Epilogue

October 1817

D evlin paused in the open French doors leading out onto the rear garden terrace of Dartmoor House and smiled to himself.

The autumn harvest party to benefit Brechenhurst was in full swing. The festivities had taken over the rear gardens, the terrace, and the ground floor reception rooms, with the guests enjoying themselves with this bit of country fun transported to the city. For once, the English weather had cooperated and given them an unseasonably warm afternoon, and now the light from the setting sun fell in golden hues across the property and gave the gathering even more of an autumnal flavor.

A small fair filled the garden, with wooden stalls set up across the narrow patch of lawn and down the garden path. Manned by the children of Brechenhurst, the booths held various games and foods, including roasted chestnuts and hand pies. On one end of the stone terrace, a large half barrel had been filled with water and bobbing apples for anyone brave enough to try to capture one, while on the other sat a puppet theatre where wooden marionettes bounced back and forth on strings to the delight of both laughing children and adults. There was even a small dog performing tricks, a fortune teller in a tent, a trio of musicians, and a special booth where guests and patrons could purchase toys for the children—along with pillows, bedrolls, soap, and more, all donated immediately back to the shelter.

Inside the house, the reception rooms were only a bit less chaotic, with more sophisticated refreshments and none of the autumn decorations that filled the garden. The inside rooms had become the refuge of elderly dowagers and statesmen needing escape from the rambunctious children. But even there, the importance of the shelter could not be ignored. Every bit of the day's event was carefully planned to benefit Brechenhurst as much as possible, to help even more children find better lives away from the streets.

"This is all your own fault, you know," Lucien Grenier, Duke of Crewe, warned in a low voice as he came up beside Devlin and followed his gaze across the garden. He nodded at the trick dog.

Devlin frowned as the dog rose onto its hind feet and turned a perfect pirouette. With a tiara on his head and wearing a pink dress, the mutt looked uncannily like Queen Charlotte at a palace ball. "How is this my fault?"

"Everything was going along just fine when you were pretending to be Mr. Hunter and keeping your involvement with Brechenhurst secret. But then you had to let everyone know that you'd been helping the shelter, and that led to this."

Both men paused to stare, speechless, as the dog curtsied.

"This just goes to prove what I've said all along," Lucien drawled.

Devlin arched a brow. "That men face consequences when they keep secrets?"

"God no!" Crewe looked aghast at the suggestion. "That men shouldn't ever let their secrets be known. Oh, it starts off with the best of intentions only to end up with…" He waved a mug of hot cider at the garden and muttered, "Dancing dogs."

Devlin grinned and shook his head. "Secrets aren't for me. Not anymore."

Revealing his connection to Brechenhurst was simply one more step in that direction. He hadn't made any grand announcements about his role; he'd simply stopped referring to himself as Mr. Hunter and allowed his true identity to become known to the staff and children. Mrs. Martin hadn't been surprised in the least. She had simply shrugged at the news and hurried off to clean the kitchen before the children arrived for the night. His family hadn't been any more surprised, and they'd supported him in his desire to turn the shelter into a full-fledged charity. Their work with the children proved more healing for them than he ever would have imagined.

So was the help they were trying to give to the victims. Together, they were working to find the people who were harmed by their father's criminal enterprise. It was slow going, with many of the leads given to the detectives coming to nothing.

Yet they'd sworn not to give up until every last person who could be found was contacted and reparations made, however they could.

Speaking of missing people… Devlin turned back to Crewe. "Any information from Chase about Betty Proctor?"

The woman never resurfaced in London. She had simply disappeared, fleeing the night of the explosion and undoubtedly running for her life when she learned that her partner, Wilkins, had been killed. Any more news Chase discovered, no matter how slight, wouldn't bring Peyton any comfort. Ultimately, she had lost another person she loved, someone she should have been able to trust.

But perhaps news of Proctor's whereabouts would finally allow her to stop blaming herself for Wilkins's betrayal. They had been chameleons, leading double-lives even when working for the Chandlers, and no one could have known Wilkins was related to Horrender or the deceit he and Proctor were capable of committing. Peyton had no reason to think they were anything other than dedicated servants. Until they weren't.

Crewe frowned down into his cider with distaste, as if just realizing that it wasn't spiked with rum. "I don't think Betty Proctor will be a concern."

Devlin's eyes narrowed at that unexpected answer. "You think she's dead, then?"

"I think too many people have come back from the dead lately to say for certain one way or the other."

That was the God's truth. It had been six weeks since Peyton's grave was removed from the churchyard, and all of them—including Crewe—were still growing used to its absence. After all, its specter had hung over them for years.

"Chase traced her to Portsmouth," Crewe added. "The last anyone in England saw of her, she was setting sail for America." He took a reluctant sip of cider. "Tell Peyton whatever story you think will bring her the most solace. That's all that matters now. The past is gone."

Devlin's gaze landed on his mother and sisters as they stood in the center of the lawn and supervised festivities; they were in their full glory running it all. The warmth of relief filled his chest that they were finally safe. His father couldn't hurt them any longer.

"At least we're out of danger now," Devlin acknowledged.

"Speak for yourself." Crewe's eyes narrowed at a woman who was wandering among the booths and entertainments, carefully swinging her gaze around the garden, searching for someone. "If you'll excuse me," Crewe muttered as he slapped Devlin on the back. "I have to be somewhere."

"Where?"

Crewe jerked a nod toward the woman. "Anywhere she isn't."

Devlin bit back a knowing smile as Crewe hurried to disappear into the crowd of guests at the far end of the terrace and avoid the woman who was searching for him.

Some things never changed.

But others… He smiled at his mother and sisters. The party was their idea—a fun event that both guests and children could enjoy together, as well as letting any possible patrons interact with the children they would be helping with their donations. Although how the Raines women were able to put it all together so flawlessly, he would never know.

His mother was in her element as dowager duchess, greeting old friends with deep pockets and encouraging them to see the benefits in a place like Brechenhurst. A more regal woman Devlin had never seen, even as she expertly ordered the footmen to bring more apples for bobbing and a bowl of water for the dancing dog.

Teddy was busy playing with the children. For all her protests that she was a grown woman, ready to debut and learn to drive, she still possessed a youthful exuberance and sense of fun he hoped time never diminished.

As for Margaret…sweet Megs never strayed far from the side of Robert Davidson, her new suitor for whom she'd developed a genuine affection.

Devlin liked the man…well enough. As well as he could like any man with designs on marrying his sister. Davidson was the third son of an earl, which no one in the Raines family held against him, because he was hard-working, intelligent, and as down to earth as anyone in society could be. A self-made man, he'd accumulated a small fortune for himself by cornering the market for new warehouses along canals and turnpikes needed for all the American and French goods flooding into Great Britain now that the wars had ended. Davidson might have been only a businessman, but he'd become one of the most successful ones in the empire. His fortune would keep him, Margaret, and their family in the comfortable life they deserved. More importantly, the man doted on Margaret, unable to hide his affection for her even when he tried.

Devlin expected Davidson to request a meeting with him soon to ask his permission to marry Margaret. He anticipated a wedding by Christmastide.

And as for weddings… Peyton stood in the middle of the party madness, as regal as a princess, perfectly at home, and completely happy.

His lips curled into a smile. Dear God, she was lovely. Even now, even after all they'd been through in the past few months—the engagement, the wedding, their wedding trip to the estate followed by settling into Dartmoor House and resettling his mother and sisters into a dowager house across the square…with long, languid nights wrapped in each other's arms that stretched into lazy, sun-filled mornings—the sight of her still took his breath away.

He prayed time never dulled that feeling.

He strolled down the terrace steps and into the garden to take his place at her side. He had to satisfy himself with an affectionate squeeze to her elbow to let her know he was there when what he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and thoroughly kiss her.

When a devilish smile played at her lips, he knew she'd read his mind, and a knot of hot desire formed low in his gut. He nearly said to hell with the party and scooped her into his arms to carry her up to their bedroom.

"Both His Grace and I are fully committed to Brechenhurst," she said to a small circle of guests who had gathered around her. Of course, they had. She was simply magnetic. "As we hope all of you will be, as well."

The guests smiled and nodded, easily won over by her charms.

Thankfully, though, the attention she received was no longer due to the gossip that her sudden reappearance and wedding had stirred across London. Oh, neither of them really cared what anyone else in the ton thought about them. They had each other—that was all that mattered. But being Duchess of Dartmoor wasn't easy, and whispers and stares had only made it more trying. Yet she'd paid little mind to the vicious tongues, preferring instead to focus on her work with the shelter and reparations for her father's misdeeds…and in preparing Teddy for her official debut in January, at a grand ball with hours and hours of dancing.

Devlin couldn't imagine any other woman enduring it as graciously as Peyton, and he would gladly spend the rest of his life as a true partner in whatever she wanted to accomplish.

"What do you think, Dartmoor?" A member from the House of Commons raised his mug of cider to punctuate his question. "Will the new parliamentary reforms have you committed to Whitehall day and night in the coming session?"

Devlin smiled and placed his hand at the small of Peyton's back. "Fortunately, I'm already committed to my wife for all the days to come." He smiled in apology to the group as he led her away, then leaned down to murmur wantonly in her ear, "And all the nights."

When a faint blush pinked her cheeks, he knew she longed to be alone together as much as he did. "Well then." She paused as they walked through the garden to take a small sack of roasted chestnuts from a booth as they passed. "Parliament's loss is my gain." A wicked smile tugged at her sensuous lips. "And a-gain and a-gain…."

He laughed. He'd never been happier in his life.

"I think," he began as he stole one of her chestnuts and popped it into his mouth, "that you and I should let my mother and sisters—"

A loud crack of flesh on flesh punctuated the noise of the festival. Everyone's attention bolted to the terrace, where Crewe stood in front of the woman he'd wanted to avoid…the same woman who had just slapped him.

" That can't be good," Peyton muttered.

Devlin watched as Crewe said not a word to the woman but gave her a formal bow and sauntered away as if being slapped at a party was the most expected event in the world for him. "That's Lucien for you."

"Perhaps we should inquire about the matter," Peyton suggested.

When she started forward, Devlin stopped her. "Lucien has it under control." Well, as much control as Crewe could ever have over his life. "Let's just enjoy the party. How about we visit the fortune teller?"

"I don't need to." She rested her hand lovingly on his bicep, and he couldn't help the longing flex of muscle beneath her fingertips. "I already have the future I've always wanted—a wonderful life with a man straight out of the past."

He leaned down to scandalously kiss her, the watchful guests around them be damned.

She stopped him just as his lips were about to touch hers and leaned away. She dropped her gaze to her fingers as she fussed with his cravat, and her smile vanished, her face growing serious. "But there is one thing I'm lacking."

His chest tightened with concern. Was she not as completely happy as he was? "Which is?"

"I'd like to have a baby." She looked up at him coyly beneath lowered lashes. "Do you think you might be willing to help me with that?"

A mix of wolfish desire and unbridled love blazed inside him. He'd been wrong earlier. Now he'd never been happier in his life. "Gladly."

He wrapped his arm around hers and led her into the house to their bedroom.