Epilogue

Elise sat on a blanket at the edge of the back gardens of Marchlands, admiring the wilderness beyond the carefully trimmed hedgerows and neatly tended flower beds. Just then, a pair of deer, a mother and her fawn, wandered out of the nearby glen not twenty feet from where she sat.

Elise tucked her light-blue-and-pink striped gown around her knees as she watched the scene unfold before her. A sketchpad lay on her lap as she drew the mother and fawn from various angles, trying to capture their musculature just right. She would never quite have the skill that Cinna and Edwina possessed. They had far greater talent when it came to replicating what their eyes could see.

Once the deer had vanished back into the trees, blending with the dappled and emerald shadows, she became aware of a presence behind her. She turned to see Prospero approaching. He'd left his coat at the house and wore only his tan trousers, a shirt, and a dark-blue waistcoat. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing his tanned forearms. Her belly quivered in excitement at the sight. She had yet to understand the phenomenon of how a man's bare arms could excite a woman. Perhaps it was because muscled arms promised a strong, able-bodied mate, and the baring of those arms showed that the male was not afraid to do hard work. That would explain part of the attraction, she supposed. She made a mental note for further study on this.

"Your pamphlet has been published, and it's already sold more than a thousand copies!" He reached behind himself to pull out a folded bit of paper. Prospero joined her on the blanket. "I hope you don't mind, but I sent a confirmation to approve the second and third printing should the demand continue, which I believe shall happen." He sat down and leaned back on his elbows and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles.

Elise kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you." She'd grown so accustomed to touching him, to kissing him, to showing her affection in ways she'd never easily managed before. But Prospero was made for a woman's love. He was far too beautiful, too irresistible, not to want to reach out and touch him.

"I'm always happy to assist you, my little naturalist." He winked at her.

She had hoped her instructive pamphlet regarding the nature of men would be somewhat welcome in the secret circles of women in society, but it was beyond all her hopes that it would be selling as well as Prospero had just reported.

"You've done something remarkable," he said to her. "Be proud of it."

"I am. It's just not quite real to me yet."

That was the truth. She'd half expected the publisher to refuse to print the pamphlet, but he had agreed. That had been two months ago. She'd been so busy she'd almost forgotten she was on track to be published in the past month. She'd been working with the society to have lectures on more than just Mondays, and she'd been helping Celine manage her brother's investments so she could take control of her future.

As for Prospero, he'd been busy on something else entirely. Her father had purchased Prospero's ancestral country estate, Marchlands, back from its new owner and gave it to Prospero and Elise as a wedding gift. They had left London for the estate as soon as her father was well enough to travel again.

The heart attack had affected the strength in the left side of her father's body, leaving him with a weakness in his arm and leg, but he'd been improving daily. Dr. Watson had taken a personal interest in the matter and had given him a list of exercises to complete each day to rebuild his strength and coordination. Now he walked with only a slight reliance on a cane.

She'd been so worried about him, but more than once, her father had gotten a strange look in his eyes as he'd stared at the glowing sunbeams coming in from a nearby window. He'd just smile softly and say he'd been told it wasn't time yet. She'd asked who had said that, and he'd merely chuckled and said she wouldn't believe him if he told her. But deep down, Elise somehow knew what her father wouldn't say. She'd been studying science a good portion of her life, but she knew there were things that still could not be explained, things that came from a person's very soul. So she'd asked no more questions, and instead found a strange peace in knowing that when the time did come for her father to leave, he wouldn't be going to that next place alone. Her mother was waiting for him.

Prospero and her father had taken charge of restoring the ancestral estate of Marchlands back to its former glory, a task that had exhausted both men at the end of each day. But Elise had no complaints when her husband collapsed into bed beside her. He would fall asleep instantly each night, but with a smile on his lips. She understood why, of course. He was earning his place in the world just as he'd longed to do. He was proving himself worthy through hard work, and it had given him an immense sense of satisfaction.

In addition to this success, Prospero had impressed her father's business contacts and was now investing, with Elise's agreement, some of their own money into trains and the latest locomotive technology, and the investments were paying them back tenfold in profit. Her husband was a natural businessman, just like her father, which made them quite a pair when they put their heads together and worked on deals. She was proud of him and all that he had accomplished.

Prospero now stared into the woods after the recently departed deer, lost in his own thoughts.

"Where's my father?" Elise asked.

"Pardon? Oh, he's working on the accounts. I've been asked to fetch you for luncheon."

Rather than stand up, he lay flat on his back and folded his arms behind his head, staring up at the sky. Elise set aside her sketches and lay beside him, propping her head in one hand and laying her other palm on his chest. She traced the line of his profile with her eyes, and a deep longing stirred within her. Was it possible to love another person so much that it left an ache so sweet it was hard to breathe?

"Are you happy?" she asked after a moment.

He reached up to thread his fingers through hers, then held her hand against his chest.

"Am I happy?" he asked himself in a philosophical tone. "For a long time, I believed my name to be a curse. Rather than good luck and prosperity, I was doomed to suffer and lose all I held dear. I was wrong. I believe the question, rather, is how could I not be happy? Even if I had nothing else, so long as I had you, that would be the only thing that truly mattered to me. I never imagined another being could become one's world, but you are, darling wife." He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "Now lie here with me and let's find shapes among the clouds."

"What?" She chuckled as he pulled her to lie back down beside him.

"All those who dream must look heavenward," he said, but his face was no longer looking toward the sky but rather toward her.

"You're not looking at the clouds," she said as she looked back at him.

"I am already looking heavenward," he said. He curled an arm around her waist and pulled her a few inches closer until their shoulders touched.

She gazed back into his eyes, seeing the sky reflected in their depths, and that sweet ache in her breast grew only stronger.

"As am I."

* * *

Sherlock Holmes entered his flat on Baker Street and smiled at the sight of Watson resting in his favorite armchair, papers spread out before him as he read.

"A parcel came for you." Watson, who was hidden behind his paper, freed one hand to point at the desk in the corner, which was covered with newspaper clippings and notes. On top of it was a large oblong package.

Under other circumstances, Holmes would have delighted in telling Watson exactly what was inside and who had sent it. The size of the package told him the former, while the penmanship on the address informed the latter.

However, there was one thing he was not certain of, and his own interest in the matter dictated that he open the package immediately. Using a knife to cut away the twine, he removed the brown butcher paper.

As expected, the box contained a violin case, but that was not the question pressing at his mind. He opened the box, and a cursory examination indicated it was indeed his violin based on the few scuffs and scrapes he'd given the case over the years. He undid the clasp and opened the case. His instrument rested safely inside with a piece of folded paper tucked between the strings. He slid the paper out and opened it to read.

Mr. Holmes,

I believe this is yours. Seeing as how you were kind enough to introduce me to my wife, albeit through very unconventional means, I thought it only right to return your beloved instrument. I have but one condition. I ask that you do not play it during any hours in which the Society of Rebellious Ladies has its meetings. I understand you play in order to help your mind solve a case, and I respect that. But I expect you to respect my wife and the ladies next door because they also require focus if they are to push the boundaries for ladies everywhere.

Sincerely,

March

Holmes plucked the violin out of the case and then removed the bow. He checked the tuning and then ran the bow over the strings, feeling the melancholy notes sink into his blood in the most wonderful way. His mind began to work on his current case.

Watson set his paper down. "Oh, they gave it back to you?"

Sherlock set the violin back in its case. "Yes, they have."

It was Monday, and sadly, the society was in session today. At least he would not have to be involved with any more schemes or wagers. He had learned his lesson. Stay well away from intelligent women. His lips twitched. Well, perhaps he would not stay entirely away. They were his neighbors, after all.

"I have a meeting with a client in half an hour, Watson. Care to join me?"

"I suppose I should. If I don't come along, I dread to think what mischief you will get up to."

"My dear Watson, I would never seek out mischief. It simply has an irksome tendency to find me," Sherlock said as he fetched Watson's cloak for him, and they left Baker Street.

* * *

Guy De Courcy lounged in the deep leather armchair of a little pub whose name he'd quite forgotten after his fifth scotch. He had come here tonight hoping to silence the voices in his head, the ones that told him he wasn't good enough.

Faint white scars lined his knuckles and stood out on his skin in the lamplight of the dingy taproom—grotesque reminders of when his father had locked him in the basement cellar for three days without food or water.

He'd only been ten years old then. Christ, he wished he could banish those bleak memories from his mind forever.

Flexing one hand, he studied the marks in the firelight with a cold, emotionless view. They weren't terribly visible, not unless his skin became tan from the sun. But other marks, ones left by a hard rod, had left permanent patterns on his back and upper thighs.

The once noble house of De Courcy had, in his lifetime, become nothing more than a den of vipers. Even his mother hadn't tried to intercede to save him or his little sister. Alyssa had died the same night that he had been locked in the cellar.

Today would've been Alyssa's birthday. She would've been thirty-one years old.

"Another drink, love?" a passing barmaid asked as she held up a bottle of scotch.

"Yes... and leave the bottle." He pulled the bottle out of her hand and placed several coins in her palm. The girl's eyes widened, and she quietly pocketed the coins. Smart girl, he thought.

Rather than pour himself another glass, he simply drank from the bottle. The lamplight began to glow brighter, the haze of light around each lamp spreading into diamond bursts that stretched across his vision. That was a good sign. He was halfway to his blackout point.

He never should have returned to England, but damned if he'd let Prospero face London society alone. But everything had turned out well for his friend, and he was glad.

Now Guy wondered if perhaps he should just return to France. It would be easy to get lost in that city. And he wanted to be lost.

A man's voice drifted across the room. "Belmont, yes put Cinna Belmont down."

Belmont.

Guy knew that name. Cinna Belmont. Stunning eyes filled his head, and he drunkenly smiled. Ah yes, the fine dancer who possessed a tongue sharper than a rapier. He'd enjoyed verbally fencing with her, and he'd enjoyed dancing with her.

"So that's five," another man said. "We should draw lots to see who gets Belmont. Remind me of the stakes?"

"We have a month to seduce our chosen bride. The lucky man who marries first shall be entitled to five thousand pounds from each of the other men once they marry."

"Hold on now—I don't have a damned shilling to my name," another man argued.

"That doesn't matter. Once you marry, the money from your new wife's inheritance will be yours. You can spend it on horses and whores, but first you must pay your due to the winning man."

Grumbling came from the table behind Guy's armchair. His interest had been piqued at Cinna's name, but his mood had soured when he realized in what context these men had been discussing her. Wagering over ruination and seduction? Even he wouldn't stoop so low.

"Any other rules?" a man asked. "Are we to observe the behaviors of gentlemen?"

The others burst into laughter at that.

"If you must forcibly bed your chit, then do it. The only rule is that the first man to marry wins."

"But this is unfair. That Belmont bitch is coldhearted. She never attends balls or dinners. How the devil can anyone even get her alone enough to compromise her?"

Guy set the scotch bottle down on the table. So these men had intentions to force women into marriage, possibly rape them? Not while he still had some of his wits left about him.

Guy stood, thankfully still able to walk, and approached the table of men.

"Excuse me," he said dryly as he cut in on their conversation. A piece of paper lay in the middle of the table with five ladies' names in one column, and a second column had been drawn and labeled "Gentlemen."

Ha, these are no gentlemen.

But he noted only four at the table.

"Do you need a fifth man?" he asked with a low chuckle.

The other men, faces he recognized from social engagements, all stared back at him in surprise.

"You want to join us, De Courcy? We were about to throw dice to see who would be stuck with which woman."

"Then allow me to help you at least settle one of them." Guy picked up the pen that lay next to the paper, and he leaned over on the table as he wrote Guy De Courcy beside Cinna Belmont.

At seeing his name next to Lady Cinna's, a strange flutter rippled through his chest. It would have shocked him more had he been sober, but he was far from that.

"There. Done. So as I understand it, we have a month to seduce and marry them?" he asked. He had every intention of spoiling the plans the men had for the other young ladies involved.

The other men all shared smiles, as if they had tricked him. The fools. He knew Cinna was a prickly pear, but he knew her better than these men ever could.

"The last man to marry or any who fail to marry must pay double to the winner," the leader of these fools said to him.

Ten thousand pounds... Lord, that was a bloody queen's ransom.

"Very well," Guy replied with the confidence only a bottle and bad decisions could give a man.

Lady Cinna, I will see you at the altar.

Thank you so much for reading The Care and Feeding of Rogues!