“I’ll come and find you after I’ve changed and spoken with Mrs. Macomber and given Pearl and Vine instructions to decamp.”
They parted at the base of the stairs, Constance going swiftly up, dodging a pair of footmen heaving a traveling trunk down to the hall, while Alaric strode for the drawing room.
Constance found Mrs. Macomber in the room they’d shared. The older woman was in a despondent, dejected state—no doubt worrying over what was to become of her—and, on seeing Constance still in her evening gown, clearly didn’t know whether to be openly scandalized or whether perhaps she should pretend she hadn’t leapt to the obvious conclusion.
Pearl was there, too, packing Constance’s things into her trunk; at the sight of Constance, Pearl’s eyes had widened, and as her gaze lingered on Constance’s face, they widened even more.
Closing the door, Constance smiled—radiantly. After a swift glance at Pearl, who was starting to relax and look pleased, Constance turned to Mrs. Macomber and put the elderly chaperon out of her misery. “Lord Carradale and I are to marry.”
Mrs. Macomber’s eyes flew wide, and her mouth fell open. Abruptly, she sat on the edge of her bed.
Pearl’s smile was almost as brilliant as Constance’s.
Before Mrs. Macomber could gather her wits and speak, Constance rolled on, “However, given the sudden nature of our betrothal, we—Carradale and I—wondered if you would consent to extending your service to the Whittaker family and act as my companion for at least the next weeks. We plan to remain in Hampshire”—Constance waved toward the woods—“at Carradale’s house nearby, for the next week or two, while we make arrangements to travel north to visit my grandfather so Carradale can formally ask for my hand.”
Mrs. Macomber gaped, but then gathered her wits and, after offering her congratulations, declared that she would be honored to act as Constance’s companion for however long her services were required.
Pearl was even more chuffed. She whisked out a fresh walking dress and helped Constance out of her creased evening gown and into the nicely fitted forest-green dress. “Carradale’s a right one—anyone can see that. I did wonder, what with him charging out to rescue you. So now you’re to be a lady and all.” Pearl grinned cheekily. “I’ve always wanted to be a proper lady’s maid.”
Constance laughed.
As soon as Pearl finished brushing out her hair and refashioning it into a chignon, Constance gave her orders to Pearl, who volunteered to carry the good news to Vine and oversee the transfer of their luggage, as well as Mrs. Macomber and her boxes, to the manor. “We’ll take the coach and drive around. Someone in the stables here will tell us the way.”
“Excellent.” Constance turned for the door. “I have to rejoin Carradale. The staff at the manor are expecting you. The butler is Morecombe, and his wife is the housekeeper, and the other one you’ll meet is Carradale’s man, Johns. Tell Vine the stableman is Hilliard.”
“We’ll manage.” Pearl shooed. “Go. Go.”
Mrs. Macomber, almost overcome, gave her a bright if watery smile.
Feeling as giddy as a girl buoyed on happiness, Constance rushed back to the stairs and went down. Alaric was standing beside Percy inside the open front door. Most of the guests appeared to have congregated in the hall as well.
Inspector Stokes and the Adairs had, apparently, just arrived and were greeting Percy and Alaric.
As Constance joined the small group, all three Londoners welcomed her with a smile. The other guests, she noted, were keeping a polite distance.
“We’re about to head back to London.” With a wave, Stokes indicated the coach drawn up before the door. His gaze returned to Percy. “I wanted to formally inform you that I’ve reviewed the charges and the evidence, and I’m confident of making our case against Edward Mandeville. My constables are escorting him to the Yard to be charged—they started off at first light. In due course, he’ll be tried, and there’s no reason to doubt that he will be found guilty and, eventually, will hang.”
“We thought you might like to know,” Barnaby said, “so that you can prepare your family.”
His expression contained, Percy inclined his head. “Thank you. I intend setting off later today to speak with my father. I’ll leave it to him to pass the news on to Edward’s parents.” Percy hesitated, then asked, “Did he—Edward—show any remorse?”
Stokes met Percy’s gaze and, stoically, shook his head. “No.” Stokes paused for a heartbeat, then added, “In my experience, his sort rarely do. They believe their end justifies any means.”
After a second’s silence, Penelope said, “But for the rest of us, our lives go on.” She turned to Constance and smiled. “And at least for now, we must make our farewells.”
They proceeded to do so, the men shaking hands and Penelope and Constance being bowed to and having their fingers bussed.
As Alaric straightened from kissing Penelope’s fingers, she widened her eyes and said, “Incidentally, we will be expecting an invitation to the wedding.” She caught Alaric’s eye, an intrigued and inquiring look in hers.
Alaric laughed and drew Constance to him. “The wedding is already in train, although we haven’t addressed the guest list yet.”
Beaming smiles and congratulations ensued.
Barnaby told Constance, “You and Carradale must call on us when next you’re in London. Number twenty-four Albemarle Street.”
Penelope seconded the invitation, then Stokes and the Adairs took their leave on a tide of good wishes.
Then the other guests—who, of course, had overheard—gathered around to congratulate Alaric and Constance.
