“After. He is a desperate man. Lacking funds and intensely covetous of what Lionel has. A very dangerous man…” Cecilia trailed off before sighing. “Thank you for not telling Lionel what you know. You are right about his reaction. And in his current state, I think Thorpe would kill him if he could.”
“Over my dead body,” Blackwood muttered. “This revenge nonsense was useful when it came to learning to walk again. But it’s gone too far. I will keep it from him as long as I may.”
“And if he ever discovers the truth, I will claim that I ordered you to withhold it,” Cecilia assured.
“I don’t need a shield from His Grace’s anger. I’ve been the brunt of it plenty of times. He knows how much he needs me. Water off a duck’s back, isn’t it?”
Cecilia felt a touch of confidence now. Lionel’s mind was blank of his escapades. He had no idea that Thorpe was on the brink of ruin or that he had taken another opportunity to try and murder Lionel. She was not so naive that she thought the secret could be kept for long. Lennox knew the truth and so, of course, did Thorpe. But she would keep it as long as she could.
Lionel opened his eyes at the sound of the door shutting, the dim light of the moon filtering through the heavy curtains of his bedroom blinding him for the briefest moment.
Fragments of the past hours flitted through his mind like specters, leaving him disoriented and uneasy. He could scarcely recall the events—a flash of rage, a beat of chaos, and a fleeting glimpse of victory that felt disturbingly...disturbinglyhollow. The pounding in his head served as a painful reminder of how perilously close he had come to losing everything.
Cecilia and their unborn child… his heart clenched at the mere thought.
The terror of losing them gripped him more fiercely than any desire for revenge ever could. He had masked his emotions well when he’d been confronted by her and Blackwood, but it was a façade. A deep façade, for it didn’t reveal even a dash of the truehorror he felt coursing through him. And now, in the solitude of his room, it threatened to engulf him. He made a decision then.
He struggled to sit up, his body protesting every movement. With a deep breath, he reached over for the paper and pen on his bedside table.
He now understood what Lennox had tried to convey weeks ago—how the loss of his Marie had driven him to bury himself in his work, never allowing himself to grieve. Lionel had dismissed it as a weakness, a failing he would never succumb to. Yet here he was, staring into the same abyss.
The memory of Lennox’s hollow eyes haunted him. For he had seen that same emptiness reflected back at him in the reflection of the river, where he had wound up face down after falling from the ship. By the narrowest of luck, he had survived the fall over the ship's railing and been rescued by Marshall soon after.
Revenge had utterly consumed him, but in the end, it had brought no satisfaction.
His hands trembled as he lifted pen to paper.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, his resolve hardening. Cecilia deservedbetter. Arthur deservedbetter. And Lennox deservedbetter. They all did. Lionel decided then and there to write to the man, to tell him that his task was complete, that it was time to let go and grieve his wife as he should have done a decade ago.
For, now, he finally understood… that cherishing what he had was more important than burying the memories of those he loved beneath years of bitterness.
EPILOGUE
Cecilia felt as though she were walking through a giant glittering bauble. Nothing as pure as an uncut diamond or other precious stone. This was a bauble made of gold, silver, ivory, and amber. Precious gems shone in tasteless abundance. Gold and silver were inlaid into richly shining wood, and the carpets were either purple or red. She looked around in wonder, trying not to appear so in awe. She knew that Lionel had not visited this particular palace before. He had been presented to the King, theold king, as a boy at Hampton Court. This was the newly refurbished Buckingham Palace in the heart of London. And she was here, on Lionel’s arm, to be presented to the old king’s son, George, the Prince Regent.
“Everything I have read about him is true,” she whispered.
Lionel grunted, also looking around. “Hampton Court was very different. His father had taste and distinction. When I met him, he talked to me of his pigs for five whole minutes. I counted. But this…” He shook his head mutely.
The bandage was gone but a scar remained, scything through his dark hair, marring the pale skin of his forehead. To Cecilia, he was still inordinately beautiful. Still a god among men. The scar would serve to remind them both of the fragility of life. How it needed to be nurtured and protected.
“While there are beggars outside, just a few hundred yards away. And men, women, and children, going hungry all over this country. How can one man live in such over-indulgent luxury?” Cecilia murmured.
They were walking through room after room, following one of the Regent’s equerries. They were young men resplendent in red and white military-style uniforms who served the royals. The young man escorting them had brown curly hair and bright, blue eyes. He had been polite and professional but cold and distant. To him, they were a commodity to be delivered from the man who greeted visitors at the door, into the court of the Prince. Turning a corner, they reached a set of double doors, beyond which came the sounds of merriment. The equerry turned to face them and delivered a series of instructions on how to behave in front of the Regent, how to address him and when, how to enter the room, and how to leave it. It was delivered with a solemn expression and a tone of contemptuous boredom. This was not the first time he had delivered such a speech and it would not be the last.
Then the doors were opened and they were finally announced. Cecilia and Lionel stepped into the room, arm in arm. The floor was carpeted in what seemed to be an antique Persian design. The walls were decorated with objects of gold and silver, all with a distinctly Oriental design concept. The men and women of thecourt were dressed as finely as the palace in which they sported. The light reflected from mirrors and gold sconces, bounced from tiaras and necklaces, rings and bracelets. Women wore their necklines low and the men all seemed to be wearing the very latest fashions. It was not a subject on which Lionel or Cecilia were well versed but a Savile Row tailor had educated them as he measured Lionel for his attire. Cecilia had a new wardrobe too, shunning the ostentatious display of wealth that she was told was the fashion, in favor of something fine but modest.
The jewel in the crown of the Regent’s court was, of course, the Regent himself. Prince George sat on a high-backed wooden chair inlaid with gold and amber, elaborately carved. A purple, gold tasseled cushion softened it and it had been positioned atop a dais at the far end of the room.
A throne in all but name.
He was leaning from it, a jewel-encrusted goblet that would have impressed the Khan with its lavishness in one beringed hand. Cecilia was proud that she did not miss a step as she saw who the Regent was talking to.
Lord Thorpe had one arm in a sling of red silk. He wore a full dress uniform including a sheathed rapier on his hip. He pointed to the two newcomers as they stopped to be announced. The Regent’s eyes slid to them and narrowed. He quaffed from his goblet and stood. The room was silenced instantly. All eyes swiveled to the Duke and Duchess of Thornhill, waiting expectantly. The Regent wore the red and white of an infantry officer, with a golden sash going from shoulder to waist where itjoined with a gold waistband. In that, he wore a sword, though it was heavily decorated with precious stones about its hilt and pommel.
“Do you dare to show yourselves at my court after your infamy?” he called out in a querulous voice. “Yes, I speak to you,Thornhill, and your… wife, I suppose we must call her, though I do not see her as any more valid than my own.”
“Your Royal Highness, what infamy do you speak of?” Lionel muttered between gritted teeth.
