Her mouth dropped open, and then her face slowly brightened. “You’re right!” She fell silent, a distant expression on her face. “Evangeline Campion,” she murmured at last, as if tasting the words.
Richard pressed his lips to her temple. “A beautiful name for a magnificent woman.”
She smiled, then pulled back to look at him, somber again. “You... you will never have children, if you remain with me.”
“When have I ever wanted children?” he said in surprise. “Rafael and Gabriel are near enough, and thanks be to God in Heaven, I am only their uncle.” He cast his eyes upward. “Gabriel especially promises to lead my sister a frantic dance, and I do not envy her.”
Evangeline looked at him, her eyes wet. She put her hand on his cheek. “I don’t deserve you.”
He laughed. “A restless wanderer with no purpose in life? You deserve far better, but I fear one of my failings is a ruthless streak of selfishness, when it comes to you.”
She smiled faintly. “A restless wanderer who hasn’t left the tame confines of England in six years.”
Richard started, then tipped up her face. He felt a bolt of astonishment that she was right. “Do you know,” he said slowly, “until you said that, I had not realized it had been so long. Not once has the desire to wander come over me, in the six years with you.” He studied her. “Perhaps I wandered in search of you.”
“Don’t be silly,” she tried to say, before he put a finger to her lips.
“No,” he murmured. “I believe it is true. I went in search of adventure because I was restless and impatient at home. What is there to keep a young man of good fortune, no profession, and little family fixed in place?”
“You thrilled to the adventure of it.”
“I did.” He smiled ruefully. “But not as much as I thrill to the delight of having you in my life. Once I achieved that, there was no longer any need to wander. Alone, that is.”
“I have never been away from England,” she confessed.
“I can change that.” He kissed her hand. “Will you come with me?”
She looked at him with love in her eyes. “Always.”
Epilogue
1823
Zürich
The chiming of the Grossmünster bells woke her. Evangeline rolled over and stretched. Spring had come to the city, and the windows stood open, admitting the crisp mountain air. She was alone, and for a moment she luxuriated in it—the soft linen of the bedclothes, the fresh breeze, the peaceful music of medieval church bells.
She rose and pulled on her dressing gown. Richard always rose early, she had learned in the last several months, and only on the coldest mornings in winter did she wake to find him still abed beside her. But today was sunny and promised to be warm.
She followed the sound of barking down the stairs and out to the small terrace. There sat Richard, a newspaper in one hand and a piece of bacon in the other. Both dogs sat at perfect attention at his feet, eyes fixed on the bacon. He was speaking to them in German, which Evangeline still had not learned beyond a few words, so she had no idea what he told them—untilboth lay down and put their heads on their paws. Hercule’s tail thumped steadily, swishing the flagstones.
Taking his time, Richard tore the bacon in two and laid a piece before each dog. Neither moved, although Evangeline could see that Louis was nearly vibrating with excitement. “Jetzt,” said Richard, and in unison, the dogs lurched forward and devoured the bacon, in one bite in Hercule’s case. Louis trotted away to chew his piece under the table.
“You are spoiling them again,” she said.
He glanced up, the morning sun winking off the gold frames of the spectacles he’d begun wearing to read. “Youspeak of spoiling them, to me? You, who would feed them roasted goose and syllabub from your own plate? You have no foot to stand on.”
She laughed, coming to take the chair across from his. “Just because I spoil them doesn’t mean no one else does.”
He gave a quiet harrumph and opened his newspaper again. “One piece of bacon will not harm them.”
“Was it only one piece, then?” she asked in amusement, as Louis emerged from under the table to lick her hand before sniffing around her feet.
Richard didn’t look up from his newspaper, but his mouth curved slightly. “No more will two pieces harm them.”
Evangeline lifted Louis into her lap, where he sat and panted happily, his tongue hanging out. Hercule came over to her side, and she obliged him with a good scratch around the ears before he settled himself with a gusty sigh beside her chair. When Richard wasn’t looking, she slipped each dog another small piece of bacon.
Hilde, the maid, emerged with a fresh pot of tea. “Guten Morgen, meine Frau,” she said brightly. “Toast, ja?”
