Did he have to?
Christ, he ought to. He had no wish to hurt her. But she stroked his hair, holding him to her when he belatedly attempted to shift.
“Not yet,” she said. “I like the way you feel. It is as if we are one.”
“Because weareone, Ellie.” He kissed her cheek, drinking in the sight of her, flushed and so very lovely. “Forever, my love.”
This time, he knew for certain he spoke the words aloud.
“Forever,” she repeated, then pulled his mouth to hers.
Epilogue
One year later
The day had finally come.
Elysande stood before her electrical utensils display at the London Society of Electricity’s exhibition, Hudson dutifully flanking her. Her eyes burned with tears of elation she refused to shed. She blinked furiously, dismayed when her vision began to blur.
“As you can see, there is no fire required to cook in this fashion,” said Mrs. Rose to the crowd gathered. “All the hours spent toiling over a kitchen fire or stove will soon belong to the past.”
Startled murmurings of excitement rose from the thronged assemblage.
Elysande had the more-than-capable woman to run her display. When she and Hudson had returned to Buckinghamshire in the wake of Chief Inspector O’Rourke’s death and the closing of the cases of Mrs. Ainsley, Reginald Croydon, and Mrs. Lamson, she had thrown herself into her work. Likewise, Hudson had devoted himself to the business of restoring Brinton Manor to its former glory, with Saunders at his side. She had finally discovered the key to creating an even electrical current using a careful blend of cement and platinum wires.
The result had been an electrical frying pan that cooked an egg perfectly in under two minutes. Her discovery had come too late for the previous year’s exhibition, but that was just as well, for she had swiftly found herself expecting a child. Fortunately, her pregnancy had been blissfully uneventful, leaving her capable of continuing her work. During her confinement, she had managed to apply the same design principles to a tea kettle and an iron.
She had received her patents and, with the business acumen of Hudson’s friend the Marquess of Greymoor as her aid, she had begun her own company, the Better Electric Company. She had set about hiring women who shared her interest in engineering and business to help it flourish and grow. This exhibition was the first step toward gaining the public’s confidence in a revolutionary way of cooking.
And now…
“Here we are,” Hudson said softly. “Standing before the fruit of all your labors. I am so bloody proud of you, Ellie. Our sweet little Margaret is fortunate indeed to have a mother like you to call Mama.”
She was filled with so much love.
Elysande sniffed. “She is every bit as fortunate to have you as her papa.”
He had found his place at Brinton Manor, but he excelled as a father and a husband both. He was a constant source of support. A comforting embrace whenever she needed it. Seeing him with their daughter in his arms, the tender way he held her and the way he held her when she cried, rocking and singing to her until she quieted, never failed to melt Elysande’s heart. He had not entirely cut his ties with Scotland Yard.
Reginald Croydon’s body had been discovered buried in a shallow grave behind O’Rourke’s residence. The resulting scandal had left Scotland Yard in desperate need of reform. Hudson had been working with former Sergeant—now Inspector—Chance to weed out corruption and build the Yard’s investigative abilities. Part of that involved the slow, steady introduction of Papa’s fingerprint identification methods. These days, the Detective Duke, as he had been dubbed, was still reported on in the newspapers, but with all the respect due him. No more shadows of suspicion.
No more death and danger.
Only happiness and love and hope.
“The pan heats evenly,” Mrs. Rose was saying to the crowd, “and in hasty fashion. The perfect omelet is achievable within one minute and forty-five seconds.”
“Where is the heat emerging from?” asked an astounded gentleman. “I see no flame.”
“That is because there is none,” Mrs. Rose informed him, smiling as she cracked an egg into the warmed pan. “All the heat is generated by electricity. This is the future of the kitchen, sir.”
“Does it affect the flavor of the eggs?” a lady queried. “One would think an aberrant taste may accompany the electric charge. Is it safe?”
“It is perfectly hygienic,” Mrs. Rose reassured the lady. “There is no untoward flavor at all. Indeed, should you try eggs cooked in a Better Electric Company frying pan, I have no doubt you will find the taste quite superior.”
“Amazing,” said another lady, shaking her head.
“Wait until you see the electrical tea kettle,” Mrs. Rose said with a cheerful grin.
