EPILOGUE
“Exile by month’s end,” Lord Lempster declared from his place beside the roaring fireplace, brandy sloshing perilously close to the rim of his glass. “Transportation if the blackguard ever dares show his face again. Couldn’t happen to a more deserving scoundrel.”
Margaret raised her glass with a wicked, satisfied grin. “To magistrates finally discovering that Montague lied more often than he drew breath.”
“And to Raph discovering that solicitors are considerably cheaper than coffins,” Iris added nonchalantly.
Raph leaned against the carved marble balustrade at the foot of the grand staircase and lifted his champagne glass in silent salute.
Two weeks.
It had been two weeks since he walked away from the duel and chose life instead of vengeance. And two weeks since the courts had torn Montague apart.
“You never told us how you pulled that off,” Margaret reminded him with a raised eyebrow.
“It’s simple. I pulled it off with evidence.”
Raph had gathered witnesses and reports in silence. And when he was done presenting his case, Montague’s frantic shriek, “Lady Pamelaismy daughter!” had been met with nothing but laughter.
“Montague committed too many forgeries. He ruined countless families and spoke too many lies,” Iris spat.
“That is why no one believed a word he said, and he was exiled by month’s end,” Raph said.
He was grateful that throughout it all, the Brentmere name stood taller than ever.
The orchestra in the gallery above suddenly shifted without warning. Strings soared into a single, brilliant chord that rang through the vaulted hall like a fanfare, and every head turned as if pulled by the same invisible thread.
At the top of the grand staircase, framed by candlelight and drifting winter roses, stood Camelia and Pamela.
Raph’s breath caught hard enough to bruise.
Camelia had appeared in a thousand gowns since their marriage, but nothing had ever struck him speechless until this moment.
Her gown was the palest blush pink, almost silver in the shifting light, cut daringly low across her shoulders and nipped impossibly tight at the waist, before spilling into a cascade of silk that shimmered with every breath. Ribbons adorned her hair, and he imagined all the binding he could do with that.
Tiny crystals had been sewn along the neckline and hem so that she caught the chandelier light and scattered it like dawn across water. The color made her skin glow like a warm pearl, and the way the fabric clung to her every curve before falling away made his mouth go dry.
Beside her, Pamela looked radiant in the blue lace dress she had dreamt about.
All Raph could see was his wife and niece descending the staircase like something out of a fairytale.
Margaret gasped next to him. “She’s stunning!”
“They both are,” he agreed and made his way to the bottom of the staircase.
Pamela was sixteen tonight, and the dress she wore had been sewn in absolute secrecy in London for this single moment.Her raven hair was swept up with jeweled combs, and a few deliberate curls escaped to frame her face.
She paused at the bottom of the grand staircase, with one gloved hand on the balustrade, her chin high, her cheeks flushed with a mix of anxiety and triumph.
A collective intake of breath rippled through the hall as their family admired her. Then, a quiet applause erupted.
Good God.She looks exactly like Josephine.
Raph’s throat closed. He could not have spoken if his life depended on it.
Camelia appeared at the bottom of the stairs as if conjured. He took her hand, which slipped easily into his.
“Breathe, Camelia,” he whispered, his eyes shining. “You’re perfect. And she’s perfect.”
