visit to Smuggler's Manor.

Amelia insisted that wouldn't be necessary. She had already begun sewing her own gowns out of some of the silks she'd found in the cellar.

Leopold refrained from informing his determined wife that those imported silks were more valuable than a hundred custom gowns from London. He only winced a little when she scrapped several yards in frustration and then cut into another bolt.

He didn't care, really, as long as she was happy.

Although he did eventually present her with several bolts of colorful cotton as an alternative—produced in an English mill that he'd recently acquired. She'd gushed over them as much as the silks, so he figured this was another good compromise.

When he'd suggested they hire her a lady's maid, she'd agreed, but only on the condition that he'd hire a valet.

Instead of doing either of those things, they'd resolved that particular issue with a mutually satisfying arrangement. As long as they were sharing the same chamber, they'd simply dress and undress each other. On some occasions, the process was a hasty one, on others, they took their time, teasing one another, savoring their anticipation.

Two weeks later, Amelia had hired Daniel Smith to shine Leopold's boots. While shopping with Fanny, she'd come across a local boy, twelve years of age, and of course she couldn't turn her back on poor little Danny after learning he'd lost his parents in a fire.

Daniel wasn't the only beneficiary of Amelia's compassion and it didn't take long before every child within a ten-mile radius of Fisherman's Bottom came to be in possession of a toy—crocheted by either Amelia, Bessie, or Fanny—all of whom loved Amelia like one of their own. Because she never looked down on them. In fact, on a few occasions Leopold had discovered her helping to cut vegetables in the kitchen.

For a delicately raised daughter of a marquess, with no fancy balls, exhibits, or garden parties to attend, Amelia had no difficulties filling her days up in meaningful ways.

Not all of them involving charity.

She was curious about Leopold's business, and he always shared all the ins and outs with her. When he wasn't tied up handling a new shipment, he never refused her request to picnic on the beach, walk along the cliffs, or explore the unused floors in the Manor. He was just as happy to sit by the fire. If she wasn't in his lap, at the very least, their feet were touching. Leopold especially loved listening to her voice on those nights where they took turns reading to one another.

Lady Winterhope had suggested that Margie—Amelia's cat—take up residence at Smuggler's Manor. Especially since she and the marquess would be traveling.

The cat, a calico with sharp claws, had required a bit of getting used to. She lived by her own schedule, but occasionally claimed Amelia's lap on these evenings.

But the nights, well, those belonged exclusively to Leopold.

After two months of marriage, he still couldn't get enough of her. He doubted he ever would.

Luckily for him, his wife was just as insatiable.

Never in his life could he have imagined… This bliss.

Eventually, he intended to take her to London, if that was what she wanted. He'd walk her down Bond Street. He'd buy her ices at Gunter's, take her strolling through Hyde Park. If she wanted him to.

He'd learned not to make assumptions.

But he couldn't ask her about it yet.

Not until Crossings was out of the picture.

Which, according to the letter Leopold had received from Malum, might be soon.

If things went accordingly.

For now, however, the owner of the Domus Emporium was up to his neck in complications, the kind Leopold was happy to stay out of.

"We've done our part," Beckworth told Fitz after reading the last decoded message. "The rest is up to Malum." And then he chuffed. "Poor devil."

"Not something he bargained for, I imagine," Fitz said. "It's not as though he's on his own, however."

"He knows I'll come, if he needs me," Leopold said. "And there's still Standish and Helton in London as well, if he needs more immediate aid. But regardless, it was Malum who started this. He wants to be the one to end it."

Fitz gathered up both the decoded and the original letter. "Well then. We can only wish him the best."

"Crossings won't go down without a fight." The final trap was set to be sprung. But until then, he was more dangerous than ever.

An icy chill slid down Leopold's spine.

Fitz frowned, looking quite unsettled, and Leopold half expected the fellow to make the sign of the cross.

Truth be told, Leopold was almost tempted himself.

Because Malum was ruthless, but so was Crossings. And, outside of his dirty dealings, Crossings had nothing to lose.

Malum, however, had just been handed a reason to live.

"He'll be fine," Leopold said in an effort to chase away that chill. "Malum always comes out on top…"

—The End?—

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