“Caro, you love me, too, don’t you?”
She took a deep breath and straightened up. “Yes. I love you.”
“Oh.”
His eyes were wet. He was crying. Phineas Edge, the most carefree man in England, was crying. He held his arms out to her.
“Come here, darling.”
“Not yet.”
“Oh.”
“I want to tell you why I love you, Phineas St. John Augustus Edge. I love you because you see the best in everyone and in the world.”
“Some people would call that a failing.”
She shook her head. “I don’t. It’s not a failing. It’s a gift. And if you didn’t have it, you would never have seen me.”
“I see you. I see you, and I want to hear you, Caro.”
“Yes.”
“So come here and talk to me.”
First Epilogue
July, 1820.
“My lady, may I suggest his lordship have at least one new tailcoat which he is not allowed to wear whilst he plays with the dog? I mean, with Miss Lavinia?”
“Yes, I agree, Dashwood.”
Caroline was in her husband’s dressing room in Burchester with a sheet of foolscap and a pencil, Dashwood at her elbow. She was making a list of items for which Phineas should be fitted upon their long-delayed return to London next week for the very end of the Season.
There would be no difficulty in using the best tailors and haberdashers as befitted her husband’s title. They had money now, and all of the outstanding bills in London had been paid.
Albion Chambers had survived his self-inflicted wound, having made only a shallow slash with his knife. He had recovered under the care of the doctor, and he had confessed to his embezzlements, perhaps thinking to shield Mrs. Fox, his lover and probable accomplice.
Lord Chambers, Albion’s father, had made full restitution of the stolen money and rents after Phineas had declined to charge his steward with a crime. Theft was a death sentence, after all, and Caroline and Phineas agreed they couldn’t allow a charge to be made when there was the possibility of execution. Phineas said he had hope his friend would turn his hand to redeeming himself, and also Phineas owed Albion for not turning him in for his poaching when he was a boy. And Caroline never again wanted to live with the regret and grief and guilt of an avoidable death.
“What else does my husband need?” Caroline asked Dashwood.
“New cravats, my lady.”
“How many?”
“A dozen.”
“Seven.” She made a note on her paper. “One for each day of the week.”
“A nightshirt or two.”
“You and I both know his lordship does not wear nightshirts.”
“Yes, that’s true. But what if he should have occasion to stop at a coaching inn?”
“He can wear one of his ordinary shirts.” She saw a cedar box behind her husband’s hats. “What is this?” She reached for it, pulling it forward.
