Epilogue

C hristmas swiftly progressed into the New Year, but the next few months were bitter. The severe weather experienced in the early months of 1814 would become known later as The Great Frost. Outside of London, there were fewer hardships dealing with the scarcity of fuel. But the terrible cold still claimed its fair share of the elderly and infirm.

The Breaker would be one of them.

Roland kept vigil at the old man’s bedside as lung fever ravaged him. The Breaker’s periods of lucidity grew fewer and far between as he coughed and burned with it.

“Roland,” the Breaker murmured on the third day.

Startled from his doze, Roland leaned forward, taking his grandfather’s outstretched hand as he reached over to light another candle with the other. The duke seemed tired, but he sounded better. Perhaps he would rally? But no. As he brought the second candle closer, he beheld the way the old man seemed to almost be lit from within, and he knew that death was coming.

“What is it, grandfather?” Roland asked him.

“You will be a good duke.”

The Breaker had not exactly cleaved to the family since that unexpected Christmas eve. But he most certainly had thawed. And the right side of Roland’s mouth kicked up in a half smile. “Do you think so?”

“Yes. You have the spirit and the sensibility. You have surrounded yourself with good people.” The duke stopped, tired and out of breath from his long statement.

“It is all right. You do not need to talk,” Roland told him.

“Glad you’re here,” the man mumbled, already slipping into stupor as his breath began to bubble. “I should go make up… with Hannah now.”

Roland somehow did not think he meant Grace, despite regularly confusing her for his sister the last month. “All right, grandfather.”

Within a few minutes, the Breaker sighed and stilled. And Roland set the old man’s hand down gently, his feelings chaotic. Tamping them down to sort through later, he opened the door. “The duke has passed,” he told the footmen stationed next to the room. “I trust Withers can begin seeing to arrangements. Until you need me, I shall be with my wife.”

After the death of the old duke, Grace and Roland officially took on the full mantle of responsibility for the duchy. Roland spent long hours in his study, with Mr Harding at his side, coming to grips with all that was involved in managing such a complex mix of estates.

Given the weather, Grace was left to find ways to pass more time indoors. Together with Elsie, she sorted through the old nursery items stored by previous generations of the Percy family. Custom furniture such as the cradle and dressing table were deemed suitable, but provisions for clothing, toiletries, and napkins were woefully low.

By March, the ground had thawed enough to allow travel to recommence. Though on schedule with the change in season, for Grace it felt far too long. Roland had taken one look at his wife’s worried face and promised to dispatch riders to London and Edinburgh to order whatever she needed. Within a few weeks, wagons laden with goods began to arrive at the castle portico.

Though there were more than enough servants on hand to sort the arrivals and store them away, Grace insisted she wanted to oversee the matter. London’s finest drapers and linen merchants sent fabrics in the finest cotton and muslin, decorated with delicate lace and embroidered with the Percy crest. From Scotland, she procured caps and gowns in the softest wool, trusting only them with the delicate skin of her expected child.

So many deliveries came and went that the arrival of a wagon or carriage was hardly cause for remark. Yet, on a day in early April, the clip clop of horses' hooves on the paved drive was followed by a sharp rap on the door of Grace’s sitting room.

Francis, elevated from footman to under butler, entered at Grace’s bidding. “You have a visitor, my lady. The Duchess Atholl,” he added.

It took Grace a moment to grasp the meaning of his words. “Charity? Charity is here? Show her in. No, wait, I should go to the drawing room.”

“You will do no such thing,” Charity’s voice rang out from behind the under butler. The man stepped aside to allow the exquisitely dressed blonde woman to enter the room. “Your letters have made it abundantly clear that this is one of the few rooms where you can sit comfortably. I will not have my dearest friend in the world be discomfited on my behalf.”

As if to prove Charity’s point, Grace could not hold back a small groan as she struggled to her feet to properly greet her unexpected guest. She sent Francis off to fetch a tea tray and then held out her hands to Charity. “For the first time, I have no fear of standing in your shadows, beautiful as ever though you are. Given my expanding girth, one would have to be blind to miss me.”

Charity’s delicate laugh tinkled freely. “You are the picture of health and radiate joy besides, Grace. It is I who am envious, and not the other way around.”

Over steaming cups of tea, Charity explained that she was on her way to London, to rejoin the ton for another season. “Not the marriage mart,” she made a point of noting. “Our good queen has invited me to be a lady-in-waiting.”

Anyone else would have offered their congratulations, but Grace had spent enough time with Charity and Queen Charlotte to know such an honour did not come without strings.

“And what does Her Royal Highness expect from you? You are barely out of mourning.”

Charity brushed a blonde curl from her shoulder and squared her shoulders. “I have mourned enough for this lifetime and the next. The Queen and I agree it is time I reclaim my place in society.”

Grace sensed a world of meaning lying under those words, but Charity refused to be drawn out on what they were. Though part of her longed to beg Charity to take her along on what was no doubt the start of some new intrigue, the child kicking in her womb reminded Grace of her place.

When it came time for Charity to leave the next morning, Grace demanded a promise. “You will write to me, do you understand? And if you have need of anyone, or anything at all, you will not hesitate to ask.”

“I will send letters as often as I can,” Charity replied. “And you must do the same. I take great heart in hearing of your life now. Somehow, we have ended up on opposite paths from what we planned. You have everything you never wanted, and yet could not be happier. I hope that one day—soon, even—I will be able to say the same.”

Briggs, if one could believe that, was actually the one who chased Thorne down when Grace went into labour.

At the end of her pregnancy, the new duchess’ discomfort was so great that Roland had not left the castle for nearly a fortnight. Feelings ran high and tempers were short, so Thorne determined to make himself both useful and scarce, spending his time exercising both Arion and Horse and assisting Mr Harding by checking on the repairs progressing around Alnwick.

Briggs stood in the stables, arms crossed in pure displeasure. “I shall thank you for having enough sense to time your return well. I would never forgive you if I had to get on top of one of these stinking beasts to find you.”

Thorne handed Arion’s reins to the stableboy, looking down at the shorter valet. “Now I am disappointed to have missed that. I suppose the next thing you are going to tell me is why you were looking for me at all?”

“The duchess is labouring,” Briggs said shortly, and Thorne’s sour mood shifted immediately. “If you do not get in there and help me distract the duke, he will end up as bald as a turnip. The duchess rather likes her husband’s full head of hair.”

“Ah,” said Thorne comprehensively, smirking at the man as he read between the lines. “Did the duchess’s labour begin at a most inconvenient time for you?”

Briggs’ eyebrow lifted archly. “Quite. Now, would you go, or would you like me to go find some rope to truss the duke up instead? He is also wearing a place on the rug in his study.”

“I’ll go,” laughed Thorne, and he hurried into his room to shuck his riding clothes quickly. He knew Roland would not care, but Thorne did. After the extended morning riding, he positively reeked of sweat and horse. It took him only a few minutes to make himself decent with a quick rinse using the pitcher, and he gratefully threw on the clothes Briggs had set out in anticipation of the need.

Briggs was a thorn in everyone’s backside, but one had to admit, he was also a very good valet.

The study’s door was closed, and Thorne paused outside for a moment, surprised that it was so quiet. He knocked on the door with one knuckle, and very quickly, Roland pulled open the door.

Roland looked awful, his eyes reddened as if he had gotten no sleep the night before, and his hair… No wonder Briggs had been concerned for it.

“How on earth did you manage to do that to your hair?” Thorne stepped close to his brother, lifting his hands to bring a semblance of order to the man, but Roland threw his arms around him in a hug instead.

Thorne glanced around, used to being mindful of Roland’s propriety, but there was no one else in the study. He had been waiting alone. A small wonder he was taking leave of his senses. So he patted Roland awkwardly with one arm, his other caught above his head.

“God, I am so glad to see you,” Roland grumbled. “How long is this going to take? It has been hours!”

“And it could be hours yet,” Thorne told him reluctantly. “These things can take some time.” Gently extricating himself, he found Roland’s brandy, pouring him a glass. “Here. This will help. Have you eaten?”

Roland blinked at him, and so Thorne decided that was most likely a no. As Roland nursed his drink, Thorne asked the footman to bring whatever they had at hand. Small cakes for tea, or even bread, although the footman looked affronted at the idea that they could not find something less crude to serve the duke.

“Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?” Thorne asked, jollying his brother along.

Roland uttered a short laugh. “I know I am supposed to say a boy, of course. But at this moment of time, all I find I can care about is Grace’s wellbeing. So, I really do not care, not as long as she is safe.”

Thorne smiled, understanding completely, and he sent a short prayer in his thoughts that it would be so. He could not imagine Roland having to deal with any other outcome. It would devastate him.

“I wanted to ask… although I was afraid to tempt fate,” Roland murmured as he perched on the edge of the wing chair by the fire. “No matter whether it is a boy or a girl… Would you be willing to serve as godfather?”

Eyes wide, Thorne found himself speechless. “You want… me? But?—”

“I meant what I said. I cannot imagine someone who would be a better father. Should the worst happen to either one of us. Not that I expect that to ever happen… but still. I would want our child to know that sort of happiness that I know you would be able to give them.”

“Roland,” Thorne said, his voice growing suspiciously hoarse. “That is an incredible honour. Are you—no, I can see you’re sure.” Roland’s brows had drawn together, as if offended Thorne questioned his judgement. “Nothing will happen to you and Grace. But… yes, of course I would be happy to stand in.”

“Good.” Roland stood, dusting his hands on his knees as if that was all there was to the matter. “Now there is nothing to do but descend slowly into madness until the child shows up.”

“I am surprised you were here alone,” Thorne commented. “Where are Mr Harding and Curate Treadwell? I thought for certain they would keep you company.”

“I sent them away,” Roland admitted. “I did not think I could maintain the appropriate face of… bored indifference to the whole matter and play cards?—”

Roland’s voice cut off as he cocked his head, hearing something. Thorne listened too, hearing the creak of floorboards and hurried footsteps. He got to his feet before Roland could, opening the door just as a happy Mrs Yardley showed up.

“Oh, Sir Nathaniel! Your Grace! Are you there? Come see.”

“She is all right then?” Roland asked urgently, pushing past Thorne to grip the housekeeper’s hands.

“Yes, the duchess is well. Better than well. You will want to see her now.”

Roland was out of the room like a shot, and Thorne shared an amused glance with Mrs Yardley before walking slowly back towards the family wing. He did not think Roland and Grace would make him wait until the christening to meet his new godchild, but surely the new father and mother would need a few days.

And so, he headed towards his room, only to have Roland throw the door open a few moments later, completely unlike himself. “Thorne! Brother! You must come see this. Mrs Yardley was… Well, you might decide you no longer want to accept the honour.”

Dumbly, Thorne let himself be dragged towards the duchess’ sitting room, the hallway door still standing open. Fortunately, the lady’s bedroom door was firmly closed, and there was a sound of great industry coming from behind it.

Roland went back into Grace’s room, and Thorne lingered near the hallway, not wishing to intrude even though his curiosity had been fired. It was less than a minute again before the door cracked open, and Roland returned, a tiny bundle cradled tenderly in his arms.

“They said I could show you while Grace is resting.” Roland stood beside his brother, and Thorne could see right away that the newborn lad had the Percy dark locks, passed down three generations now from the Breaker. “I have a son,” Roland said, almost looking as if he didn’t quite believe it.

“ And a daughter,” Elsie said, although she was smiling at Roland’s addled state. Thorne whipped up his head to see Grace’s maid, standing outside the door with a second baby in her arms.

Almost immediately, Grace lost track of her days and nights. She refused to do the done thing and hire a nursemaid to care for her babies. Motherhood was her new adventure, one which she was determined to share with Roland and no one else. Between feeding and changes, she had little time to wonder how the new season’s debutantes were getting on. Once in a while, a passing traveller would bring along news from London, but little of it caught Grace’s attention.

However, when a footman delivered a letter sealed with a familiar emblem, Grace found herself eager to read the contents. After a quick skim, she asked the footman to send Roland to her side.

“Is something amiss?” her husband asked, almost as soon as he walked into her sitting room. “The children?”

“Are sleeping,” Grace assured him. “The nursery maid is under strict orders to let me know when they wake. That is not why I called for you. I received a letter from Charity. It seems trouble is once again afoot in London. Here, have a read for yourself.”

She could not hide the fraught edge in her tone, so it was little wonder that Roland required no further urging to take the letter from her hand.

My dearest friend,

I cannot begin to put into words everything that has transpired in London since I last saw you. But I expect you'll hear this sooner rather than later—there is scandal afoot again. When is there not, you are likely asking? This time, it involves the Prince of Orange and his betrothal to the princess. Or his lack of one, rather.

I wish I dared speak my next words more plainly, but tell your husband to be on guard. I believe there is a possibility that our dear departed enemy, Lady F, has again set her sights on England. To what end her ambition lies, I am not yet certain, but if she decides to take aim against the throne, it would be easy for her to place us in the crosshairs as well.

Do not worry for me; I am taking precautions. But I would not want you and your family to be caught unprepared if she decides to retaliate against you.

Your husband may be particularly interested in the news of Lady F’s son, Peregrine. He is back from the front, and he has already found himself in trouble with the crown once again. Some would think me a fool, but I have my doubts as to his guilt. Fear not, I will keep you apprised of anything I uncover. Please do the same, should any news pass your way.

All my love,

Charity

NOTE FROM THE AUTHORS:

With Roland and Grace living happily ever after in Northumberland, we did not want you to miss out on what happens in London during the season of 1814. As you can see from her letter, Lady Charity has a front row seat to all the activities, secret and known.

The regency mysteries set in the world of the Crown Jewels will continue - with a brand new series. Follow along with Lady Charity and Lord Fitzroy in the Diamond of the Ton Regency Mysteries.

The first book, Brilliance and Betrayal , will be out in 2025.

Scandal, suspicion, and a dangerous alliance—can they untangle the truth before it’s too late?

London, 1814: After a debut season fraught with scandal, Lady Charity returns to high society, with a front row seat to the poisoning of a visiting royal. Rumours swirl around a familiar name: Lady Fitzroy, the woman who betrayed the crown and nearly destroyed Charity’s future.

For Lord Peregrine Fitzroy, war was a refuge from his family’s tattered reputation. Back in London, however, he’s forced to confront the same slander he fled.

When Lady Charity, of all people, appears at his door to warn that he’s the prime suspect in the poisoning, Peregrine knows he has no choice but to accept her help—even if he fears her motives.

With few friends left in London, Charity and Peregrine must navigate the intrigue of the ton, exposing old enemies and deadly secrets before another victim falls to Lady Fitzroy’s schemes.

Yet as the truth draws near, Peregrine faces an unsettling question: Is Charity truly an ally—or is betrayal lurking closer than he dared imagine?

Order your copy now on Amazon.