Dicing with the Dangerous Lord

chapter Twenty

It was later than Linwood had anticipated by the time the meeting of the Order of the Wolf finished. He did not go for a drink with the others, but came straight home. He knew as soon as he opened the door of the drawing room that something was wrong.

It took a moment for him to see her sitting there in the darkness. The fire had almost burned itself out. The room was chilled and dark.

‘Venetia?’

He picked a candle from its holder and lit it from the glowing embers on the hearth, then used it to light the others in the candelabrum.

Taking it with him, he moved towards her. ‘I did not think you would still be up. The meeting went on longer than I expected.’

‘Did it?’ she said and there was a deadness in her tone that made his blood run cold.

‘What has happened?’ he asked, coming to stand before her.

‘Marianne came to see me today.’

‘Ah,’ he said softly.

‘She told me what Rotherham did to her.’

‘Then you understand why I could not tell you.’

‘I understand that.’

‘I am relieved to hear it.’

‘But not why you lied to me.’

‘I have never lied to you, Venetia.’

‘Have you not?’

‘No.’

‘What will you swear that on, Francis?’

‘Whatever you wish.’

‘My life? Or Rotherham’s, perhaps?’

‘What is this about, Venetia?’

Her eyes held his for a moment and then moved pointedly to the desk.

His scalp prickled as he followed the direction of her gaze. There, on the top of his desk, lay the journal he had taken from Rotherham’s study on the night of his murder. ‘I see.’

‘So do I. At last. Rotherham’s journal. Did it amuse you to make me believe you innocent? Were you laughing at my naivety? And your parents, too? And I am the one supposed to be trained in acting!’

‘It is not as you think. I can explain the presence of the journal.’

‘As you can explain the murder of Rotherham? Or are you going to keep on deceiving me with your clever game?’

His lips pressed firm. ‘The game between us was over a long time ago, Venetia. And even through it, I have never deceived you.’

‘No, perhaps not, if one wants to be pedantic about it. How very clever you have been—such careful choice of words, such cunning tactics.’

‘For once in my life I used nothing of cunning.’

‘No? Swearing an oath to me to speak the truth or nothing at all. Then staying silent rather than make a defence. I would call that cunning.’ She laughed, but it was a bitter sound. ‘No wonder you never could deny it, not even to me when we were alone. And I, fool that I was, thought it was because you were protecting someone.’ She gave an angry laugh again but this time he saw tears in her eyes. ‘And you were—just not in the way that I thought. You killed Rotherham to protect Marianne.’

‘Venetia—’

‘And do you know the worst thing of all, Francis?’ She faced him in defiance of the tears in her eyes. ‘Had you been honest with me, had I known that you killed him, I do not think it would have made any difference.’ The tears spilled to run down her cheeks. She swiped them away with angry fast movements. ‘You have made an utter fool of me.’

‘You are wrong, Venetia.’ He came to her, but when he went to take her in his arms she fought against him and tried to turn away. He stopped her with a gentle grip, forcing her to look at him, knowing that she had to hear the truth.

‘I did not kill Rotherham. I give you my oath on that.’

The words echoed loud in the silence. Outside the rain battered in great swaths against the window and the panes rattled and the curtains swayed in the onslaught of the wind, making the flames of the candles flicker wildly and casting his face in dangerous shadows.

She was breathing so hard and fast that every in-breath grazed her breasts against his chest.

‘You have his journal.’

‘I do. But I did not kill him.’

A heartbeat and then another and the agony in her eyes tore at him.

‘I can tell you of it, all of what happened that night, now that I am not bound by Marianne’s secret.’

She looked into his eyes a moment longer, then she gave a nod.

‘Tell me,’ she said.

Linwood walked to stand by the window and stared out at the dark fury of the night. ‘You were right. It was all about protecting Marianne. She told you what he did to her?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I can understand why you wanted to kill him.’

‘Believe me I did. My father, too. And we would have done three years ago, but he ran, fled to the Continent.’

‘And you burned his house as a warning to him not to return.’

He shook his head. ‘I burned his house to destroy his journals. He had documented the details of his interest in Marianne through the years, what he had done to her and his past association with my father. If anyone had read them...I could not risk what that would do to my sister.’

‘But Rotherham did not stay in Italy. He came back to London earlier this year.’

‘For Marianne. He was obsessed with her.’

Venetia shuddered at the thought. ‘She is younger than me, his daughter.’

‘It was of no account. He was a man who took what he wanted. And he wanted Marianne, even after she was married. You have met Rafe Knight, Marianne’s husband.’

She nodded. ‘He is a man one would not wish to cross.’

‘Indeed.’ Linwood remembered just what it was like to cross Rafe Knight. ‘Knight would have killed Rotherham had Marianne not stayed his hand.’ He did not see the darkness of the street outside, but the sun setting against Hounslow Heath on a day not so very long ago. ‘Rotherham was allowed to escape with his life on the proviso that he again left the country. But he was defiant. He stayed, even attended the same social occasions as Marianne. It was as if he were intent on taunting her, on taunting us all.’

‘I can only imagine what that must have been like.’ She slid her hand to cover his.

There was a silence.

‘I went to the house he was renting that night, to warn him that he had a day to leave London. But when I got there...’ Linwood closed his eyes remembering the scene. ‘He was already dead.’ Rotherham slumped over his desk and the great pool of dark blood that glistened and dripped in the candlelight. He could smell the metallic tang of it even now. ‘Someone had beaten me to it, but only just. He was still warm.’

‘You thought it was your father who had shot him.’

‘My father’s arm is weak.’ She remembered the way Misbourne’s arm had hung stiffly by his side. ‘He cannot fire a pistol,’ he said. ‘It had to have been Knight. He loves Marianne, you see.’ He paused, turning round to face her. ‘So I found the journal and I left. The weeks that followed were a torment. I was glad that Rotherham was dead, but I was angry, too.’

‘Because you knew that there would be an investigation. And you feared that Marianne’s name would be uncovered.’

He nodded. ‘And because part of me wanted to have done the deed myself.’

‘And then I came asking questions,’ she said softly.

‘And then you came asking questions.’

They looked at one another.

‘You did not offer a defence because you could not risk them digging deeper and finding Knight.’

‘If they hanged Knight, it would destroy Marianne. And she has suffered enough.’

‘It must have been a heavy burden to carry alone.’

‘I am glad that I can finally tell you, Venetia.’

The silence was loud and so filled with emotion that she thought it would burst. The tears were rolling down her cheeks freely now. She made no move to wipe them away. He opened his arms and she went into them and pressed her cheek against his heart and wept with relief, and wept for his pain and all that he had endured. She wept and outside the rain and wind raged as surely as the emotion in her heart.

He held her until there were no more tears to shed, until her eyes were dry and gritty. He held her until the storm, both inside and out, subsided and there was only the comforting beat of his heart. She turned her lips to where her cheek had rested, to the fine white lawn of his shirt, wet through from her tears. She could feel the beat of his heart beneath her lips. She kissed him there, his heart, kissed the pulse point in his neck, kissed his chin, kissed his mouth, with all the love that was in her heart. Their mouths slid together, clung with such sweet tenderness. And then she stared into his eyes, so dark and soulful, as her hands stroked against the sleek wetness of his hair.

‘I love you, Francis,’ she said and loosened his cravat, unwinding it, letting it slip away to the floor. She unfastened his collar and kissed the shadowed hollow of his throat. Her hands swept over the breadth of his shoulders and down the lapels of his coat, feeling the dampness of the rain in the wool and the warmth of the man beneath.

‘You will catch a chill.’ She peeled the coat from him and let it fall to land with a soft thud on the rug below. The waistcoat followed. She tugged the shirt from his breeches.

He slipped it effortlessly over his head and she saw it no more.

She laid her fingers against his heart and felt its strong steady beat. She kissed it again before sliding her hands over the smooth skin of his chest, over his back, and down lower to the ribbed muscle of his belly.

She felt the way he trembled, heard the way he caught his breath as her fingers made light work of the button on his breeches, opening the fall to brush her hand against the length of him that strained so hard against the linen of his drawers.

He made a soft gasping sound and caught hold of her wrist, moving it gently behind her back while he drew her hard against him, her breasts flat against his chest. He kissed her and unfastened the buttons of her dress, sliding it from her before removing the rest of his own clothing, until they stood naked in the candlelight.

‘I would bear the darkness and the pain and the burden a hundred times over because it led me to you. I love you, Venetia. Completely. Utterly. That is the final truth.’

She felt her heart weep with love for him as he took her in his arms and loved her.

* * *

The next morning all traces of the storm had passed. The winter sky was clear and blue, and a cool white sunlight lit the morning. He felt as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders, even though there was still the worry that the authorities’ questions would lead them to Knight. And no matter what had happened in the past, no matter what the future held, the fact that Venetia loved him made everything all right. He understood now what it was that Knight felt for Marianne. If it went anything near what he felt for Venetia, he marvelled that his brother-in-law had not killed Rotherham sooner. If any man hurt Venetia, he knew what he would do.

The sunlight made her skin glisten so pale and perfect. Her cheeks were still pink-tinged from their lovemaking. She was his heart, his life. She looked up from her coffee cup and caught him watching her, and she smiled. It was a smile that echoed the joy he felt in his heart. She reached across the table and took her hand in his, her fingers so white beside his own olive skin. She still wore his large ring upon her slender wedding finger.

They stopped by the bookcase and the morning sunlight shone upon the open pages of Rotherham’s journal where she had left it lying.

‘To think that it was here all along. I did not notice that there were two books with the same title.’ She smiled a little sadly and closed it over. ‘In plain view,’ she said softly, ‘just as I knew it would be.’

It took a moment for her words to register, and when they did his heart began to thud. ‘But you came here looking for the missing pistol...not the journal.’

‘I came seeking both.’

‘You knew that the journal was missing?’ He stared at her and could not disguise the urgency and shock from his voice.

‘Not that it was a journal, but yes, I knew you had taken a book.’ She smiled and drew him a puzzled look.

‘By what means, Venetia?’ He tried to keep his voice casual, but every nerve in his body was alert, every muscle poised and tense.

‘Robert told me. His witness saw you carrying the book as you left.’

‘Clandon!’ The word was like a curse upon his tongue. The scales dropped from his eyes. He reeled with the shock and audacity of the realisation. ‘I have been a damnable fool!’ he murmured and pressed a hand to his forehead.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It was Clandon who shot Rotherham, not Knight.’ He winced at how mistaken his own foolhardy assumptions had been.

‘Robert? That is absurd!’

‘The only way Clandon could have known I had the journal was if he was there in the room that night.’

‘But the witness—’

‘I was wearing a greatcoat. The journal was well hidden within it before I left the study.’

‘Maybe my brother saw the book was missing.’

‘I left no space to betray it. Besides, Clandon did not even know of the book’s existence before he watched me take it.’

‘You cannot know that.’

‘But I can, Venetia.’ His eyes held hers.

‘The other book in your bookcase—the one of the same title,’ she said softly.

He drew it out, offered it to her. ‘My journal.’

‘I do not understand.’

‘Rotherham was a member of a particular club, a very secret club—the Order of the Wolf. I am a member, too.’

Her finger traced along the gilt lettering on the spine, lingering over the words Wolf. ‘Your wolf’s-head walking cane...’

‘The wolf is our symbol. Every member is obliged to keep a secret daily journal. And every member hides it in the same way.’

‘The same book,’ she whispered.

‘In a colour to match his library. No name must be written. Only the volume number on the front cover identifies the owner. We are forbidden to speak of the existence of the club or any aspect of it to any man. You know the manner of man Rotherham was, Venetia, everything to the letter, everything so precise.’

‘Yes.’

‘He would never have told Clandon.’

She closed her eyes. ‘I cannot believe it. Robert would not do such a thing. Rotherham was good to him. He acknowledged him as his son, introduced him to Society, gave him a generous allowance. He even paid off his gambling debts. My brother is far from perfect, but murder... There has to be some other explanation.’ She glanced at the journal—Rotherham’s journal. ‘Have you read it?’

‘I could not stomach to read much.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘He makes much mention of his thoughts on my sister. ‘

She paled at his words. ‘There may be some clue written within the days preceding his death.’

Linwood gave a nod. ‘You are right.’

‘I will read it, Francis.’

Linwood met her gaze, grateful that she cared enough to offer such a thing. ‘I would not subject you to that,’ he said quietly.

‘Even if I need to do so? Marianne is your sister. But Robert is my brother. I need to know the truth.’

He nodded, understanding that she was right. ‘We will read it together.’

* * *

Her insides felt chilled, her stomach swimming with nausea as they sat together on the sofa and read the words Rotherham had written. No matter that Linwood had warned her, no matter the number of men and their appetites she had been exposed to in the past, it was different when the man in question was her father. But she knew that, however hard this was for her, it must be harder still for Linwood.

They read together in silence, starting at the day of the murder and working backwards in time. They did not have to read far to realise the truth. A matter of days only.

Venetia closed her eyes and sighed.

Linwood shut the book.

They read no more.

‘You do not have to see him, Venetia. I can do this alone.

‘We do this together. I have to see him. I have to give him the chance to explain.’

‘Together,’ he said and curled his fingers around hers, and in his grip she found the strength she needed.

* * *

‘You free our father’s murderer and now you have the audacity to come to my door and level such an accusation at me?’ Robert’s eyes narrowed as they shifted from her to Linwood and back again. He shook his head with such convincing incredulity that, beyond all reason, she felt a flicker of hope that, in some way, both the journal and Linwood were wrong. She wanted to believe Robert, and, unfair though it was, she wanted it to be Knight who had killed Rotherham, even though she had read the journal and in her heart she knew the truth.

‘My own sister!’ said Robert with contempt.

‘My own brother,’ she replied softly. ‘I know the truth, Robert.’

‘You know nothing other than what Linwood has put in your head. He is not content with walking free from his crime, but must seek to go further and turn you against me.’

‘I trusted you, Robert.’ She shook her head.

‘I forced the confession of the fire from his lips, did I? And still you take his word over mine. All for the sake of a title and respectability. Why will you not see what is before your very eyes, Venetia?’

‘I do.’ From beneath her cloak she withdrew Rotherham’s journal and held it close. She saw Robert’s eyes drop to it. ‘It is the book that you sent me to look for. The one that Linwood took from Rotherham’s study that night.’ She paused. ‘You did not know it was Rotherham’s journal, did you? Only that it could be used to incriminate Linwood.’

Her brother’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

‘Rotherham wrote of you in it.’

He paled.

‘I knew you liked your pleasures, Robert, but I had not realised just how much your gambling and drinking and...other excesses...had run out of control these past years. And neither had Rotherham. When he returned from Italy to find you living a life of indolent debauchery, deep in River Tick and with your creditors threatening foreclosure, he was more than a little angry.’

‘As if he were some paragon of virtue,’ Robert muttered.

‘He thought you were trading on his name. Bringing it into disrepute.’

‘I did nothing more than he had spent a lifetime doing.’

‘You were indiscreet.’

‘We all make mistakes from time to time.’

‘Rotherham paid off your debts...as you expected.’

‘And I am supposed to have killed him for that, am I?’

‘No. You killed him because he intended to change his will.’ She waited for him to deny it, wished so much to hear those words. But the silence was deafening and she could see the truth written all over his face, see it in the weakness of his jaw and the anger and self-pity in his eyes.

Robert glanced away. And when he looked at her again his eyes were like blue marble—cold and hard and filled with loathing.

‘He was going to cut me out completely. His own son. And leave it all to you. He wanted to teach me a lesson, the vindictive old bastard.’

‘So you killed him.’

‘It was an accident.’ He glanced away, a faraway look in his eyes, his brow pinched, his mouth tight and twisted as if he were remembering that night. ‘We argued. He said that rot must be dealt with or else it would spread. He said it was for my own good. That it would be the making of me. The making of me? Our argument became heated. For God’s sake, Venetia, he was throwing me out of my own house!’ His eyes met hers. ‘The pistol was there newly cleaned and loaded and mounted on the wall, so I took it down and threatened him. And do you know what he did? He laughed at me. Said I would not have the guts. So I showed him that I did.’

She felt sick to hear the words. Robert had always been spoiled and indulged, but she had not thought him capable of murder. ‘Why Linwood?’

‘Wrong place, wrong time,’ Robert gave a shrug. ‘I was going to make it look like the old man had shot himself, but then I heard someone coming. There was not time to leave so I hid. And there was Linwood, who I have never liked. Let us face it, he would not exactly win any prizes in the popularity stakes. Everyone knows both he and his father are touched with something of the night.’

‘You would have let him hang!’

‘I would have been doing the world a favour. He is not a good man, Venetia. Anyone will tell you that. And he did burn our father’s house, although that little gem was an unexpected bonus. I was keeping the pistol so carefully only to discover that I did not need to plant it after all.’ He glanced at Linwood. ‘She is quite something, isn’t she? What red-blooded man could resist?

‘I do not understand.’ Venetia looked at Linwood. ‘What does he mean?’

‘Your part in this was never really to glean information. As far as Clandon knew, there was no confession to be had. It was always his intention to publically establish you as my mistress.’

‘Bravo, Linwood.’ Robert gave a mocking applause.

‘No,’ she whispered and stared at him. ‘Why would you do such a thing when you knew how I felt about such arrangements?’

‘I needed a credible witness. And who better than his mistress? The woman who shared his bed. But then you had to go and spoil it all.’

‘It was you behind the fire at my house?’

‘I never meant for you to be there when they did it. You were supposed to have left for the theatre.’

‘You made me believe it was Linwood!’

‘You were softening towards him. And I could not have that now, could I? I needed something to make you see how very dangerous he was.’

‘You bastard!’ she cried.

‘No more bastard than you, dear sister. Me the son of a housekeeper, you the daughter of a cheap bawdy-house whore.’

She gasped as his words echoed in the silence, frozen and afraid to look round at Linwood.

‘Ah,’ said Robert softly. ‘You had not told him that little detail, had you? He knows the ducal sire, but not the mare that was tupped.’

Her mouth was drier than a desert. The shame made her want to curl up inside, both at the truth of what she was and for having Linwood learn it in such a crude, cruel way.

‘You are as mistaken in this, Clandon, as everything else. Venetia has told me all. It is of no consequence.’ Linwood’s voice was cold as the rush of gratitude she felt to him was warm. He moved to stand between her and Clandon, shielding her from her brother.

‘Well, then, you will understand that it is her—how shall we say?—Achilles heel. She would do anything rather than have that particular little dirty secret revealed...even go to the police and tell them of her lover’s confession.’ Clandon smirked.

She felt the last vestige of blood drain from her face and yet still she stood there and endured.

‘Bad enough that your wife is an actress and illegitimate, oh, and let us not forget to mention the daughter of the man it is believed you murdered. Just think of how much worse the scandal will be were they to discover that Rotherham begot her on a trip to a bawdy house. You and your father do not own all of the newspapers, Linwood.’

Linwood moved so fast she could do nothing to react. One minute he was standing there; the next he had slammed Robert hard against a wall and held him there by the throat. ‘I do not think you are going to be talking to anyone, Clandon.’

‘My lips are sealed on the matter. As long as we help each other out.’ The words rasped, strained and hoarse, from her brother’s mouth. ‘I am sure we can reach some amicable understanding.’

‘Like hell we will,’ said Linwood softly.

Robert’s eyes slid to Venetia. ‘Think of the shame of it. Your darkest secret exposed to all the world. All that you worked so hard all these years to hide. Convince your husband to stay quiet on my involvement and I will not publish.’

‘You will not publish, Clandon. I will see to that.’ Linwood’s promise was as dark and deadly as his face. ‘I will not let you hurt her.’ She saw Linwood’s grip tighten around her brother’s throat.

‘Francis!’ She gripped her hand to his arm. ‘Please stop.’

Linwood’s eyes met hers. And it was not condemnation she saw in them, but understanding. He stayed as he was for a moment longer, then finally released his hand from Clandon’s neck.

Robert gasped his relief and rubbed his fingers against the bruises that were already starting to form. ‘Linwood is free,’ he said. ‘They cannot retry him. I am not asking much, Venetia.’

‘Only for him to remain damned in the eyes of the world.’ She held her head up and looked her brother in the eye. ‘Publish and be damned, Robert. I will stand witness against you myself.’

While Robert gaped in disbelief, she rang the bell to summon the footman.

* * *

Two hours later and Venetia sat staring into the flames that flickered on the hearth of their own drawing room. Her husband stood by the fireplace, but she could not bring herself to meet his eyes as in a low faltering voice she told him the final piece of the truth.

‘My mother was a whore in a bawdy house Rotherham frequented. He took her to his bed and called her his mistress...until eventually he tired of her and sent her back to the bawdy house. She died when she was only nine and twenty years old, aged beyond her years. Prostitution does not make for an easy life, but she had no other choice. She was poor and alone, unskilled, uneducated and with a child born out of wedlock. There was nowhere else she could go, nothing else she could do.’

‘It is why you run your refuge house in Whitechapel, why you seek to help those women who wish to escape prostitution. And why you never gave yourself to any man before me.’ He understood at last.

She nodded. ‘I swore I would not make the same mistakes as my mother. I hated Rotherham for what he had done. But, much as I loved my mother, I hated that she had let Rotherham do it. I thought she was weak. Because she loved him, you see, despite everything. She always told me a woman could not choose who she fell in love with and I did not believe her, not then.’ She paused. ‘Not until I met you.’ She met his gaze. ‘I am sorry, Francis. I should have told you myself, a long time ago. Before we were married. Before it was too late. But I was too ashamed.’

He took her hand in his and raised her to her feet, staring into her eyes all the while. ‘You have nothing to be ashamed of. I love you, Venetia. Nothing changes that.’ He stroked a stray tendril of hair from her face. ‘But I know how painful and private this part of your past is for you. We do not have to do this with Robert. No one need know of your mother.’

But she shook her head. ‘People think you did it, Francis, that you are the viscount that got away with murdering a duke. They think we struck a deal, that you bought me off with marriage.’

‘It does not matter what they think. We know the truth.’

‘It does matter. I saw what it did to you to have even your closest friends and family believe so readily in your guilt.’

‘They had good reason. Clandon is right, I am a villain, Venetia.’

‘No, Francis. You are a good man and an honourable one.’

‘You have not asked me what I would have done had Rotherham not left London when I threatened.’

‘Would you have killed him? she asked softly.

‘I cannot say that I would not.’

‘And you cannot know that you would. What matters, Francis, is that you did not kill him. Everything that you have done was to protect your family. The world needs to know you are an honourable man. And that is why I will not back down from this.’

Their eyes held.

‘Even if they hang him?’ he asked.

She nodded, but she could not stop the tears that welled in her eyes or their escape to roll down her cheeks. She glanced down.

He tilted her chin and raised her face to look into his. ‘What if they were to transport him instead?’

‘It would be a mercy.’

‘Then we will ask for mercy, Venetia...from those who hold influence.’ She followed his gaze to his silver wolf’s-head walking cane, that leaned against the wall by the side of the fire, and saw the glitter of the two emerald eyes.

* * *

The trial had not been easy for Venetia. Robert spilled his guts on her mother, but it was not as bad as Venetia expected. Indeed, there was a curious sense of liberation in having the secret exposed. She had nothing more to hide. Linwood loved her, all of what she was, and all else paled in comparison to that. Robert was found guilty of the murder of his father and sentenced to transportation to Australia, never to set foot in England again.

A week after the sentencing, Venetia stood in the early morning light at the drawing-room window of their home in St James’s Place. She wrapped her dressing gown more tightly to cover her nakedness and stared out at the first flurry of snow that fell like tufts of soft cotton to lie on the street below. Winter had come. Soon it would be Christmas. And she thought how much her life had changed in the turning of one season. All of her core beliefs of the past, of herself and the future challenged and reformed. From celebrated scandalous actress to viscountess. Success and power, fame and fortune, did not make for true happiness. That came from the heart, from loving another, wholly, completely, and knowing that they loved you. Her heart felt expansive and warm and brimful with love for the man who lay sleeping in the next room.

A soft noise sounded and Linwood, still naked and warm from their bed, came up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist and brushing a kiss against her hair.

‘I thought you were still sleeping,’ she said.

‘Not without you,’ he murmured. He glanced out at the snow scene and then his beloved dark eyes moved to hers. ‘Have you things on your mind, Venetia?’ The words echoed those that had passed between them on a theatre balcony a lifetime ago.

‘Only good things. And all of which you know.’ She smiled. ‘I am glad that your name is finally cleared.’

‘Thanks to you.’ He whispered against her ear. ‘I love you, Venetia.’

‘I love you, too, Francis.’

Out of secrets and a game of dark deceit had come a love that was brilliant and glaring in its honesty, a love that would stretch to all eternity.

He smiled and nuzzled her neck. ‘Come back to bed, my love.’

‘Yes.’ She smiled and, slipping her hand into his, let him lead her to their bedchamber.

They had the rest of their lives to live in love and in happiness. And as if to mirror the wonder that was in both their hearts, outside, the snow, so pure and white and radiant, fell in silent joy to render the London streets beautiful.