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He’d known she would come to him that night. But having no faith in his future, he’d already made the necessary arrangements, had, weeks before, made a new will so that if anything happened to him, she and any child she bore would live a life of luxury. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, and with regard to her future well-being, he was not of a mind to court any risk.
He was already in bed, lying back, his arms crossed behind his head when she slipped through his door. Her nightgown glimmered white, the pale pink of her robe muted in the soft light of the candle she’d used to light her way.
Coming to the bed, she saw he was awake, and smiled.
Joy and more shone in her eyes, and although he still felt he should make some effort to dissuade her, as she set the candlestick down on the bedside table, then shrugged out of her robe, he remained mute.
Just watched. Let his eyes drink her in as she bent and, holding back the heavy fall of her hair, blew out the flame.
Darkness descended, but the moonlight was strong enough for him to see the delight, the expectation of happiness and pleasure, that lit her face as she accepted the covers he’d raised and slid into the bed, into the space he’d shifted to create for her alongside him.
Turning to him, she placed her hands on his chest, looked into his eyes, searched his face, then tipped her head. “What? No attempt to tell me that you have no future, and that I shouldn’t—that we shouldn’t—do this?”
She hadn’t forgotten, any more than he had.
He covered one of her hands with one of his, raised her fingers and gently brushed his lips over the slender digits, then, unfurling them, his eyes never leaving hers, he pressed a hotter, more potent kiss to her palm. “I’ve given up pretending.” Through the dimness, he held her stare, then he lifted his gaze to her hair, let it sweep down, over her face, over her shoulders, and beyond. “Pretending that I don’t want you.” He returned his look to her face. “That I don’t love you. That you aren’t as essential to me as the sun and the moon and the wind and the rain.”
She stared up at him, then she reached a hand to his nape and drew his head to hers. “Good. So let me love you.”
He let her have her way—or, at least, think she was getting it. Let her draw him into a kiss that quickly grew heated. Then hotter. More needy, hungry, and demanding, until it held them both, consumed them both, and drove them onward.
Into a spiraling storm of passions, of desires held back, denied by circumstance for the last several weeks, but now let go, released, unleashed.
Hands drifted, stroked, caressed—possessed. Her nightgown was shed, tossed onto the floor. She came into his arms, and with her body, her hands, her lips and tongue, she boldly, brazenly, demanded more.
And, this time, it was his turn to give. His turn to love her without reserve, without restraint.
To show her.
All. All that lived inside him. All that had claimed his heart.
He laid it all—everything—at her feet, openly, without reservation.
He had no idea what tomorrow would bring, for him, for them, but for tonight, they had this.
Each other.
And their love.
Naked, she writhed, her hands locked about his, clamped about her hips as he held her immobile, and lapped and tasted her, and drove her wild.
Bare; he stripped himself of every last shield and screen, and let her see how deeply he felt, let her touch, taste, and know his vulnerability.
The depth of all he felt.
For her.
Loving Rose.
That had grown to be so much more than simply his salvation.
She was his all, and he gave to her unstintingly. Lavished every last iota of his devotion on her.
Here, tonight, was the time of his choosing, his moment of revelation.
Yet when he would have risen over her and joined them, she pushed and wrestled him onto his back. “No,” she murmured, her voice thick with passion. “You still hurt.”
How she knew he didn’t know, but as she straddled him and, with sublime confidence, sheathed him in her body, took him in and held him, he gave her even that—his surrender.
She rode him through the landscape that together they created, one of passion and heat, of desire and hunger, and he went with her, gladly sharing every molten moment, until the inevitable peak rose and they swept up and on, surging powerfully into their sensual sun.
For that one, bright, brilliant moment, ecstasy held them, sharp as any crystal, as scintillating as any diamond.
Then it shattered. Them, the moment—all imploded in a nova of golden pleasure.
Joy and happiness and shining love radiated through them; pleasure thrummed deep in their veins.
Then it was over and they slumped, and satiation enfolded them.
Wrapping his arms about her, holding her close, he yielded to their joy, and to their happiness.
And, most of all, to their love.
Chapter
17
Thomas was standing by the window in the back parlor, watching Rose, Penelope, and Griselda play with all four children on the rear lawn, when Stokes walked into the room.
Thomas glanced around, then turned, expecting Stokes to wish to speak with him in a more formal setting, but Stokes walked forward and, his gaze resting on the tableau outside, settled beside him.
Seeing no reason to argue, Thomas turned back to the scene outside.
And waited.
Eventually, Stokes said, “Just to be clear, this wasn’t only my decision. I’ve discussed it with Adair, as he, too, was involved. His father and the Chief Commissioner have also considered the matter in some depth. This isn’t a straightforward situation.”
Thomas gave no response; there was none he could make.
He waited.
But Stokes said nothing more.
Gaining the impression the other man was having difficulty finding the right words, Thomas quietly volunteered, “I take it you’ve come to arrest me.”
Clasping his hands behind his back, Stokes drew in a deep breath. “No.” He paused, then, his gaze still fixed on the scene outside, went on, “I’ve come to inform you that as far as the Metropolitan Police and all others involved are concerned, Malcolm Sinclair died five years ago, when a bridge collapsed over the falls at Will’s Neck in Somerset, immediately after Sinclair had assisted Charles Morwellan, Earl of Meredith, to escape a similar fate.”
Thomas blinked. “But I didn’t.”
“Die? You, the man, might not have, but, I assure you, Sinclair did. He was declared dead—on my recommendation, I might add—and his will passed through probate, and the dispersal of his estate was overseen by several of the most senior peers in the realm . . . do you have any notion of just how difficult resurrecting Malcolm Sinclair would be?” Jaw setting, Stokes shook his head. “And for what? Just to hang you—or more likely transport you—courtesy of that long-ago confession?” Stokes snorted. “The courts, the police, and I have better things to do with our time.”
Thomas frowned. This was not what he’d expected; he wasn’t sure what to do, how he should react—whether the impulse to simply accept and go forward was the correct thing to do or simply a craven longing.
Finally, Stokes glanced at him, saw the dilemma writ large in his face, and for a wonder seemed to understand. “You need to consider this from the perspective of wider society. That was our perspective—always is our perspective—when deciding issues such as this. While Malcolm Sinclair’s actions may have indirectly led to crimes, and even tragedies, his death brought a great deal of good to a very large number of deserving souls. His will ensured that, and, as I mentioned, a great many people devoted time and effort and lent their standing to make sure that will was properly executed.” Stokes paused, then said, “If you think of true justice as the balancing of a scale, then the details surrounding Malcolm Sinclair’s death and the impact of his will outweighed the sins of his life. He made reparation, and his acco
unt is closed.”
Stokes paused, then went on, “Which brings us to you—Thomas Glendower. The man you now are is no threat to anyone. More, you are an asset to society, and that on many levels. Through the funds you manage, you support a range of institutions, from those helping the most needy to the wider arts.” Stokes humphed. “If the police were so foolish as to move against you, we’d have a good half of the ladies of Mayfair, and a good portion of the gents, too, knocking on the Chief Commissioner’s door, demanding to know what we think we’re about.”
Shaking his head, Stokes went on, “Don’t imagine that we’re simply looking the other way—I’ve checked. And while it’s unclear how you, Thomas, got your initial funds, given those initial funds were relatively small, and, regardless, even if they were ill-gotten gains, the subsequent growth of those funds was entirely due to you, through the exercise of your remarkable talent for a certain type of high-return investing—and yes, I got that from Montague—and the amount of money you’ve since given away to a range of charities literally dwarfs those initial funds and renders them insignificant.”
Stokes looked down, and this time his pause was more reflective, more weighty.
Thomas waited, sensing there was more but knowing better than to prompt. Despite the direction of Stokes’s disclosures, Thomas couldn’t yet allow himself to believe . . . to hope.
“There are times,” Stokes said, his deep voice low, “rare times in a policeman’s life when he’s faced with the choice between adhering to the letter of the law or acting for the greater good of the community he’s sworn to serve. Adair, his father, the Chief Commissioner, and all the others involved in this case know that, in this instance, that’s the choice we’re facing—and we all know which way that choice should be made.” Stokes looked up, and for the first time since he’d walked into the room, his gaze met Thomas’s squarely; there was compassion and understanding—an unexpected wealth of it—in Stokes’s slate-gray eyes. “Malcolm Sinclair is dead. Thomas Glendower lives, and is a respected member of society.”
Thomas held Stokes’s gaze—and felt weak, suddenly detached. Light, as if his soul was floating . . .
Relief, he realized, deeper and more profound than any he’d previously felt. He hadn’t, truly hadn’t believed that this moment—this pardon, this freedom—would ever be granted him.
“Thank you.” That was all he could say.
Stokes’s lips lifted lightly and he turned once more to the scene beyond the window. “It’s not me you need to thank, but if you wish to repay not just me but the world”—Stokes nodded outside—“there’s your way forward. Rose, William, and Alice—they need you. Not anyone else but specifically you—someone who knows the ropes, who knows how to get things done. Who knows how to watch over them.”
Thomas had followed Stokes’s gaze to where Rose, William, and Alice cavorted with the others in some riotous game. “They have Richard Percival—he’s their family, their nearest kin.”
“Perhaps, but they don’t trust him, not as they do you, and they never will. Rose in particular will never feel as safe with him as she does with you. And as for William . . . he’s too damned intelligent for his own good, but you have experience of that. You know how to handle that, as very few others do.”
Thomas tried to absorb, to fully comprehend and accept, the implications of Stokes’s words; the prospect was more than he had ever imagined he might aspire to. So much more that he was having difficulty getting even his mind to cope. He felt like a child offered his dearest dream on Christmas morning, and being too afraid to reach out and touch, just in case it was an illusion . . . he dragged in a breath and forced himself to put that fear into words. “So I . . . what? Continue as Thomas Glendower and . . .”
This time Stokes seemed unaware of his state, of his shattering uncertainty. Eyes on the group on the lawn, Stokes shrugged. “You live a normal life.” He nodded outside. “You marry Rose, and help her bring up William and Alice, and have children of your own.” Stokes’s lips curved appreciatively. “Trust me, having children of your own changes a man more than anything else in life—and all to the good. Speaking of which”—Stokes glanced at him—“I rather think I’ll join them.”
Thomas found himself nodding in agreement. He drew in a deeper breath and tightened his grip on his cane. Moving to follow Stokes through the open French door, he murmured, “Your proposition . . . is going to take a little getting used to.”
Stokes snorted. “Don’t take too long—you’re no spring chicken.”
Stepping onto the rear terrace, Stokes waited for Thomas to join him, then said, “Incidentally, one thing I, we—our band of investigators, which includes the commissioners—would appreciate is being able to call on you and your particular knowledge of raising capital, should we run into future cases in which that features.”
Thomas readily inclined his head. “All the knowledge I have is at your disposal—you have only to ask.”
“Excellent.” Stokes rubbed his hands together. “Now . . . what the devil is the point of this game they’re playing?” Stepping down from the terrace, he started across the lawn. “Does it even have a point?”
A valid question, Thomas thought as he followed more slowly.
His mind was still reeling. He was still grappling with the realization that all he now desired of life was his for the claiming. As he limped across the neatly clipped lawn, he felt shaky, unsteady, as if taking his first steps into a new life . . . he supposed that was, in effect, what he was doing.
Stokes had paused a little way from the garrulous group of ladies and children, the women seated on the grass, their skirts billowing about them, with the children crawling in and out of the spaces between in what appeared to be some peculiar game of tag.
Halting beside Stokes, Thomas, too, watched, but his mind was still searching for perspective. “Looking back,” he murmured, “I could wish that, in my youth, I had met men like Montague, Barnaby, or even you, anyone who might have introduced me to the challenge of bringing wrongdoers to justice, or even simply the challenge of making money to help others, rather than the challenge of self-interest, which was all my late and unlamented guardian taught me.”
His gaze on the women and children, he drew in a deep breath, then exhaled—and it felt as if he was letting go of the past, releasing it and letting it slide back into the past, where it belonged. “Then again, if that had happened, would I be standing here now?” He dipped his head toward Rose and the children. “Watching them, planning a life with them—having the chance of a life with them now?”
Stokes met Thomas’s eyes and smiled. “Fate does, indeed, move in mysterious ways.”
With that, Stokes looked at the group, then, smile deepening, went forward to ask if he might join the circle.
He was welcomed with eager delight.
As she shifted to make space for Stokes, Rose looked up, met Thomas’s gaze, and arched her brows.
Thomas smiled. He hesitated for only an instant, then he limped forward, ready, very willing, and, at last, free to take his place.
Malcolm Sinclair was dead and gone. Thomas Glendower lived.
It was Thomas who loved Rose, and who, one gentle August morning, had married her in the chapel on the Seddington estate, with William and Alice, now fully restored to their dignities and their proper names, standing alongside them, with their London friends, and Richard Percival, and the entire Seddington Grange household in beaming attendance. Roland had traveled from Somerset to bless their union with his grace; even Foley had come up for the day.
Despite the crowd, Thomas had only had eyes for Rose, and she for him.
He’d spoken his vows clearly and had meant every word—to love, honor, and cherish.
Forever. Until death finally and truly parted them.
And even after that.
The day had been a golden one; the celebrations had lasted for days. The warmth with which so many had embraced him remained with Thomas, a potent
reminder that, indeed, he was no longer the man he once had been.
Autumn spiced the air on the day they returned to London over two months later, and, at Thomas’s insistence, he, Rose, William, and Alice went walking up South Audley Street, then turned off to stroll past the Audley chapel and into the graveyard beyond.
Her hand tucked into the crook of Thomas’s arm, Rose walked beside him along the paved path that led through the graveyard. He had recovered from the injuries sustained in his fall from the Seddington House roof, and, once again, carried his cane more for safety’s sake than any constant need.
William and Alice ranged ahead, one on either side of the path, reading the names on the gravestones and calling out the more remarkable for each other’s amusement.
Rose—now Rosalind once more, but to Thomas she would always be his Rose—hugged his arm and looked up at him. Caught his eye when he looked down at her. “Why are we here?”
Rose hadn’t pressed for a specific destination when they’d left Seddington House, now fully staffed and functioning again; when she’d asked where they were going, Thomas had said that there was one place he needed to visit before they headed off to Cornwall, to claim the belongings they’d left at the manor, hire new caretakers, and put all in order for their return to Seddington Grange for Christmas. Now, surrounded by the graves of the fashionable, Rose wondered what particular piece of his complex past he’d come there to put to rest. Glancing around, she asked, “Have we come to visit a grave?”
“Yes, we have. Or”—he looked ahead—“I have, at least.” After a moment—his usual moment of considering how much to reveal—he looked down at her. “Her name most likely will mean nothing to you—she was an old lady when I knew her, and that was twenty and more years ago. But I wanted to pay my respects . . . before moving on.”
Raising his head, he faced forward. Intrigued, Rose looked around as they walked on.
He pointed with his cane. “Her grave should be somewhere around there, I think.”