Epilogue

Zachary

2 April 1816

I awoke to the fresh scent of cinnamon wafting through the room. The kitchen, not far from our bedchamber, assured me that Cook was certain to be making hot cross buns for breakfast. The hearth flickered in the corner, and it was clear that the fire had been stoked at some point in the night. Peering down, Eveline rested peacefully against my chest. So peacefully, in fact, I hesitated to wake her and move from this most intoxicating warmth.

“Papa!” The door flung open, and Patrick bounded inside, followed closely by a very apologetic Banja.

“He’s alright.” I gestured and she departed.

Eveline rustled to the noise and looked up as I waved Patrick over. Leaning down, I kissed her only a second before Patrick hopped up on the end of our bed.

“You said you would teach me how to fish today.”

“Yes, I did,” I concurred, reaching for my watch. It dangled loosely from a button on my waistcoat that hung over the back of a nearby chair. My eyes widened at the time, 7:10 in the morning. “It’s too early, Son.”

“But what if all the fish are gone when we get there? You promised.”

“He’s right,” Evie mumbled with a chuckle. “You promised.”

“Very well, Patrick,” I said with a sigh. “Tell Frank to ready the supplies.”

“Yes!” He threw his hands in the air and flew out the door as quickly as he came.

Eveline adjusted herself to resting against my neck now. I felt the heat of her breath and wished for a suitable latch on the door and an additional hour or two.

“Our wedding trip was much too short.” I lifted her chin and kissed her.

“Yes, it most certainly was,” she whispered against my lips.

Following our wedding in October, Banja and Patrick returned to London with Evie’s mother and sister, allowing us an entire month of traveling along the coast of the Mediterranean. Lazy mornings, breakfast in bed, cafés, walks, and anything and everything together. The absolute most wonderful wedding gift a man could ever ask for.

Though Eveline had recently purchased an estate near Greenbriar close to Lucas, Helena, and their newest addition, little Charity, we chose to come to our cottage in Saltdean a fortnight ago, intent on spending the spring and summer here; partly to assess its condition, but mostly to settle into our new family roles.

Discovering new and enchanting things about each other as a couple in this new environment was an added benefit I could not wait to experience.

Two quarters of an hour later, I stepped into the toasty parlor fully attired for an outdoor adventure on the water. Mrs. Dunlap… who did not take much persuasion to leave Frederick, met me with a cup of steaming honey tea and several letters. We had an arrangement with a local young man to deliver our correspondence from town when he delivered our bread, flour, and eggs. He must have come bright and early this morning. Of course, our maid-of-all-work, Katherine, could also be the root of his eagerness as I often spied her speaking to him at the gate. The nippy mornings could not be the only reason for her pink cheeks.

Chuckling, I turned the missives over and recognized the handwriting of the first one straightaway. It was from Jaxon. I immediately set the other letters aside and unsealed his.

14 March, 1816

Zachary,

I am writing to inform you of a troubling event. A thief broke into our home in Mayfair a sennight ago, and while Bow Street insists it to be a harmless housebreak, my bedchamber appeared to be the only target and was tossed. However, nothing appeared to be missing. Even my priceless marble bust of St. Paul remained untouched. Acquired by my 3rd maternal grandmother, it has been in my family for seven and ninety years.

I am uncertain as to why I was specifically beset, but this is not the only strange occurrence in recent months, beginning with the letter I received from France in October and an unwelcome visit from a man to the country estate in February. Only the staff were present, but a groomsman was injured in the exchange. For reasons unbeknownst to me, someone is searching for me.

When I ruminate over the time in which I left Germany for my final mission to France before Napoleon surrendered the first time, I cannot recall the specifics with ideal clarity and my head aches terribly the harder I try.

If information is why I am being sought, the seeker will be sorely disappointed, though from the threats that transpired in both France and at Hartley House, and now this, the offender’s intent is not to be taken lightly. But I do not know how to predicate assurances when I recall nothing.

Truth be told, it is my inability to function at any level of normalcy in polite society. I have humiliated my family and my father has requested, more like demanded, my departure. I have decided to retreat to an unburdened place that will allow me to seek solace and privacy in my continued healing at the family hunter lodge. Forgive me, even my writing is filled with errors. The family hunting lodge.

My behavior at the Drake’s soiree, specifically my clipped conversation with Lord Senoj and Sir Pancras, then most recently my failure to complete a single set at the Byrne’s masquerade with the lovely Miss Groves, are inexcusable and no woman of the beau monde should have to be taxed with me as a wretched escort or dance partner.

I am not alerting you to this change as a means for you to leave your wife and son, for Lucas to leave Helena and Charity, or for Hunter to leave Gwendolyn and join me, for I wish to be alone. I only share news of my withdrawal for my mother’s sake. If by some ill-fated chance any regular correspondence from me ceases, do be aware that unusual circumstances may have befallen me, at which time you must alert the constables.

Sincerest regards,

JG

Later that night, after a successful fishing adventure with Patrick, we dined on lemon-pepper halibut, and I tucked our son into bed with the promise of my continued lengthy fabricated tale of the gallant Sir Loughty and his thrilling adventures. Tonight, he fought pirates off the coast of St. Lucia in search of the hidden cavern and lost treasure.

Shortly thereafter, I retired to the sofa in the parlor to enjoy the warmth emanating from the fire. For what felt like the hundredth time since receiving the letter, I retrieved it from my pocket and read it yet again. At some point, I had realized that the letter held cryptic clues that few would understand outside of the four brothers-in-arms.

I pondered the hints from Jaxon’s letter that I had been able to make sense of so far. First, I was well aware that there was not a marble bust of St. Paul in his bedchamber, but one I had seen at the Old Church at St. Pancras, this also explained the reference to a Sir Pancras. And 7 and 90 led me to think of a game we played at Eton where the number would represent the 97 th day of the year. I quickly calculated it as April 7 th , which was mere days away. And from his pretend mistake in the letter, I believed it meant that Hunter was involved somehow, but I needed more time to sort out additional clues.

Above all, why did Jaxon feel he needed to be so clandestine in his correspondence? Did he believe the letter would be intercepted? Had it been apprehended and read before it reached me?

I heard the door click open and Eveline entered the parlor and joined me on the sofa. As she snuggled up against me, she tucked her feet up into her skirts. I often looked forward to spending our evenings this way, but tonight, she must have sensed how deep in my thoughts I was, despite our natural companionable silence.

“Is this a letter from Jaxon?” she asked, glancing over the missive in my hands.

“Yes.” I read it again and held it in a way that she could read his words as well. Though I would benefit from Eveline’s wisdom in deciphering some of his hints, I debated over how much I truly wanted her to know, if indeed a threat existed.

Finally, after several minutes, she tilted her head in a way to meet my eyes.

“Oh, Zach…” She cupped my cheek. “My heart aches for Jaxon and for all of you with what happened on the continent. Do you think that his memory will ever fully return?”

I had only recently begun opening up to her about my own experiences as the nightmares occasionally awoke her, too. She never judged and as we lay entwined in each other’s arms, the comfort she brought soothed and placated my restless soul.

Perhaps in some contorted way, I envied Jaxon’s memory loss, wishing certain aspects of the war were stripped from my mind.

“It is difficult to say,” I sighed. “It seems that the memories generally return when triggered by something, such as an object, a face, a setting. But I’m not sure that the missing time around when he received his head wound is something he should remember.” I thought of the scars that circled his wrists and ankles, and the burn mark on his neck from something resembling a blacksmith’s tong.

I knew Jaxon struggled greatly with the missing time after his last mission to France and the fact that when I finally found him, he was dressed in a French infantry uniform… something I had yet to divulge to any of our friends, only Eveline knew. This may be part of that inner turmoil he was dealing with. Once, while deep in his cups, he confessed to running a man through. A man in a red uniform.

“I’m so pleased to hear that Jaxon is seeking refuge for his recovery. Where is the family hunting lodge located?” she asked, bringing my attention back to our conversation and the letter.

“Near Verwood, in Dorset.” I breathed in through my nose. “But that is not where he’s going.”

“Oh?” She tilted her head. “How did you surmise that?”

I proceeded with caution. I could still be honest with Evie, and keep her knowledge limited. “I believe Jaxon has remembered something that may be dangerous to him and possibly his family. It seems he is attempting to draw whoever is searching for him off his trail. He is going to his uncle’s hunting lodge in Burford in the Cotswold Hills.”

I spent the next several minutes explaining to her how the words he used in his letter led me to this conclusion. First, I realized that Mr. Senoj did not exist and was in fact Jones spelled backwards. In our youth, we had often jested about how his uncle—Ethan Jones—owned a lodge that was significantly larger than the one belonging to his half-brother, the duke. Camberley often referred to him as the unburdened .

I had been to the hunting lodge twice during our years at Oxford, it was buried deep in the forest with only one road in across the Windrush River Bridge. Jaxon’s uncle, a hunter by trade, sold meat and skins, and shared a different surname than the Gray’s. He sadly died years ago, but left the lodge to his nephew, the younger son of the Duke of Camberley, in a private transaction.

It was the perfect place to hide if one did not wish to be found.

As I continued to mull over the letter, I realized it wasn’t so much his surreptitious words that concerned me the most, it was that he had to pursue such lengths at all. But there was something else in the letter that niggled its way into my mind; the way he mentioned the Drake’s Soiree. Eveline and I had attended the event together with our friends before we quit London, and I recall seeing recognition on Jaxon’s face as the night progressed. Yet, for the life of me, at this moment I could not recall any one defining person inspiring Jaxon’s strange expressions.

“Jaxon should not be alone, love,” she said, once again pulling me out of my thoughts.

Those words affected me far deeper than I thought. Nobody should be alone.

“Would he harm himself?”

“No,” I replied quickly. Even though the Jaxon I knew now was significantly different than before, he valued life too much. Especially after the battles we had witnessed. I felt assured that he would not be entirely alone, for the man could not cook if his life depended on it. I believed he would hire a small staff to manage the lodge, as it was far too involved for one man.

“You should go,” Eveline whispered.

I pulled her tighter and kissed her sweetly, letting my lips trail her neck and find the hollow beneath her ear. This only drew her closer. The last thing I wanted to do was leave her and Patrick, especially so early in our lives together. While I knew they would be safe here, and between the staff of eight, Banja, Baroness Ashton, and April, they would not be alone, I sensed Jaxon’s need for my help, and his letter held additional clues I had yet to decipher.

“Thank you, Eveline.” I found her lips again wishing to never stray from this position. Drawing back, and losing myself in her beautiful brown eyes, I realized that perhaps precisely what Jaxon needed was for me to be his eyes and ears in London. But I also picked up Jaxon’s hint about France. I would send word and money posthaste for the brothers, Claude and Henri Dupont, to join us. I knew they would offer the greatest insight to Jaxon’s time in France, and once they arrived, we would all descend on the Jones lodge in the Cotswolds.

“I shall leave the day after tomorrow,” I said.

Eveline smiled and brushed her fingers along my jaw. “You are a wonderful friend, Zachary, and an even better husband.” Her dimple appeared as her smile broadened. I lifted her to my lap and kissed that irresistible dimple.

“You, Evie, are everything and then some, love. Thank you for agreeing to be mine forever.”