The fear still existed. The dead girl still haunted the edges of my mind.
But now there was something else to summon when the nightmares came.
A memory.
A vow.
And a man’s desire, held in check by devotion.
Epilogue
The fire in Drayton’s study burned low, its embers pulsing like the last stubborn breath of a dying thing.
Beyond the tall windows, London lay muffled in fog and distance. The city had begun, as it always did, to settle back into its routines. The scandal had flared—blazed bright enough to scorch reputations and stir Parliament itself—and now, already, it was being folded away. Tucked into drawers. Buried beneath fresh ink. Smothered by the next outrage.
Drayton sat in his chair with a glass untouched at his elbow, his gaze fixed upon nothing at all. He looked, as ever, the very image of a gentleman at ease in his own domain.
His man stood several paces away, half in shadow, as though unwilling to test how far his master’s mood might reach.
“It ended cleanly enough,” the man said at last. “Not as you intended, perhaps. But ended.”
Drayton did not turn his head. “Yes. It’s done,” he agreed, tasting the word as though it were a dull wine.
“The house is abandoned,” the man pressed. “The barges are gone. The fellows who attended? Some are frightened out of their wits. Others have left town. The papers are still sniffing. It will take coin to silence certain mouths.”
Drayton’s mouth curved faintly.
“Then spend it,” he said.
The man hesitated. “The Floralia drew in a tidy sum. But with the disruption?—”
“Our wealth will not suffer,” Drayton cut in smoothly. “It never does.” His fingers tapped once against the arm of the chair, unhurried. “The Floralia was merely one enterprise. A season. A spectacle.”
“And the next?” the man asked. The question held no warmth, only calculation.
Drayton finally looked at him.
“There will always be a next,” he replied.
The man accepted that answer with a nod. Silence swelled again, punctuated only by the soft hiss of the fire.
Then, cautiously, he said, “And the lady?”
Drayton’s gaze sharpened.
“What of her?”
The man chose his words. “Lady Rosalynd. She interfered more than was wise. She risked your—our—interests.”
A delicate pause.
“Would you have me see to it?”
Something dangerous stirred behind Drayton’s composure. Not anger. Not quite amusement. Something less manageable.
“No,” he said quietly.
The man’s brow furrowed. “No?”
