“You don’t think he should give it up?”
“Not for my sake.”
“You’re not thinking of helping him again, are you?” he asked with his devilish smile.
She laughed and shook her head. “I believe I’ve learned my lesson.”
The duke tossed scraps of meat to the three hopeful dogs. “Grant doesn’t want to leave you alone here.”
“But I am not alone,” she said with a smile. “And I have work to do.”
“Your beautifying business?”
“Grant told you about it, Your Grace?”
The dogs pricked up their ears and bounded over the floor to the door.
Grant walked into the room. “I did tell Grandfather.”
Mercy looked with affection upon the man she deeply loved. “Grant, you shall not give up your work for me.”
“We can discuss it later,” he said ambiguously. “Now, if you’ve finished luncheon, I have something to show you.”
“Won’t you have something to eat?” she asked.
“First, I need to remove the smell of horse.”
“Did you learn anything about Snowdon’s whereabouts?” the duke asked him.
“Snowdon was found this morning in the woods with his leg caught in a snare. Looks like it’s broken. He’s on his way to Bow Street Magistrate’s court accompanied by two Runners as we speak.”
“Remarkably accident prone pair, wouldn’t you say?” his grandfather said with a sardonic lift of his eyebrows, giving Mercy a glimpse of the man he used to be. A force to be reckoned with, as his grandson was.
“Indeed.” Grant grinned at his grandfather as he took Mercy’s hand and helped her from her chair.
She tucked her hand through his arm and they walked along corridors into a part of the house she had not yet seen. He opened a door. “The housekeeper used this room for flower arrangements, but she has relinquished it to you.”
“For me?” She swallowed down tears.
The room had been refurbished and still smelled of wood shavings. There were cupboards beneath a waist-high shelf with a hand basin. On the walls, more shelves held her mortar and pestle, small kerosene stove and odd ceramic bowls of different sizes. A small desk and chair sat beneath a window with a view over the lawns to the fringe of home wood. She opened a cupboard door and saw all her pots and bottles arranged neatly inside.
“Now you can make those lotions ladies will clamor to use,” Grant said.
She threw her arms around his neck. “I am so fortunate. I love you so much!”
“And I love you,” Grant said huskily. He shut the door with his foot, but not before Wolf sneaked inside.
Epilogue
London, November, 1825
THE LONDON PICTURE Gallery in Oxford Street was filled with guests sipping champagne and nibbling on the tasty foods on offer. Reporters from several newspapers and periodicals took notes. Charity’s portraits and landscapes were receiving a good deal of the right sort of attention. She reigned supreme, the confident, graceful duchess, her husband Robin, beaming with pride.
“Charity plans to paint more family portraits,” Faith said to Mercy. “Our children, yours, and Honor’s, when they are born, and of course, Hope and Daniel’s son, Phillip.”
“She has already begun Phillip’s portrait,” Hope said, coming up to them with the cherished young du Ténèbres heir in her arms, who was every inch as handsome as his father. “Charity’s baby is due around May.”
Mercy looked over to where her mother stood with her father. Both looked as pleased as punch.
